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Fortified by a bottle of Captain Morgan, Martin Vozabal ran onto a tramcar. Miraculously, his legs did not get tangled and he did not slide on the ice hidden by a soft layer of freshly fallen snow. He sat down heavily and steadied himself by hanging onto the seat in front of him. He was trying to calm down. His muscles were on fire, his lungs ready to burst. He was shaking all over. Not because of the cold, although he definitely felt cold, but because of the horror. Before him he saw life leaving those watery blue eyes that used to pierce him with hate every chance they got and did not let him sleep these last few days. He shook again and started coughing, as the terrible vision left him. Let's hope it was for good.

First thing to do is to get out of here as quickly as possible. He wiped his sweaty forehead on a sleeve of his grey cardigan and looked around. The empty cabin was surprisingly clean, as if it had not had to go around Prague dozens of times. His glazed over eyes roamed to the top of the driver's cabin and focused on four red numbers divided by a colon. He used glasses only for reading. Even at his sixty years of age, he still saw very well at a distance. But the symbols in front of him were smudged and it took him a moment to decipher them. Ten minutes to midnight. Ten minutes to Christmas Day. Useful information, but what use was it to him?

̒We're closed,̕ roared Vozabal. He stood up and staggered. ̒We are closed, dammit!̕

Nothing moved, not even a snowflake.

No way. He did not have time to linger. If he wanted to run away from them, he had to disappear right now.

He moved across the corridor to the driver's cabin. But whoa. The tramcar was not moving, but he felt like he was on a stormy sea. His legs stumbled this way and that. Suddenly the fact that he got this far seemed like an inhuman feat.

Two more steps and he caught a handle above him. His head was spinning, his stomach rebelled. He needed to sit down. In a seat, on the floor, anywhere. Instead he pushed a hand in his back pocket and fished out a pack of paper tissues. He put it against his ear.

̒You devious cow! I told you it was an accident,̕ he screamed into the pack as if it was a cellphone. The recrimination belong to his wife Olga, who was the reason he left their shared flat so hastily. ̒It was all a coincidence,̕ he said again in a quiter tone, as he was visualizing those two men, standing at his doorstep on Monday morning after the Gold Sunday.

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