Clara had never been much of a crier, but as soon as she saw Trampler disappear, she burst into a uncontrollable flood of tears: she had not cried so much since her father's death. It was hard for her to comprehend all that had just happened to her. Any yet, despite all the horrors she had experienced, she was alive. Yes! Alive! How she did not know, but alive she was. Oh blessed, sweet, precious, life! Never had the air felt sweeter, never had the ground felt softer or more welcoming, never had the stars looked so bright and beautiful.
Eventually, Clara stopped crying, through sheer exhaustion. She continued to sit on the hill: it was safest to do that, while it was still dark. She felt an enormous loathing for Trampler that shocked her: it seemed unnatural, but she could not help it. Justice would be done to him: of that she was determined. But then she guiltily recalled how she had almost suggested that he should kill Devi: how would Devi react if she knew? Would her love cease? But then, maybe it already had: Clara remembered the texts that Devi no longer sent her. But no matter, she had to get back home: she had no idea how long it would take, maybe weeks, but it had to be done.
After about four hours, the sky began to lighten. The Sun rose, and Clara found herself bathed in a warm, bright glow. She smiled and stretched her legs, as if to absorb the warmth and the light. She heard birds singing: a sweet, soothing sound. As the sky brightened, Clara looked all around her and saw rolling hills, trees, rocks and clay soil. Suddenly, she realised that this must be the Piedmont plateau region of Virginia, a place she had read about on Wikipedia and seen on Google Images, but never before visited. She then noticed, just yards from the foot of the hill, the upturned van, and glared at it as though it had been Trampler himself.
At last, once the full brightness of the day had arrived, Clara staggered to her feet, desperately hungry, her legs aching, and slowly made her way down the hill and towards the road. She momentarily froze as she passed the pit containing the van, only too aware that, if Trampler had had his way, she would now be lying in there, buried by the soil, dead. But, of course, he had not had his way, and she quickly moved on past it and onto the road, where she walked on the right hand side, in the same direction she had seen Trampler walking. She walked, her aching legs getting weaker and weaker with each step, for several hours, until she heard the noise of an engine behind her. To her horror, she saw a white van coming towards her. It was him! But no, it couldn't be, he had been unable to lift the van out of the pit. She could breathe a little more easily, but was then astonished when the van stopped beside her and the driver leaned across to push open the passenger seat. There she saw a tall, slim man, with a rectangular face, dark hair and a moustache.
He smiled at her. "OK, missy?"
Clara didn't respond.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?", he laughed a friendly, good-natured laugh, rather like Lily, Clara thought. She smiled feebly.
"Want a lift?"
Clara thought about it. She looked with some longing at the seats inside the van, but remained hesitant.
"Well, it's your choice I suppose", he smiled.
He started up the engine: that made Clara's mind up for her, and she scrambled into the passenger seat and closed the door. The driver smiled again.
"So you do wanna lift home?"
Clara nodded.
"Where to?"
"Washington", said Clara at once.
"So you can talk!", laughed the driver. Then, with a mischievous smile he asked, "Washington, DC or Washington state?"
"DC of course", replied Clara, not knowing whether to laugh along with him or to feel annoyed.
"Off we go then", announced the driver, "shouldn't take too long". He held out his hand. "Mr. Morris at your service. What's your name?"
Clara shook her head.
"Miss No Name, is it?", he laughed, and then he began to drive.
Clara remained wary of Mr. Morris: she kept her right hand on the door handle just in case she needed to bolt for it. Once he stretched his right arm towards her: she flinched, but then realised that he was simply changing the gears. However, as time went on, her fears gradually faded as he proved to be a friendly and chatty man. He spoke about all sorts of things: family, politics, the weather, the NFL. Clara found him relaxing company, but was in little mood to talk herself. He began to grow increasingly concerned about this.
"Has something happened to you?", he asked, dropping his jocularity entirely.
She didn't answer.
"Are you all right?", he sounded worried now. "You just don't look right".
"It's OK, I'm fine", said Clara hastily.
He looked at her closely for a moment, but then gave up.
After about an hour they pulled into a service station.
"Want something to eat?", inquired Mr. Morris.
"Yes, please", said Clara desperately.
"Coming up", he announced.
He climbed out of the van and in a few minutes was back with a couple of baguettes. He gave one to Clara and watched in astonishment as she gulped it down in less than a minute.
"You must have been real hungry", he remarked in a bemused voice.
Clara nodded.
The journey resumed. It wasn't so long before they reached the outskirts of Washington. This surprised Clara: the journey the previous night had taken hours. But then it occurred to her that, while Mr. Morris had been driving along the interstate, Trampler had probably taken the most remote routes possible, to avoid detection. At Mr. Morris's request, she gave him the directions to Hunter Street and cried out with joy (prompting a chuckle from Mr. Morris) as her apartment block came into view. He pulled up alongside, and Clara jumped out, full of happiness and relief. She thanked Mr. Morris and then rushed through the front doors, up the steps and into her apartment, collapsed onto her bed and fell asleep.
"You let her go?"
Crawley's voice reverberated off the walls of the Oval Office. His face was the deepest shade of purple, and his eyes were so narrow that only the pupils could be seen. Trampler had called him in the early hours to inform him that "the little bitch" had, most unfortunately, got away, and the van had been driven into the grave he had dug for her, meaning that he needed a lift back to Washington: he had added that he would explain later when he got back to the White House. An exasperated Crawley, complaining bitterly that the First Lady had left him that evening, had grudgingly agreed to send out a presidential limousine on condition that Trampler say nothing about what he had been doing while in the car.
"Please, sir", said Conti, "the staff will hear you."
Trampler was standing in front of the desk, his head hung low, his body slumped, not daring to look up at the angry President.
"Yes, I did, sir", he sighed.
"Why?", demanded Crawley, making no effort to lower his voice.
"Because", answered Trampler", awkwardly shuffling his feet, "she promised me that, if I let her go, she wouldn't tell no one about me or you, sir. So I let her out and drove off, but then I remembered my promise to you, so I drove back and tried to run her over, but sadly I drove it into the grave I dug for the little bitch. I then gave chase, but she outran me. Please sir", he added, with a hint of desperation, "I did the best I could."
"You call that your best?", thundered Crawley. "You had her in the palm of your hand, and you let her get away? Tied up in that van, no chance of escape, and you still let her go? Just like a lion that has its paws on top of a zebra, and then lifts them up and lets the zebra escape! All you had to do was force those sleeping pills down her throat, and be done with her! I never thought you'd let me down like this! Never!".
"I know, sir, I'm sorry, and I regret it as much as you do", said Trampler.
"Damn right you should!", snapped Crawley. "You told me we had to kill her to stop her blabbing, and now look at what you've done! Because of your weakness, she'll be off now, telling the whole world about what happened!".
"Maybe", suggested Trampler feebly, "she won't, I mean, she did say . . ."
He fell silent. Not even he believed his own words: he remembered Clara telling him she would report him to the police. Crawley looked at him with contempt.
"Don't try and insult my intelligence", he said.
"The President's right, Dave", said Conti in a panicked voice. He was standing five feet away from the other two men, looking from one to the other with an alarmed expression. "And there's another thing. That van, you've left it at the scene. It's bound to be suspicious, ain't it? People will notice it. It could easily be traced back to you."
"Oh, yes, I forgot, that's another of your blunders isn't it, Dave?", said Crawley: he was slightly calmer now, from exhaustion more than anything else.
"But we can get it back, can't we?", asked Trampler, pleading now.
"But, Dave, that'll only cause more suspicion", warned Conti. "You really think no one'll notice if that van gets lifted out of its pit and taken back to Washington. People'll ask questions. And if she tells, as she sure will . . ."
"Brian's right, Dave", said Crawley. "You've totally messed this one up for me, and you've left evidence behind at the scene to boot. I'm warning you, if you fail me again, I might have to ask for your resignation."
"You don't mean that, sir", said Trampler, horrified, "After all the loyalty and service I've done over all these years . . ."
"I don't care", said Crawley bluntly. "I don't like failures, Dave, you know that, and that's what you are right now. A failure."
Trampler, for once, had nothing to say.
"Where's Clara?", wondered Angela.
She was standing outside the County Line with Lily, as the shutters were beginning to lift.
"Overslept, perhaps?", laughed Lily.
"You know as well as I do she never oversleeps", said Angela sharply. "I've got a bad feeling about this."
"You always do", quipped Lily.
Angela glared at her. "It's time you learned to take things seriously, Lily", she said. "That Trampler guy has done dreadful things to her, and you know it, however much you laugh and joke about it. He must have done something, he must have done, that must be why she's not here."
They walked through the doors.
"But what if she's just late?", asked Lily, slightly abashed, but with a note of uncertainty in her voice.
"You know she's always here by now", said Angela patiently, "Something real bad must have happened to her, and he must be behind it."
Angela and Lily worked through the day as best as they could. Customers repeatedly asked them where Clara was: Angela would solemnly explain she had no more idea than they had, while Lily would attempt to make a joke of it. But even Lily began to feel increasingly worried as the day wore on. Clara had only ever failed to turn up to work when ill, and on those rare occasions she had texted both Angela and Lily to inform them. As the shift was coming to an end Angela told Lily they must go to Clara's apartment immediately after work, and Lily instantly agreed.
As soon as work had finished, Angela and Lily left the County Line and made their way down Hunter Street, Angela striding ahead at a brisk pace, Lily slightly behind her. They reached Clara's apartment, and Angela knocked on the door, calling out:
"Are you all right, Clara?"
For a moment there was silence, and Angela briefly thought that all her worst fears had come true, but then she heard someone shuffling towards the door. The door opened, and there on the threshold stood Clara. Angela flung her arms around her: Clara clung equally tightly to Angela.
"Oh, Clara, we were so worried, thank God you're safe!"
"See, Angela, nothing to worry about at all!", smiled Lily. Angela ignored her and addressed Clara.
"What happened? What's wrong?" Angela had noticed large red patches under Clara's eyes: she had obviously been crying.
Clara sighed. She invited her friends into her living room, sat down on the bed and told them what had happened in the previous 24 hours. Angela looked horrified as Clara told the story and, when she had finished, embraced Clara again. Lily said nothing: her mouth wide open, for once unable to make a joke.
"It's so . . . horrific", said Angela, after a long pause: it was a struggle for her to find the right words. "I mean, I feared this would happen, but for it to actually happen . . .Unbelievable. He is a truly evil man", she added, her voice rising, "an absolutely disgusting human being. An utter scumbag. And as for that man Crawley . . . No wonder you're so upset, Clara", she added, in a softer tone, "I just can't imagine what you're going through right now, it's so upsetting to think about. How awful."
Clara smiled.
"What will you do now?", inquired Lily.
"I'm going to the cops of course", replied Clara.
"The cops?", repeated Angela. "You can't mean that."
"Of course I do", replied Clara. "I want that son of a bitch in jail."
"But the cops will never do that," said Angela. "The cops who murdered my brother, and molested my sister? They're part of the establishment, Clara, just like Trampler and Crawley. They're on his side."
"I don't care", insisted Clara, "I'm gonna tell them, and they'll believe the truth."
Angela opened her mouth to argue back, but then closed it again.
"Coming to the Good Time tonight, Clara?", inquired Lily, trying without much success to inject some of her usual levity.
"I don't think so, I don't feel like it at the moment", answered Clara.
"Devi'll be there", said Lily with a mischievous grin (Angela frowned, but Clara and Lily both ignored her). "Or have you gone off her now?"
"Of course I haven't", said Clara, annoyed. "Give her my love, but I'm not in the mood for going out right now."
"Well, have it your way", said Lily: she smiled, but also looked troubled and disturbed.
Angela and Lily both embraced Clara, Angela holding on especially tightly, and then left.
After her friends had left, Clara finally got washed and changed her old clothes: she had to look smart for the police, she thought. She caught a bus outside her apartment and set off for Judiciary Square. Disembarking from the bus, she entered the Henry J Daly Building on Indiana Avenue, headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Columbia. She was nervous, but also hopeful. She saw a policeman strolling idly around the lobby, fiddling with the badge on his chest.
"Excuse me, sir?", called out Clara tentatively.
"Yes?", said the officer sharply, pivoting round to face Clara, sounding none too pleased. He had a pudgy face, a squat figure, and an annoyed expression.
"I need to speak to you, sir", said Clara.
Out of the shadows, she saw two other policemen emerge: one short, fat and bald, and the other of medium height, with thick dark hair and sideburns, glaring eyes and a large, hooked nose: Clara thought he had a face like a hawk.
"What do you want?", said the bald policeman, in an abrupt tone.
Clara did not feel at all encouraged by this, but she pressed on.
"I've been kidnapped, taken to Virginia and nearly murdered", she said. "Could you please help me?"
"What are you doing here then, if you've been taken to Virginia?", sneered the hawk-like policeman, before he and his colleagues burst into guffaws.
Clara sighed heavily, trying not to get angry.
"Because I escaped him, and a van driver came along and gave me a lift back home", she said.
"A van driver just came along? That's a good one!", mocked the bald policeman
"And who is this man who, you say, tried to kill you?", inquired the pudgy policeman, making little attempt to hide his scepticism.
"Dave Trampler", answered Clara.
"Trampler?", exclaimed the bald officer. "The White House Chief of Staff? You expect us to believe he would bother himself with someone like you?"
"I know women get into hysterics at times, but this is taking the piss", added the hawk-like officer. All three policemen laughed once again.
"Because", said Clara, struggling to stop herself from shouting, "my girlfriend wrote that article about the President stealing money, so first he kept coming to my apartment, raping me, and then . . ."
"That's enough", said the pudgy officer loudly, raising his hand. "God help us, women, what's wrong with them, all these lies they tell about men. 'Sir, he raped me', 'Sir, he tried to kill me' ".
He said these last words in a squeaky, high pitched voice quite unlike Clara's: all three officers roared with laughter, and the bald policeman had tears rolling down his cheeks.
"That was so funny!", he choked.
"I'm telling the truth!", shouted Clara. "He tried to kill me to stop me talking!"
"Too bad he didn't succeed, then", quipped the hawk-like policeman. "Someone needs to stop women from chattering all the time. He could sort out my wife if I asked him!"
More laughter from the three officers.
"Looks like no one will stop you from talking, missy", said the pudgy policeman, sounding impatient. "So why don't you just go and waste someone else's time with your cock-and-bull story?"
Clara thought for a moment about answering back, but, realising it was useless, she stormed out of the building, on the verge of tears. Why, oh, why, had she not listened to Angela? For the second time in 24 hours! She took a bus to her mother's house, desperately hoping for some consolation.
"Come in, honey", smiled Clementina after she answered Clara's knock. "What a pleasant surprise!"
Clara smiled weakly and crossed her mother's threshold.
"Are you OK?", inquired Clementina, looking concerned.
Clara could not stop herself: she instantly blurted out everything that had happened since the previous evening. Clementina's eyes narrowed.
"Do you really expect me to believe that bullshit?", she said. "That the President would employ a man like that?"
"But, Mom, it's all true", pleaded Clara. She felt as though a knife had been thrust into her back.
"Well, now, Clara, I don't know what ideas that Devi has been putting into your head", said Clementina, a touch of sternness in her voice. "I thought she was good for you, but obviously she's been poisoning your mind against the President."
"She hasn't been", said Clara despairingly. "It really did happen."
"Now look, Clara", said Clementina sharply, "I don't know what's got into you, but you seem to have some strange grudge against the President, I've no idea why. I'm very disappointed in you, all these years showing no ambition, and now you expect me to believe a bunch of crap about the President."
This was too much for Clara.
"I'll never talk to you again!", she screamed, and she stormed over the threshold and slammed the door behind her.
Back on the bus, Clara again burst into tears. She felt abandoned and hopeless: Trampler had been right, no one would ever believe her, no one would touch the White House Chief of Staff. She had never felt so low.
