Free Europe at Midnight by Dave Hutchinson Page A

thing and black jogging pants.”
    “What was he doing?”
    “Standing in the doorway, shouting at the driver. He had a pen and a little notebook and he was writing stuff in it.”
    “Stuff?”
    “I don’t know, I couldn’t see.”
    “But he was still shouting.”
    “Oh yeah. Stuff about knowing who the driver was because he knew someone who worked at the same depot. Kind of a veiled threat, you know?”
    “And the other passengers were still shouting at him?”
    “One girl was. She was really pissed at him. Fucking this, fucking that. Women here swear a lot .”
    “Did he reply to her?”
    “Oh yes. He shouted...” Ross suddenly looked coy.
    Collins sighed. “We’re way past the watershed, Mr Ross, and this isn’t the BBC anyway. You can tell me what he said.”
    Ross shrugged. “He shouted, ‘And you can fuck off, you rancid black cunt.’”
    “And she replied...?”
    “Oh, she just told him to fuck off. Some of the other passengers started complaining about the swearing; some of them had kids with them. Everybody was shouting. That was when he stood up. The guy.”
    “And where was he?”
    “Across the aisle from me, one row down.”
    Collins held out her tablet again. “Could you show me, please?” Ross pointed, and Collins said, “Seat 3b. The aisle seat.”
    “Yeah,” Ross said. “The aisle seat.”
    “Could you describe this gentleman for me, Mr Ross?”
    “Late thirties, medium height. Looked kind of untidy, like he’d been sleeping rough for a couple of nights. Kind of old-fashioned clothes. Tweedy jacket, corduroys, white shirt, tie, black overcoat.”
    “Did he have anything with him? Any bags? Luggage?”
    Ross shook his head. “I didn’t see anything.”
    “And what did the gentleman do?”
    “He walked down the front of the bus and he said something to the guy who was shouting.”
    “Did you hear what he said?”
    “Sure. He said, ‘There’s no need for that sort of language, chum.’”
    “And how did his voice sound?”
    “English accent. Not London, West Country. He sounded tired.”
    “And how did the shouting gentleman respond?”
    “He punched him in the stomach and the guy fell down.”
    Collins paused and sighed and leaned her elbows on the table. “Perhaps you might go through that one more time, Mr Ross? Did you see the shouting gentleman punch the other gentleman?”
    “Sure. There was nobody between me and them by that time. The shouting guy took his hand out of his pocket and punched the other guy in the stomach.”
    “The shouting gentleman had his hand in his pocket? You said he was writing something on a little pad.” Collins tipped her head to one side.
    Ross watched her for a few moments. Jim could almost see cogs revolving inside his head as he replayed the scene. “He put it in his pocket,” he said finally. “He put the pad in his pocket as the guy stood up.”
    “Which pocket? Left? Right?”
    “Right. He held the pen in his left hand and he put the pad in his right pocket and as the guy came up and spoke to him he took his hand out of his pocket and punched him. Well, I thought he was punching him.”
    “How many times?”
    “Three times. Very fast. Then the guy fell down, and he turned and jumped off the bus and ran off.”
    “Did you see where he went?”
    “Back towards the High Street; he went round the corner and he was gone.”
    “And what happened next on the bus?”
    “Chaos. People were shouting and screaming. Someone went to see if the guy was okay and then she started to scream and I saw there was blood on her hands and on the floor. People were trying to get off the bus and the driver shut the doors and said something over the public address about having to call the police and everyone on the bus being a witness and people started shouting at him.” Ross shrugged. “Chaos.”
    “And you did what, while all this chaos was going on?”
    “I sat where I was.”
    “Why?”
    “Nobody needed me getting in the way.