Clotilde clutched the dead man's wallet as if it could save her. She shoved her way through the slow-moving commuters with a single focus: get to the river. She should never have risked the Tube, never allowed herself to become surrounded by people. Tears pricked her eyes as she thought of home with its plentiful dark streams trickling through the wooded glen. A soft moan gathered in her throat. She swallowed and ran up the stairs, hoping desperately that she was moving away and not towards. Finsbury Park station seemed to be a maze of bright white tunnels and stairwells. Hard-edged people whirled around her in a blur. She stumbled against the soft give of leather shoes underneath her feet as she pushed her way up and out, searching for the exit. A ticket inspector stepped forward then looked at her face and waved her on. She burst through the brightly-lit corridor and bolted out, her hand at her throat.
As her eyes adjusted to the bright daylight, Clotilde looked around to get her bearings. People thronged around her, unaware of who she was or what she was doing, all except one: observing, judging, filming her every move.
But Clotilde hadn't prepared for the task at hand, and her mistake was such a basic one: Finsbury Park was miles from the river. Could she hope get there ahead of the others? Sick to her stomach, she was sure of only one thing: The Amazing Race was getting more brutal with each passing year.
Opening: Sylvia.....Continuation: anon.