a - Mohammed

An arterial Soho Road seemed rich in people today, many blood cells
carrying the oxygen of Birmingham's life. But Mohammed was bleeding. A
simple plan to cross postcodes and rip-off a jewellers had been
bungled, a gun had gone off and he'd ended-up hurt. By some miracle he
was still free but trying to find a way out - a way back.

In a quiet side-street, in an abandoned marketplace, he'd ditched his
mask and the bag which would weigh him down. This made him less
conspicuous. He had to get away from here. He felt inside his black
leather jacket to his numb left side. It felt damp. He pulled his hand
out. It was blood. He'd no idea where the other three were - the driver
had panicked and disappeared from outside as they ran into the grey
midweek, mid-morning street. The other two? How could they! They were
mates, gangstas, together forever. Now Mohammed was alone. He had to
get away. Or could he hole up in a Pub? The Red Lion? It seemed dark
enough. He couldn't see in the windows. No - they'd ask questions. They
would all be Sikhs in there and he was a Moslem. He'd stick out. He
spotted a blue double-decker 11A bus. It would get him out of the area
and off the street where he feared he could be picked-up at any time.
The wrong way for Aston. It would take him a couple of hours this way
round but it would be safe. Who would suspect a getaway on a bus
anyway?

The queue ambled steadily into the bus, waving passes and a couple
threw change into the slot. Mohammed normally used his out of date
pass, which he relied on an overworked driver not to spot, but he
didn't want any potential for trouble. He reached for change -
"alhamdullilah!" as his gran would say, he had a pound coin which he
threw in the slot, making no eye-contact with the driver. The single
ticket whirred out of the orange machine by his shoulder. He turned and
went to rip it off with his left hand but raising that arm made his
side hurt so he used his right instead.

He made his way up the stairs as the bus lurched away. He collapsed
relieved, into a seat near the back. He had just long enough to get the
view of the length of Soho Road, the red brick clock tower of the Town
Hall and the white dome of Guru Nanak's temple, like guardians to the
street, hazed by late winter low cloud. In the street there was
frenetic activity around the jewellers. The police, who hadn't had far
to come, were already on the scene, seemingly looking in every
direction but his.

The bus swung right into Boulton Road towards Winson Green. Mohammed
was getting away.