Waiting.
The car was still where it had stopped, its lights bathing Scott in a cold white glow.
This wasn't right. The driver should have leapt out of his car. Instead, Scott could only assume that the man was still sitting behind the wheel wondering what to do.
He heard a door open, heard a woman's voice in the background saying something about being careful. Then he heard a man's voice too.
There were two of them in the car, perhaps more; he couldn't see from the position he was in.
He heard footsteps coming closer, hesitant and unsure.
His right hand slipped a couple of inches so that it was touching the hilt of the knife.
The footsteps came nearer. A shadow fell over him, the driver silhouetted in the powerful headlamps.
'I think he's alive,' the man called, moving nearer.
He could hear the engine of the car idling.
The man could only be a few feet from him now.
Scott heard more footsteps. Drawing closer.
Closer.
The man knelt beside him; Scott could even hear him breathing. He felt a hand on his shoulder, turning him gently on to his back.
'Oh, Christ,' murmured the man, noticing Scott's prison uniform, spotted as it was with blood and excrement, reeking of filth.
Scott's eyes snapped open and he found himself gazing into the terrified features of a man roughly his own age.
Scott struck out with his left hand, catching the man full in the face with a punch that broke his nose. He fell backwards, cracking his head on the concrete of the road, opening a gash on the back of his skull that immediately began oozing blood.
Scott was up in a second, hurdling the prone man, heading for the car.
He saw and heard the woman scream as she locked the passenger side door, then leant over to secure the driver's side of the Renault.
Scott grabbed the handle and tugged, managing to beat her to it.
She screamed again and tried to back away from him,
but he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her across the driver's seat, hurling her from the car into the wet bushes at the roadside. One of her high heels came off and she scraped her face on the branches as she fell, blood running from a cut on her cheek.
Scott slid behind the wheel, jamming the car into gear.
The man was rising, coming towards the car again, blood streaming from his nose.
Scott floored the accelerator and the car roared, forward like a bullet.
It slammed into the man, hurling him into the air and sideways into the bushes where he landed on his back close to his companion, who screamed again as Scott roared away, exhaust fumes filling the air, mingling with the acrid stench of burned rubber.
The Renault hurtled off down the road, leaving the woman to crawl over to her injured companion.
Scott could see her in his rear-view mirror, sobbing helplessly as she sought to revive the man who, for all Scott knew, could have been dead. Come to think of it, the speed the car had been travelling when it hit him probably would have killed him. Scott took one more look in the rear-view mirror but the former occupants of the car were nowhere to be seen.
He put his foot down.
He knew he had to get out of this prison uniform and into some normal clothes. The journey back to London was going to be difficult enough without advertising where he'd just come from.
Back to London.
He gripped the wheel tightly.
Back to London.
He guessed it would take him about five or six hours. He should be there before morning.
Back to Plummer.
His head was throbbing mightily now, but there was a fearful determination etched on his face.
Back to Carol.
He glanced at his own reflection in the rear-view mirror and saw the bandages that covered the top of his head and most of his forehead. He slowed, stopped and tore most of them off leaving just the one that covered the wound of his operation.
The dashboard clock said 2.06 A.M.
The pain seemed to be getting worse.
Scott gripped the wheel more tightly. He must get out of these overalls.
But before that, there was something else he must do.
NINETY-THREE
There were two Scania trucks parked in the car park of the petrol station. Apart from the two juggernauts, Scott could see no other vehicles.
He drove past them once, trying to see into the cabins, but there was no sign of their drivers. He winced as the pain struck him again, even more forcefully, like a physical blow. The Renault went out of control momentarily but he brought it into line and drove on, slowing down as he reached the covered area that formed a canopy leading up to the door of the service station entrance.
There was one figure in a red overall inside the building. A man in his early twenties. Scott could see that he was reading a newspaper.
Scott parked the Renault around the corner and sat behind the wheel for a moment, waiting for the pain inside his head to diminish.
It didn't.
On shaking legs he forced himself out of the car, ensuring that the knife was hidden as he approached the double doors that led into the service area. Like many along motorways it sold not just books, papers and magazines but also food, drink and even clothing. Scott could see several pairs of jeans hanging up inside, as well as some shirts.
He approached the double doors and pulled at one.
They were locked.
The young man in the red overalls looked up and ran appraising eyes over Scott.
'Use the night window,' he called, indicating the small hatch where he sat.
Cursing under his breath, Scott ambled along to the window, reaching behind him once to touch the hilt of the carving knife.
The young man was looking intently at him, or, more to the point, at his clothes. The grey, blood-flecked, reeking prison overalls made Scott ridiculously conspicuous. He may as well have worn a day-glo sign on his chest proclaiming 'Escaped Convict'.
'What do you want?' the young man asked, his eyes constantly drawn to Scott's overalls.
'I need to use your toilet,' he said.
'We lock it at night. I'll have to give you the key,' the young man told him.
Scott nodded, watching as he retrieved a bunch of keys from the counter.
'I need some things too,' Scott said. 'I want to come inside.'
'Sorry, but it's company policy. This place has been robbed too often in the past year or so. You tell me what you want and I'll get it for you.'
Scott gritted his teeth, both in pain and also frustration. Even if he could get the jeans, the shirt and the
