Over the next three days, Trampler spent his non-working hours shopping. He hired a van, and bought ropes and a spade. As he happened to be a well known and easily recognisable figure, the people selling him these items asked him what he wanted to do with them, but he always responded with a threatening glare. On the third afternoon, Trampler carefully placed the ropes in the back of the van, hung the spade on the inside of one of the back doors, and placed in his pocket a small bottle containing the sleeping pills that he took for his chronic insomnia. He drove to Hunter Street, and parked the van right outside Clara's apartment block. He climbed out of the van and hid in the dark alley next to the block, waiting for his prey.
As Clara walked home from work that day, she was beginning to feel hopeful. It had been three days since Trampler was last in her flat: he had never gone so long without paying a visit. Maybe, having realised that he could not stop her from reading the forbidden story, he would never come back again and his threats to her had been no more than bluster. Angela had been suspicious of Trampler's uncharacteristically long absence, certain that he must be planning something sinister, and had offered to walk Clara home, but she had declined the offer. She was so lost in her thoughts that she paid no attention to the vehicles parked on the edge of the pavement.
Clara reached the entrance to her apartment block, and turned to her left, to face the main entrance. Suddenly, just as she was about to open the front door, she felt two rough hands, one pressing down on her mouth, the other on her stomach, and she found herself being violently dragged backwards.
"Stop it!", she screamed. "Get off of me! Who are you!"
But she knew, deep down, who it must be.
She then felt herself being thrust backwards: she banged her head against something cold and hard. As she was rubbing her sore head, someone leaned forward and she felt something being wrapped around her body, pressing tightly against her stomach. Then a loud slamming noise, and she found herself in almost total darkness. As she squinted, trying to make out her surroundings, she heard what sounded like a door being wrenched open and then banged shut, followed by the sound of an engine starting, and then she could feel the floor underneath her vibrating. She looked around: she seemed to be in the back of a van. She turned her head to the right: there, in the driver's seat, sitting just 10 feet away from her, was Trampler. She tried to scramble over to him, to reason with him, but something held her back. She strained as hard as she could, but she couldn't move. She looked down, and saw that there was a rope around her stomach, tying her to the handle of one of the back doors.
"Let me go!", she pleaded, desperate and deathly afraid.
"Be quiet!", snarled Trampler, not even bothering to look around at her.
"Please let me go, sir", repeated Clara. "You're a good man, I know you are."
"Be quiet!", said Trampler again.
Clara turned her head towards the back door directly behind Trampler, the one she was not tied to, and noticed a spade hanging down, rather like a sword on display. She turned her head back in Trampler's direction.
"You're going to kill me, are you?", she asked, her voice trembling: she already knew the answer.
"I can't let you live, bitch", answered Trampler, with a note of malice in his voice. "I've done everything I could, but you disobeyed me, you wouldn't stop snooping around, reading that fucking nonsense. And I know about that meddling girlfriend of yours, I know she's been gossiping to you about it. You're too dangerous to be allowed to live."
Clara's stomach clenched horribly: it was awful to contemplate that her relationship with Devi, which had made her so happy, had led to this.
"But I didn't write the article", she pointed out. "Why do you have to kill me? Why not . . ."
She stopped herself, horrified at what she had been about to say, but Trampler knew it: there was malicious glee in his reply.
"Because the bitches who wrote that bullshit are too protected. They have so many connections that folks would talk about it if they went missing. But who cares about a stupid fucking bartender? But", he finished, cackling, "if I get the chance . . ."
Clara felt worse than ever, hating herself for almost suggesting that he kill Devi, and horrified by the idea that he might kill Devi after all.
"I don't think the President would like it if he knew", she said, after a pause of about five minutes.
"The President does know", replied Trampler in a smirking tone, "and he has allowed me to do it. He said you were an inconvenient woman that we need to get rid of."
Clara felt as though she had been punched in the face. She had never had much interest in politics, but she had always thought of Crawley as a genial and charming, if egotistical, man. Though of course Devi had told her he was corrupt, she had never imagined that this smiling man, a man whom her mother admired so much, would stoop this low. Trying to take in this shocking information, she breathed heavily, but found herself constricted by the rope that pressed so deeply into her. It was a struggle for her to get her breaths out.
"Sir", she pleaded, "could you please loosen the rope, I can't breathe."
"Be quiet!", said Trampler once more, before adding, with a gloating sneer, "You won't be breathing much longer anyway, bitch".
Clara fell silent. Trampler drove on and on and on: Clara could see through the windows that it was gradually getting darker, but still he drove on relentlessly. How long would he take, and where was he going? She had no idea, but knew better than to ask. How was he going to kill her? She thought about this for a little while, but soon stopped herself: it was too horrible to think about. She thought sadly that all those who had warned her about her curiosity, that something bad would happen because of it, had been right. She had never heeded their warnings, and now look where it had led her. If only she hadn't listened in to those stupid conversations in the County Line, if only she hadn't looked at that article, she would still be free and happy in her apartment. Trampler would never have entered her life, she would still be able to go out to the Good Time, and she would still be with Devi. But instead, here she was, tied up in a van, being taken to her death, all because she had been too inquisitive for her own good.
Hours passed, and still Trampler did not stop. Clara did not know which was worse: the certainty of being murdered or the uncertainty of when it would happen. Should she savour every precious last moment she had on Earth, or wish for a quick death? They must be well outside Washington by now, whether in Maryland or Virginia or possibly somewhere even further afield, she had no idea, nor did she much care. All that mattered was that death - a violent death - was coming, whenever and wherever it was.
Finally, around midnight, Clara felt the van turn right and slow down. She felt herself being bumped around and could hear a crackling sound underneath the van's wheels: they must be off the road now. The end was near. The van stopped, and Clara watched Trampler climb out of the driver's seat and shut the door: she heard him walking around the van, then saw him wrench open the back door on the left-hand side. She thought he was going to kill her then and there, but then realised he was taking the spade out. He slammed the door again, leaving Clara alone in the darkness. Soon she could hear a scraping sound: he was digging her grave. It sounded like the horrible noise a metal spoon makes when scraping against the bottom of a saucepan. So it was to be here that she would meet her end, but she was none the wiser about when: death was so close, yet so far away. It was as though she were chained to the floor of some dark cell, and could see the walls on all four sides very slowly closing in on her, powerless to prevent it but not knowing when she would finally be swallowed up. Oh how she wished she had accepted Angela's offer to walk her home! As she heard the digging continue remorselessly, silent tears came to her eyes as the cruel sound of the spade brought it home to her that she would never see kind, wise Angela, happy Lily, or beautiful, charming Devi ever again. Would they know where she had gone? Would they be able to find out what had happened to her? Surely not, unless Trampler chose to confess, and she couldn't imagine that happening. The thought that her friends would never find out, that there would never be justice, that Trampler was almost certain to get away with it, was almost as awful as the thought that she was about to murdered. Again, she thought about how she would be killed. Would he strangle her? Would he hit her with the spade? Would he stab her? As hard as she tried, it was now impossible to keep these awful thoughts from her tortured mind.
After about an hour, the digging stopped and Clara could hear Trampler's footsteps walking ominously back towards the van. This is it, she thought despairingly, but she was also determined to try one last gambit. Trampler threw open the door and pulled a small bottle out of his pocket. Despite herself, Clara could not help feeling curious about what might be inside it.
"Sleeping pills, bitch", announced Trampler, as though she had asked him, triumphantly rattling the bottle. "You'll soon pass out, won't feel a fucking thing. Best I could do for you. You should be grateful."
"Please, sir", said Clara desperately, "let me live, please, I beg of you!"
"Look", said Trampler, a note of impatience creeping into his voice, "I've spent this last hour sweating over that fucking digging, and you're still trying it on with me."
"Please, sir", said Clara again, "if you let me go, I swear I won't tell a soul about you or the President."
Trampler looked at her sceptically. "How could I trust you, bitch?", he growled.
"Because", said Clara, thinking quickly, "now I've seen what you can do, I'll know to be careful in future, won't I?"
"And I have your word you'll never tell no one?", inquired Trampler, in a softer and more hesitant tone than Clara had ever heard him use before.
"Not a soul", she repeated, starting to feel the slightest glimmer of hope. "Not even Devi."
There was a pause. To Clara, it was like a game of Russian roulette, not knowing if Trampler was going to kill her or not. Then he leaned forward: for one horrible moment she thought he was going to strangle her, but then she realised, to her astonishment and relief, that he was untying the rope. As soon as she was free of her bonds, Clara pushed open the door she had been tied to and swung herself out of the van and onto the ground, as Trampler put the bottle back in his pocket, and the spade back on the inside of the other door.
"But I'm warning you bitch", said Trampler in his most menacing voice, "if you break your promise, if you fucking talk, I will kill you. No ifs, no buts. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir", said Clara instantly.
Trampler gave a satisfied grunt, then clambered back into the driver's seat and drove off back in the direction they had come.
Clara breathed heavily as she tried to process all that had just happened. It was a warm summer's night, and it was such a joy and a relief to be able to breathe the air. Her heart still beating fast, she watched the van disappear, and then, slowly and hesitantly, set off back in the same direction as Trampler, back towards Washington, back towards home.
She had only gone a few paces when suddenly she saw the van reappear, driving towards her at a furious pace. She was momentarily stunned at this turn of events, but then turned and began to run as fast as she could, running for her life. She could hear the deathly rumbling of the engine getting closer and closer: she did not know how she would be able to outrun the van, but she was not going to give up her life without a fight. Suddenly she saw, right in front of her, a large pit dug into the soil: she knew instinctively what this must be, and at the last second just managed to swerve around it, and keep on running. Then she heard a loud crashing noise behind her. She looked over her shoulder: Trampler had driven the van into the grave where he had intended to bury her, unable to see it in the dark. Her heart leapt: she was safe! But no! Trampler managed to get out of the van, scramble up the side of the pit, and give chase. She began to run again.
"I'm faster than you, bitch!", she heard Trampler shout.
Clara knew it: her short legs were no good for running, and she had never been particularly good at the school sports but still she kept on. All logic told her she had no chance, but a little voice inside her told her to keep going.
"I will fucking tear you limb from limb! You should have accepted my generous offer!", bellowed Trampler.
Clara quickened her pace: she was not, repeat not, going to suffer such a horrific death. She suddenly realised she was now running uphill: it was harder work now, but she kept at it, driven on by Trampler's threat. She could feel his breath - or was it the wind? - on the back of her neck, but still she ran. In her terror, she found herself able to run faster than she had ever imagined she was capable of. But even so, her legs were now beginning to ache. She urged her legs on, but they were rebelling against her: they could go no faster. She tried to continue running, but it was getting more and more difficult for her. She was getting out of breath, she had an awful stitch in her stomach, and her legs were slowing down. Eventually, she reached the top of the hill, but found she simply could not go on any further, and sank to the ground in despair. Surely now, she would feel Trampler's rough hand on her shoulder as he began to rip her apart. But nothing happened: she pushed herself around to face the way she had come, and there she saw Trampler: he was some 20 feet further down the hill, breathing and wheezing just as heavily as she was. He, too, could not go on running. She remembered learning in school how, when a predator chases its prey, the prey usually escapes because, unlike the predator, it is running for its life.
She glared at her predator with a look of pure hatred.
"Asshole!", she screamed. "Motherfucker! Son of a bitch!"
It felt strangely cathartic to get the insults out.
"You will freeze to death!", he shouted at her. "You will drown in a lake! The bears will eat you!"
Clara glared at him again. "I'll report you for this, Trampler!", she screamed.
"Who would believe you?", shouted back Trampler.
"They will believe the truth!", riposted Clara.
"Your truth or my truth?", yelled Trampler.
"Mine of course! You will rot in jail, Trampler!"
"They won't touch me, I'm the White House Chief of Staff!"
"Oh, yes, they will!"
Clara just managed to squeeze out those last words; she was so exhausted, and breathing so heavily, that she could speak no more. Neither, it seemed, could Trampler. She continued to glare at him until, after about half an hour, he pushed himself off the ground and got to his feet. Briefly Clara thought she would have to run again, something she knew she was incapable of, but then she realised that he was staggering down the hill like a drunken man, clearly incapable of pursuing her. She saw him reach the pit, where he tried several times to lift out the van. Clara watched with vindictive pleasure as each of his attempts failed: he was never able to lift it any higher than a couple of feet. Try all you might, you son of a bitch, she thought, but you're too weak. You couldn't kill me and you can't lift the van. She watched Trampler open his mouth a number of times: though she could not hear him, she was sure he was uttering expletives. Eventually he left the pit and she saw him making his way towards the road and begin the long walk back to Washington.
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