Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Shores of Southampton

The small clock stuck at the top of the windshield flickered with large red digits, showing it was four in the morning when the bus started rolling. The vibration from the engine produced a constant whirring noise that prevented Hunter from falling asleep; instead, he looked at the map he had brought, locating Queen's park with a highlighter.

"Where was it...Briton Street?"

Hunter felt exasperated for having burnt the letter containing instructions for Riley Wyatt, but moments later, he deeply exhaled, trying to clear his head and recount his memory. As his mind centered on locating the exact street from which he had started following Wyatt on that misty afternoon, Hunter scoffed at himself for forgetting such an important detail.

As the bus passed the high roads of Chelsea, the light from the buildings reflecting on the window glass, Hunter thought about his destination.

"Briton Street," Hunter remembered suddenly, marking it with a big dot on the map of Southampton.

He then went back to his thoughts, reminiscing about the digging up he had done on Wyatt. Although he had burnt the letter, Hunter remembered instructions that were written in red.

"Riley Wyatt. Chief Manager at Dark Ribbon Pharmaceuticals, Southampton Branch. Home Address: 4, Briton Street. Follow, and eliminate. One week."

The words resonated in Hunter's mind as he tried connecting the dots by finding any seeming connections between Ezekiel and Wyatt.

"What would an insurance agent and a pharmaceutical company manager living in different cities have in common?"

Hunter remembered what the scarlet woman had said about Ezekiel, that he had spent a part of his life in some cult on an island. Although the statement provided little glimpse into Ezekiel's past life, Hunter could not wash away the thought, for somehow, he felt that it was a crucial piece of information, implicating something important. But as he did not have the vaguest idea of how to unravel its meaning, Hunter only became cross with himself, frustrated at his inability to do something.

"Hopefully, Southampton will give me something, or else everything will go to shit."

The bus soon crossed Putney bridge as Hunter found it increasingly challenging to keep his eyes open. As the bus picked up its pace on the highway, most of the vibrations soothed out, sending Hunter into a slumber.

"Ah...Hrgh..." Hunter felt a sharp pain in his head as he opened his eyes to find himself in a dark room with a light bulb directly flashing down on him. He tried to move his head, but it was firmly held by a contraption whose cold, steely metal grazed against Hunter's forehead. He also felt his hands and feet tightly strapped onto the bed he was lying on, and although he could not move around to see what was happening, he could see a swaying dark robe in his peripherals.

"Come on, hurry up." Hunter heard a coarse voice, stern in its tone.

"We can't; he's just not strong enough; his heartbeats are drastically slowing down every time we administer the dose. If we keep going, the results could be drastic."

Even in the featherbrained state, Hunter could sense the nervousness of the woman's voice that tried to convince the male voice not to proceed further. Voices? Was he dreaming? Hunter knew it was a dream, yet he was aware of having been through the experience countless times.

"I said do it. I have a house full of test subjects lying around; come on," the male voice growled.

"B... But"

"Wait, is he awake?"

"The dose must have worn off."

"Why are you so inept at your job? Couldn't you have given him a larger shot?

"I didn't want to kill him," The woman protested.

"That is not your concern. You do the tests; I provide the supply. Nothing more. Women! Can't do a job properly."

"I'll have you know that I..."

"I could give a rat's arse about that. Now quickly get him back knocked out and continue with the administration. And this time, be generous with the drug."

As Hunter realized they were talking about him, he once again felt the sharp screeching in his head; he tried to scream, but as soon as the slightest cry made out of his mouth, he immediately felt a large ball of cotton being stuffed into his mouth, the fibers poking against the grain of his tongue. After a few seconds, he could once again feel himself slipping back into a slumber, but this time a feeling of asphyxiation accompanied him as he puffed for air, feeling his lungs shrinking with every passing moment. The agony only increased, and as everything started to fade to black, he heard the woman's voice, "Where's the oxygen mask? Quick, before he loses consciousness."

"Hey, Mr, are you alright. Hey, Mr." Hunter felt a nudge on his shoulder followed by repeated jolts until he suddenly sprang up to find himself sitting beside the window inside a bus.

"Huh...." Hunter muttered, confused at the man in front of him, looking at him with inquiring eyes. "Are you alright, Mr? You were just screaming in your sleep."

"I was?" Hunter said.

"Yes, everyone thought you were having a stroke. How do you feel?"

"Okay, I guess."

"Here, have some water," said the man as he presented a bottle from his bag to Hunter.

"Thanks."

After Hunter finished drinking, he quietly went back to his seat, leaving Hunter to try to make sense of what had happened. He thought for some time before the dream made its way back to his memory in its entirety.

"Fuck…not that again."

Hunter drew deep breaths as he thought about being in that room with those two voices. Although he would experience the nightmare once every while, it had been on his mind recurrently the past few months.

"No, ever since the first envelope arrived." Hunter thought to himself.

As he looked outside the window, the serene countryside eased his mind slightly as he turned to the man who had given him the bottle of water and asked, "How long till Southampton?"

"Half an hour at the most," he replied.

Hunter nodded as he once again gazed outside the window, the reddish glow of the sunrise slowly seeping into the sky.

The bus came to a still, near an old stop sign in the middle of what looked like a deserted intersection.

"Is this Briton Street?"

"Five minutes' walk to the west. Keep on the sidewalk."

"Thanks."

The burnt diesel smoke pouring from the bus's exhaust filled Hunter's lungs as he felt drops of rain falling on his face. It was too early in the morning for a drizzle, Hunter felt, as he looked around to find a place to cover his head, but there were only four lonely roads, coming together into a circle on the center of which a bronze plaque stood, tattered by the rampage of time, mimicking Hunter's state. Seeing nowhere to put his head down, Hunter started walking to the west, the drizzle steadily turning into a shower, drenching his jacket. Soon, he was on Briton Street, and it did not take long for Hunter to find house number 4, a three-storied colonial brick-style building in front of which stretched a tidy lawn, the grass slowly growing, adding a touch of green to the ember shade home.

"What day was it today? Monday?"

Hunter remembered cutting the grass at the backyard of the orphanage every Monday. It was a grueling task, for he had to toil for hours with others to clean out almost a quarter of an acre of area. But it was not the back-arching dust sweeping that Hunter despised the most; instead, it was uprooting the grass and other weeds that stuck their heads every few weeks. He never understood why the grass kept growing even though no one wanted it to see it blossom. No matter how much greenish glow it radiated, at the end of the day, it would be raked and bundled up to the side, for it was unwanted, much like him.

Hunter pulled out the map, his eyes wandering around the blue marker showing the police station.

He chuckled half-heartedly; what would happen if he went there and confessed to his crimes?

Would it make a difference to anyone?

Perhaps to those three's family whom Hunter had murdered. Hunter did not know anything about the people he had killed, only what was written in the letters. And even now that he was on a quest to find something about them, it was only to benefit himself. Hunter sighed; he had never thought about the impact his actions had on people around him.

Did they have a family?

Did Wyatt have children?

A wife who had been waiting for him the day Hunter followed him near the Marina and strangled him to death in the foggy afternoon?

What was the point of all this?

Trying to find this "benefactor?"

After all, what would he do if he found the person? Kill him?

Hunter knew more killing would not solve the problem, but there was nothing more he could do. Even though he knew the chances of him making out of it all unscathed were non-existent, the thought of being free from the despondency of his life provided an ember of hope keeping him going.

But what would happen after he was free?

Where would he go?

Hunter remembered the words of his caretakers; they would often say that children like him had no good purpose in society. It was strange, for now that Hunter looked back on his childhood, there was not a moment of warmth, happiness, or nostalgia to fall back on, only cold and indifferent words from the people around him, pushing him into a cauldron of eternal desolation.

Hunter thought for a moment, putting more effort than usual into finding the root of the cause.

Why could he not remember a moment of bliss?

He refused to believe that in the thirty-six years of his life, there was not one memory to hold dear to his heart.

Why were his caretakers so ungracious towards him, treating him like he was the spawn of the devil?

As his train of thought picked its pace down the memory lane, Hunter only encountered curses, insults, and resolute indifference hurled towards him, which seemed to increase magnanimously around the time he was fifteen years old. Hunter tried to recollect what had occurred during that period in his life, to the point that he felt a sharp screech in his nerves, but ultimately it appeared to be a hazy dream on the other side of the window that Hunter was just far enough to be unable to reach.

As he attempted one final time to remember what had happened, diving to the depths of his memory, Hunter suddenly heard the sound of a camera shutter ringing in his ears. Thinking someone was taking a photograph, Hunter turned around, scanning his surroundings. But after a few moments of searching, the street looked empty, filled with nothing of note apart from a few houses and a Sumac tree, on the porch of the home opposite to the one he was standing in front of, its leaves swaying in the rain, waving aimlessly at whoever was bothered enough to glance.

A while later, Hunter realized the sound ringing in his ears was playing in his mind, for the shuttering sound changed its volume every time he tried to focus on its source. Just like playing a song in one's head, no matter how loud or dim the sound gets, the ears never hurt. Hunter could feel the shuttering noise getting louder every time he strived to find a specific memory of his teenage years, acting as a blockade.

Finally, after a long struggle, Hunter abandoned his attempts, instead focusing on the reddish-brown walnut door that bore the nameplate "Wyatt Residence." Hunter stepped through the white fence gate, walking on the gravel pathway that careened and meandered to the foot of the stairs twenty feet away; his heart pounding as a feeling of being watched hovered over him like the dark grey clouds in the Southampton sky.

Hunter knocked on the door twice until a small girl opened the door. She looked at Hunter with questioning eyes but did not say a word, instead looking inside the house as though waiting for someone.

"Mommy? There is a strange man here." The girl shouted, her voice faintly echoing through the understandably empty house.

"I told you not to talk like that, and don't just open the door."

Hunter heard another voice coming from inside, becoming louder and louder as he detected the approaching footsteps. A woman appeared at the door, her ruddy dark face looking weary, seemingly having woken up from sleep, Hunter inferred.

"What do you want?" she said, yawning.

"Hunter looked at the nightgown she was wearing, the drapes hanging loose from her shoulders, making way to displaying her buxom silhouette in the peeping sunlight in the cloudy morning.

Hunter ogled her to his heart's content until the long, drawn-out silence was starting to settle in.

"I asked, what do you want?" The woman's voice now approached a higher tone.

"Um. This is Riley Wyatt's house?" Hunter said. Immediately he could see the woman's expressions change, her stance relaxing, as she exhaled deeply.

"It was," the woman replied.

Realizing he was at the correct place, Hunter further softened his tone, asking in a confusing voice, "What do you mean? Did he move?"

"No. He died," said the woman as Hunter saw her eyes tearing up.

"Died! What, how?"

"It's been almost eight months," said the woman.

"But...but...I just spoke to him a year ago. I was supposed to see him but never had the time...Oh my god!" Hunter said in a visibly shaken tone.

"I'm sorry. By the way, who are you?" asked the woman.

"My name is James Hunter."

"Hmm. Riley never mentioned you."

"He did not?" Hunter sounded disappointed before adding, "I came all the way here hoping to thank him for saving my life."

"Were you and him close?" The woman asked.

"He indeed was important to me. You know he mentioned his family. You must be his wife, Jenna."

"Yes. Why don't you come in," the woman said.

Hunter stood still for the next few seconds, his mind startled at the fact that he knew the woman's name.

"What's going on? how did I know this woman's name?" he thought.

He tried to vigorously remember the letter in the second envelope. "Riley Wyatt. Chief Manager at Dark Ribbon Pharmaceuticals, Southampton Branch. Home Address: 4, Briton Street. Follow, and eliminate. One week." Hunter read the words aloud in his mind, trying to visualize every letter in that note. But as far as his memory served him, he never read the name Jenna in that letter or any of the four letters he had received. This sudden involuntary display of familiarity unsettled Hunter as the feeling of something lurking around the corner mounted his cognizance.

Not willing to be misgiving, Hunter quickly derailed his train of thought and stepped inside the house. The interior, littered with minimal furniture and mostly empty spaces, contrasted with the home's traditional heavy architecture. Hunter sat on a grey sofa, placed in the middle of the room beside an old brown coffee table. He looked around to see two rows of rooms alongside the stairs running up behind him. He sat facing the door beside which a painting of a boat stranded in the sea hung on the wall. The gilded frame of the landscape yet again contrasted the minimal look of the house, giving it an ornate touch. The entire design was a failed marriage of two different ideas, making Hunter scan the room ever so often to make a mental note of anything that could be useful later.

Looking around, he noticed the second door to his right had an opening, through which he could see a young girl standing beside the frame, her eyes looking at Hunter with utmost curiosity. He gave her a nod, which caused her to suddenly turn away, leaving Hunter once again to tend to his thoughts.

"How much sugar?" asked the woman as she held a tray holding two cups and a small bowl filled with sugar. The bouquet of the ground coffee beans filled Hunter senses, taking him back to the cold winter mornings near the shores of Jersey.

"Two spoons," said Hunter.

The woman took two large lumps of sugar, dumped them into the steaming black coffee, and pushed the cup towards Hunter, who soaked the aroma before taking a sip. As the liquid made its way down Hunter's throat, the woman suddenly said, "You look familiar." Immediately Hunter felt the liquid splattering inside his mouth as he vigorously coughed out the coffee.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Too hot," said Hunter, placing the cup down as he spoke again. "So, you said I look familiar. I don't think I've ever met you."

"I don't think I've met you either. But probably seen your picture somewhere. Maybe Riley had shown me. I can't remember."

"Hmm. Maybe it was someone else," said Hunter as he picked up the cup again.

"I guess. So, how did you know Riley?" asked the woman.

"He used to work at DarkRibbon Pharmaceuticals, didn't he?" asked Hunter.

"Hmm."

"He paid for my treatment when I got into an accident three years ago. If it wasn't for him, I would be in a wheelchair now, or worse," said Hunter pausing. "He was a good man; I can't believe he's gone," he added in a sombre tone.

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"He was a good man, but he never told me anything about work. Would always say that it was best if he left that part of his life at the office. Maybe that's why he never told me about you," said Jenna.

They both finished their coffee, looking at one another in silence, each waiting for the other to carry the conversation.

"Nice house you have here, Mrs Wyatt," remarked Hunter.

"Thank You. I'm still renovating. Riley always liked to keep the place old-fashioned."

"Could you tell me anything about him?" said Hunter.

"What do you want to know?" asked Jenna.

"Anything. It just doesn't sit well with me that I don't know much about the man who saved me from a terrible fate."

Jenna looked at him for a moment with a blank face, trying to think of something to say. Finally, tidying up the cups onto the tray, she said, "I... I can't think of anything I could tell you."

Hunter paused for a moment, being cautious about what to say next. After some thinking, he said, "Was he a religious man, your husband?"

The question caused Jenna to raise her eyebrows as Hunter hoped things would not turn sour. "Umm. He used to go to Church." Jenna said.

"Church?" Hunter repeated. "Or more like cult," he thought to himself.

Realizing an opportunity, Hunter carefully added, "I'm sorry for asking. It's just that he once mentioned that he used to be part of some commune on some island. Do you know anything about it?"

Jenna thought for some time before saying, "Well, I can't know for sure; it must have been before our marriage, but he once mentioned that he had been an altar boy. But as long as I knew him, he would always keep to himself when it came to religion. He was a reserved man."

"Hmm. Where was he from? Was he from around Yorkshire? From what I learned from speaking with him, he had a thick Yorkshire accent. I never got the chance to ask."

"Yes. Riley was from Yorkshire, although I never noticed the accent. Maybe that was because of the time he spent on the islands," said Jenna.

"Islands?" Hunter intriguingly waited for Jenna's response.

"Yes. When he started working at DarkRibbon around two decades ago, he said he worked almost eight years in Guernsey and Jersey. He even spent some time in the north of France for business when we were married. But we never lived in Yorkshire."

"Hmm." Hunter silently said as numerous thoughts started revolving in his head.

Once again, a long silence settled in as Hunter prepared to leave, for he could feel Jenna's confusion about a strange man knocking on her door at eight in the morning had slowly started to spill into annoyance, perhaps even mild suspicion.

"I wish I could do something for you and your children, but I don't have anything to repay the kindness your husband had shown me...."

"You don't have to worry about me. I am..."

Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by the knock on the door, which made Hunter's heart race inconspicuously faster. He keenly stared at the entrance as Jenna walked over and opened the lock. As the door swung open, Hunter caught a glimpse of a tall, stout man standing at the door. The man and Jenna both shared a brief look as Hunter saw him enter the house. His grey pullover was smeared with large patches of sweat which, along with his frequent breathing, suggested that he had been exercising. The man walked up to the sofa, and after they had exchanged a glance, Jenna suddenly said, "He is a friend of Riley."

"Oh!" The man said as Hunter felt the inquisitive quiver in his gaze.

"I had come here to see Mr. Wyatt..."

"He's dead," The man curtly interrupted Hunter.

"Yes. I heard," Hunter said softly.

By this point, Jenna had come back to the sofa and sat beside the man across from Hunter.

"My name is James Hunter." Hunter extended his right hand.

"Aaron Stone. I'm Jenna's husband," replied the man as he shook Hunter's hand, his grip pressing against Hunter's bones.

"Oh!" Hunter muttered as the expressions on Jenna's face indicated that she did not want the conversation to move any further.

"It was nice meeting you. I'll be going then," said Hunter as he slightly raised himself from his seat.

"Already? Come on, stay back for a while. Honey, could you make me a sandwich? I gotta get to work soon. Meanwhile, I'll keep our guest company."

Jenna reluctantly agreed as she picked up the tray and made her way to the kitchen. After she was out of sight, the man reclined onto the sofa and said, "So, you are Wyatt's friend?"

"You could say that," replied Hunter.

"Hmm. So what brings you here almost a year after his death?"

"It'd been some time since I last saw him, so I thought I'd see how he was doing. Of course, I didn't know he was dead."

"Hmm. So what do you do, Mr...Hunter?" asked Stone in a stern voice, making Hunter feel like he was about to be interrogated.

"I work at a garage. What about you?" Hunter asked.

"I'm an Inspector of the Southampton Town Police Department," said Stone, his face beaming with pride momentarily.

Hunter now realized why he had felt such anxiousness when he heard the knock on the door. He could now feel the man's gaze steadily progressing in intensity to the point of piercing into his mind. Hunter could feel every single nerve in his body firing, screaming at his instincts to immediately leave the place, for things seemed they were on the verge of getting immeasurably worse. Although he wanted to do nothing better than listen to his gut, Hunter stayed fixated on his seat, trying to bring his heartbeat under control so as to appear as calm as possible.

Seeing Hunter at a loss of words, Inspector Stone wiped the sweat off of his forehead and said, "Well, you know he was murdered, right?"

"What...? No! No. Mrs Wyatt... I mean, Jenna just said that Mr. Wyatt died a year ago. That's all!"

"Jenna?" Inspector Stone furrowed his brows. "So....you are on a first-name basis with my wife? Must be a pretty close friend then."

"No... I just met her this morning. She told me I could call her Jenna. Sorry, Mr. Stone." Hunter could feel the stuttering of his words as he desperately tried to get a grip on himself.

"What are you apologizing to me for? She told you to call her by her name. I don't got a problem with that."

Hunter stared blankly at Inspector Stone for a moment, praying that the thought lingering in his mind not be true under any circumstance.

"What's wrong?" Inspector Stone's voice snapped Hunter back into reality.

"N... no. I'm just...I don't know what to say. Murdered? How? Who did it?"

"Ah, that's what I've been trying to find out ever since I was put on this case eight months ago. But no luck."

Hunter closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, for things had indeed turned immeasurably worse.

"He knows!!! Get out of here now!!!" Hunter could feel the voice in his head bombarding him with the same thought repeatedly.

Although he was aware that the Inspector could not realize he was sitting in front of the murderer he was looking for, the irrational fear in Hunter's mind entertained the possibility that he had been caught. The way he saw it, he could either try to talk his way out of the situation, or he could linger just a moment longer, fishing for something that could aid him in his search, which, although gravely perilous, could work in his favor.

It was circumstances like this that had always decided Hunter's fate, more often than not sealing it because of his actions when under extreme duress. But this time, Hunter concocted to take an enormous gamble, channeling every last drop of willpower and reclining further back into the sofa, assuming a relaxed posture. He then transitioned to a suave tone almost instantaneously and said, "So how was he killed? Mrs Stone did not tell me anything." asked Hunter, who could see a smile appear on the Inspector's face as soon as he heard the words, 'Mrs Stone'. Evidently, he did not want his wife to be associated with her previous husband, perhaps why the renovation, although the Inspector did not seem to have a problem living in his wife's recently deceased husband's house.

"Well, she didn't tell you because she doesn't know the whole story. She thinks he fell into the river drunk, but it turns out Wyatt's been strangled to death." said the Inspector.

Hunter thought for a moment before asking, "Well, why didn't you tell her?"

The question seemingly struck a nerve as Inspector Stone leaned forward and said in a heavy voice, "Well, I have my reasons. Poor woman was crushed when she found out. I couldn't just add to her fear."

"Hmm," Hunter muttered, realizing that the Inspector had an eye for Wyatt's wife and did not waste any chance to take up with her as soon as he was out of the way.

Perhaps, Hunter stretching the boundaries of his imagination inferred, that if it was not for him, then there was a possibility that the Inspector would have done something about Wyatt himself. It was a far-fetched theory, but Hunter had seen enough crimes of passion to know it was true. But that did not concern him, for he only wanted to know about the state of the investigation.

"So, no suspects? Nothing?" Hunter asked.

"Well, I can't tell you every detail. All I can say is we never found a motive," replied the Inspector.

"Couldn't it have just been a mugging? The docks aren't exactly family-friendly places," asked Hunter.

"Nope. Nothing missing. He even had his gold watch on him when the corpse washed up," said Inspector Stone.

"Hmm."

By this point, Jenna had arrived with a plate of sandwiches, one for each of them. "Just leave it in the sink," she said before going upstairs.

"One more thing," Hunter said as he picked up the sandwich.

"What?"

"Why are you telling me all this when you haven't told your wife?" asked Hunter.

"You were his friend, weren't you? So I thought you ought to know. And so you don't come knocking on my door again."

Hunter could see the veiled threat in the last statement as he dug halfway into his sandwich. The Inspector's eyes gravely stared at Hunter, his brutish, pale face leaving no room for interpretation that Hunter had overstayed his welcome and it was his best recourse to leave. He complied, and after finishing the sandwich, got up and put forth his hand.

"I'll get going then. Sorry to hear about Mr. Wyatt," said Hunter as Inspector Stone reciprocated with his death grip.

He walked Hunter up to the door, and as he stepped outside, he asked, "So, where are you staying?"

"Well, I wasn't planning on it," said Hunter.

"If you decide to, I can recommend a nice place just a few streets away. Just on the other side of Queen's Park."

Not wanting to get into a back and forth argument, Hunter agreed. The Inspector went inside and brought back a piece of paper with the address on it. Hunter thanked him and made his way out of Briton Street towards "Regent Inn", on the East side of Queen's Park. Although he had learned enough to warrant leaving town, Hunter decided to get a few hours of sleep.

After walking for ten minutes, Hunter arrived at the address written on the paper. It was a shabby two-storied lodge with worn-out beige walls surrounding the structure. The inside was unsurprisingly dilapidated as a middle-aged man sat at the reception. Hunter registered for a single bedroom for twelve hours, although he planned to leave much before that.

The room that he was boarding had a window directly facing the street, which showed the long lines of scattered suburban houses sitting in the foreground of Queen's Park. Hunter rested his head against the pillow, dissecting the interaction he had this morning.

"So, Ezekiel and Wyatt were related."

Hunter drew his conclusion from both of them being part of some cult sometime in their life. Although there was no evidence or logic behind the reasoning, Hunter's instincts told him he was on the right track. He realized that it was someone from these people's past that was Hunter's "benefactor."

"But what about Angela Dawson?"

Hunter was certain that the cult connection would not apply to her, but nevertheless, he had to dig around to uncover how she fit into the puzzle. Hunter tried to sleep, but the thought of knowing the name of Wyatt's wife dwelled in his head. He also realized that the search was being much easier than anticipated as the feeling of being on the right path nudged Hunter's mind to wonder if there was something amiss about the entire ordeal.

Hunter had not realized when he had fallen asleep, but he was shaken up from his slumber by the sound of police sirens in the distance. Rushing to the window, Hunter noticed a police vehicle approaching the building, its lights flashing in broad daylight.

"Fuck me!" Hunter exclaimed when he saw Inspector Stone and one black constable getting out of the car.

Hunter realized that, as always, the irrational fears in his mind had proven to be true. Frantically, he looked around the room for an exit out of the building, but due to not being on the first floor, a smooth escape was not possible, and Hunter could not risk severely injuring himself. A few seconds after the passengers of the car had gotten out, Hunter heard a commotion downstairs. He knew Stone was here for him, following him ever since they met this morning, but still wondered how he could have known that Hunter was the one who had killed Wyatt. Hunter had made sure to follow Wyatt for quite a distance as he had gone for his afternoon walk that day.

Moreover, he vividly remembered that on that foggy evening, there was no one around at the docks when the incident occurred, unlike at the Blue temple. As the commotion died down, faint footsteps could be heard closing in. Realizing there was no other way, Hunter pulled up the window sill and stepped onto the ledge. Looking down, the hard-concrete entryway stared at him, inviting Hunter to jump.

The sound of two people conversing was becoming steadily more audible to Hunter's ears as he desperately tried to search for something to cushion his fall. He was fifteen feet high from the ground, and he needed to reduce the difference by at least five feet.

Finally, after furious scanning, Hunter found a crack between the roof of the ground floor, a few feet below his window ledge. Seeing it was the only way, Hunter started climbing down the ridge, trying to reach the crack in the wall. However, his arms fell well short of the distance. Realizing he would have to let go and hope for the best, Hunter adjusted his bag, bringing it closer to his shoulder to let it take the brunt of the impact. He breathlessly waited for a couple of seconds before letting go as soon as he heard the sound of the door open.

Moments later, Hunter felt a sharp blow on the shoulder joint as his right arm squashed against the pavement. His bag had barely shielded him, but after a rundown, Hunter realized he could move around. He then sprang up and, clutching his right shoulder, started running across the street into Queen's Park.

"Hey, stop!!" Hunter heard the Inspector's coarse, familiar voice from afar as he rushed through the gravel path into the park's grounds.

Determined not to turn back, Hunter set his sight out front, looking at the distant clock near General Gordon's memorial, which showed fifteen minutes to noon. Hunter knew a train left Southampton Central every thirty minutes, and if he was adamant enough, he could get to the station before the twelve-o clock train left. Increasing his pace, Hunter marched across the park, the sting in his shoulder trying to slow him down. As he reached near the Southwest gate, the sirens blared in the closing distance, sending Hunter into a frenzy. Nevertheless, he ploughed on as fast as he could, soon making his way onto the street, now only a few minutes away from the station whose arching towers were within sight.

Not wanting to get mauled into oncoming traffic, Hunter reluctantly slowed down, and then the blue and white striped Rover SD1 peered into view, a few hundred yards away from him. Seeing the number of vehicles on the road, Hunter reckoned it would take at least a few minutes for the car to catch up to him as he rushed to cross the street. Once on the other side of the road, Hunter picked up the pace, hurrying into the entryway that led to the ticket counter on the right end of the platform.

"You got a ticket for the twelve o'clock?" asked Hunter, gasping for air while clutching the ledge of the counter table.

"Yes. But it will cost you extra," replied the woman selling tickets.

"No problem," Hunter said, letting out large sighs of relief.

"Okay, fifty pounds," said the woman.

"What? Where does this train go?" Hunter asked as the noise of the oncoming train slowing down echoed through the platform.

"London."

"That's not fifty pounds."

"Last minute price. Do you want it or not?" said the woman with a smug look on her face.

"Just give it." Hunter pulled out a fifty-pound note from his pocket and grabbed the ticket.

The train came into the station halting in its tracks within ten seconds as Hunter pushed his way in and tried to run to the far end of the cabin.

"That bitch!" Hunter said under his breath as he found most of the train to be empty.

The two seats near the compartment door caught his eye, and Hunter quickly claimed his spot by placed his bag onto the window seat. He then took off his jacket, and sitting on the aisle side, he put his palm on his face so as not to immediately catch his pursuers eyes. The window faced towards the east side of the platform where the gate was located. It was around a twenty-second walk from the entrance to the train's doors, and Hunter furiously hoped it would be enough for him to make his gateway.

According to the announcement, the train would stop for three minutes, which seemed to be the longest wait in Hunter's life.

"Please be enough traffic. Please…. why won't this cunt start. Come on."

With every passing second, Hunter got closer and closer to losing his nerve as he felt his heart almost springing out of his mouth. Suddenly he noticed a pair of men in black truncheons enter the platform. They looked as though they had been running as one of them tried to catch his breath. Hunter could see the silhouette of Inspector Stone, for he was two compartment's length away from where he was sitting, which was better than being right in front of him, but still did not inspire much confidence.

The two policemen first started walking towards the southern end of the platform, away from Hunter, but then they paused before turning back and approaching his bogey. As they got within thirty yards, Hunter frantically looked at the door, battling the dilemma of whether to get off the train and make a run for it or stay put. Suddenly he felt a vibration followed by the sound of the doors closing. He felt immensely relieved as the train's horn rung a few times, and the scenery outside slowly began to recede. Making sure that Inspector Stone did not board the train, Hunter glanced out the window, and sure enough, saw the duo still standing on the platform, albeit looking in his direction but not seeing him. The train soon left the station hurling itself into the countryside while Hunter sprawled back into his seat, still feeling the rush of adrenaline in his bloodstream from having made his narrowest escape.

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