I lean against the window, watching the drab countryside slide wearily past. My hood covers part of my face, and I am making as little noise as humanly possible. I want to be completely inconspicuous.
No-one is sitting in the seat beside me, instead, my tan hide, highly outdated suitcase is perched precariously upon the seat, baring deep grazes and scrapes in the leather, and two dark, crusted brown stains, divulging its lengthy history. The name “Henry C. Cooper” is written on a metal tag wrapped around the handle. It’s not my real name. My real name has always been a secret since my parents’ murders, but now my business partner and also brother, Louis, is dead too.
I got onto the bus behind a small group of goth teenagers, the driver seemed to assume I was with them, my black clothing didn’t look out of place, either. This was lucky. The driver cannot know I am here, or who I am. I had to leave Hull quickly, discreetly. I was sure I’d seen a young woman at the bus station, holding a diary and three pencils, who seemed to be looking at everything happening, at every movement from every person in the area. I was sure the hearing aid was more than what it looked like.
I can almost feel eyes boring deep into the back of my neck, yet I know that no-one on this bus can know that there is one more head on this bus than there are bodies. Looking down and to my right, I notice another bloodstain beginning to form on the edge of the suitcase.
Louis always stole my glory from me. Not any more.