John Elliot drove the bus into the depot with a sigh of relief. His muscles ached from being in the driving seat for the last eight hours with only two short breaks. Switching the engine off, he stood and turned to make a quick visual check of the bus.
"Ma'am?" he said in surprise. "This is the last stop."
"I'm sorry," she apologized, getting to her feet. "I thought you made one more trip."
"Only on weeknights," he explained. "On Saturday the last bus finishes an hour early."
The woman picked up her small bag which probably contained all her worldly possessions. She had an elegance and dignity about her although it looked as though she had nowhere to sleep for the night. John's heart when out to her—like it had done every time he had seen a stray dog or cat when he was a boy. His parents had scolded him for bringing in the strays, but had allowed him to rescue as many as he'd wanted. Until he had picked up a cat with Feline Upper Respiratory Infection which had infected all the other cats. He learned a hard lesson and no matter how pitiful a stray looked he had never taken another one home again.
The woman walked to a bench and sat on it, her bag held tightly in her lap.
John went in to the office, turned off the lights and closed up for the night.
Opening the doors of his Ford Mondeo remotely as he approached, he kept his head resolutely forwards.
Yet, he found himself looking through his rear-view mirror at the woman as he started the engine. He prayed that she would be okay.
Feeling terrible for leaving her, prey to anyone with evil intentions, he sped away quickly.
He turned left at the next corner, then left at the next and then left again. Another left and he was back where he had started. Instead of driving into the depot he parked his car outside and observed the woman. She was still sitting on the bench, her back straight, her head held high, proudly.
His wife, Helen, wasn't home; he really shouldn't take a woman to his house. Ordinarily Helen wouldn't mind, but she would be more than a little suspicious if he brought a woman to the house on a night when she wasn't home. Especially a redhead. Why couldn't the woman have been blonde or brunette? If the woman had been older and looked like a downtrodden tramp Helen might have been more understanding, but the woman was beautiful and though he had caught her hot, musky smell as she had passed him on her way off the bus, it was obvious that she had either found somewhere to wash as often as she could or hadn't been on the road for very long.
A burly man walked passed the entrance of the depot, looked in and continued on his way. Fifty metres on, he turned and retraced his steps. John tensed as the man turned into the depot and headed straight for the woman. He sat next to her on the bench, dwarfing her as he leaned close and engaged her in conversation. She kept shaking her head until suddenly he stood up and grasped her arm roughly, pulling her upright and against his much larger body.
John was out of the car and hurrying towards them in an instant.
"Hey!" he shouted as he neared them. "Leave her alone!"
"Who's going to make me?" The man looked dismissively over his shoulder at John's slim built and kept hold of the woman.
"I am," John informed him quietly, bringing the gun in his hand into view. It was only a toy which belonged to his five-year-old son Tim, but the man couldn't know that. "If you don't want a bullet between your eyes, let her go now!"
"Cool it, mate! She's all yours if you want her." The man backed away nervously and John watched him hurry away with contempt. For all his massive size, the man was both a coward and a bully.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Thank you. He offered to share his bed with me for the night and was a little put out that I refused," she explained.
"It's not safe here. Is there nowhere you can spend the night?"
"Please don't concern yourself. I'll be fine."
"I can't leave you here."
"I'm not your concern."
"Look, it's too deserted here. At least let me take you somewhere the shops are open all night or where they are other people."
She looked at him and then at the gun he still held in his hand. Hastily, he slipped it behind him and into his waistband, out of sight.
"I don't want to go to anywhere noisy. I'm desperately tired—I need somewhere quiet where I can get some sleep."
"If you sleep here you're likely to end up raped or murdered," he told her flatly, finally losing patience. All he wanted was a shower and his bed. But he would toss and turn all night if he left her here. And if anything happened to her he would never forgive himself.
"And how do I know that you're not a rapist or a murder?" she asked.
"You don't." He felt surprised that she could think him capable of harming her. But, he reasoned, most serial killers were persuasive smooth talkers.
"I'm sorry, that was rude of me," she apologized. "It's been an incredibly long day."
"Look, my wife's not home, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind you coming home with me for a bite to eat and a shower," John offered. He wouldn't get a wink of sleep if he had to think of her out here on her own, prey to thieves, rapists or murderers.
"Your wife must really trust you."
"She'll be fine once I've explained the situation to her."
"Thank you, I'd like to accept." She turned and headed towards his parked car. Hurrying forward, he held the door open for her. When he came around the car she leaned over and politely opened the door for him, too.
"Normally, I wouldn't dream of trusting a stranger, but...." she broke off.
