I Follow You

by Peter James

  She wished so much she could feel it move now, to be sure it was alive.

  Roger was sound asleep beside her and she envied him that. The sleep of the innocent. From the moment he hit the pillow, he was out. Whereas since being pregnant she woke repeatedly through the night. Having to get up to pee. Worrying. Carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  The clock showed 2.15 a.m.

  Slipping out of bed as quietly as she could, she tiptoed to the loo. When she returned, she felt wide awake.

  And afraid.

  Thinking back to that dark December night. Thinking more clearly.

  Someone had been outside their home, in the darkness, with a laser pen.

  Why on earth would someone be pointing a laser at her and Roger?

  Someone trying to give her a message? A sign?

  Who and why?

  Someone trying to harm her baby?

  Was it someone who knew where she worked? And lived? One of her clients? She just couldn’t imagine any of them standing outside in the freezing cold and wind pointing a laser through their living-room window.

  Was she overreacting? Perhaps it was just kids messing around, as she had thought at the time. Must have been.

  She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But she felt wired. The clock showed 2.45 a.m.; 3.05 a.m.; 3.17 a.m.; 3.22 a.m.

  Sod it. She eased quietly out of bed again, picked up her phone and switched on the torch app, then unhooked her dressing gown from the door, pulled it on and slipped out of the room. She closed the door quietly behind her, went through into the living room, switched on the table lamps and sat on the sofa.

  Staring at her phone.

  She went through each of the social media apps where she had a presence. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram. Looking at all her followers and everyone who had engaged with her in the past few weeks, back before Christmas. There were a few strange ones, but nothing to indicate someone messing with a laser.

  Craving marmalade again, she walked over to the open-plan kitchen, toying with making a piece of toast. But she was concerned that the smell might disturb Roger, and he had an early-morning flying lesson. Instead she buttered a piece of bread and slathered on a generous coating of her current favourite thick-cut marmalade and ate it ravenously at the breakfast bar.

  When she had finished, she went back to the sofa, sat down and wondered whether she had overlooked an app. What had she missed?

  She checked carefully through her apps – many of which she never opened and should delete, she knew. Then she opened RunMaster and began scrolling through her followers.

  The app offered each follower the option to have their activities public or private. The majority of them opted for public, which meant she could compare her times over segments with theirs, according to male and female and age groups.

  It worked better than counting sheep.

  Roger found her sound asleep on the sofa, phone on the floor, when he came in to make himself breakfast a couple of hours later.

  31

  Friday 11 January

  Marcus left the operating theatre shortly after 4.30 p.m., having carried out a complicated caesarean section. He was exhausted. And concerned. He had a feeling that the woman might have some ongoing internal bleeding.

  He entered the changing room with Barnaby Cardigan and Robert Resmes. He told them both his worries, then wiggled out of his scrubs and dumped them into the bin. Resmes, as ever, fired question after question at them both. Marcus respected the Romanian medical student’s thirst for knowledge, but he seemed to be irritating Cardigan again today with his persistence. Marcus was surprised how easily Cardigan was riled by Resmes’s curiosity. He needed to keep an eye on them both to make sure this didn’t escalate. Out of nowhere, the two young men suddenly started pushing at each other, shouting.

  ‘Whoooa, whoa, what’s going on? Leave it out, guys.’ He stepped in between them, arms raised. ‘You’re not bloody children!’

  The pair changed in sullen silence and departed, leaving Marcus alone. He stood in front of the mirror working at his tie until he had both the knot and the length of each end exactly right. Then, as he was tucking the short end inside the label, something occurred to him. He had not thought about Georgie Maclean for an hour at least. Maybe longer.

  As soon as he was back in his office, he logged on to his computer and checked the Jersey Hospital Forum page on Facebook as he did most days. He saw that one of the ICU nurses was moaning about the hospital canteen mayonnaise again. This made him smile. First-world problems. While he was on Facebook, he couldn’t help having a sneaky peak at Georgie’s page. There was a new post from her, along with a photograph.

  Doing parkrun tomorrow. Here’s my kit. ‘All the gear and no idea!’ Hey, only jesting! I’m going for a PB. Have you always fancied running a 5K? Why not challenge yourself? If you’re looking for a running coach, even if you’ve never run, I can help you get there! PM me or visit my ‘Fit For Purpose’ website (link in bio).

  The picture was a flat lay of her kit artistically laid out on bare wooden floorboards. Her trademark bright-pink and blue kit.

  Marcus grinned. The parkrun! Of course. Saturday mornings. A big thing these days.

  See you there!

  32

  Saturday 12 January

  She must be here somewhere. But where?

  Marcus stood, freezing, in the driving rain and ferocious wind among the huge, noisy crowd of runners gathered, waiting, outside the Quennevais Sports Centre. He was looking around for Georgie in her kit. He ought to be able to spot her, except, he fretted, she may have decided to put some different gear on to cope with the elements. The weather was pretty much as bad as Jersey winter weather got.

  Someone was calling out instructions through a loudspeaker, saying it was five minutes to the start. People were jogging on the spot to keep warm, chatting about races they had coming up; a woman on her phone was talking loudly above the hubbub to a friend, asking her where she was. Spectators were standing at the side, marshalled by volunteers in high-vis jackets.

  Where are you, Georgie? Are you here or did you decide the weather was too shit to come today? I so hope not!

  He bullied his way through the hundreds of people, all ages, past one woman with a barking labradoodle, then a man with two weird-looking mutts on leads. Looking. Looking.

  Georgie?

  Then, suddenly, she was right in front of him, facing away. He almost collided with her.

  She was fiddling with her sports watch.

  Before she saw him, he took a furtive photo of her on his phone. Then he stepped forward. ‘Hi!’ he said.

  She didn’t seem to hear him in all the surrounding noise.

  He touched her shoulder. ‘Georgie!’ he said, louder. ‘What a coincidence!’

  She turned and looked at him, seeming to not recognize him for a moment.

  He lifted his baseball cap. ‘Marcus,’ he said. ‘Marcus Valentine!’

  ‘Oh, hi. How are you? I thought you were going to call me,’ she said, very matter-of-factly.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve been really busy,’ he said. Petty, he knew, but he felt he’d scored a point.

  ‘No worries, I’m pretty booked up at the moment anyhow.’

  Marcus was hoping she’d be more enthusiastic than this.

  ‘Great.’ Then he said, ‘Are you doing the parkrun too?’ And instantly realized how dumb it must have sounded.

  ‘No, I just love standing in the pissing rain and howling wind, ogling men’s legs.’ She gave him a smile and made a show of admiring his legs.

  At least, Marcus thought, his knobbly knees were concealed inside his smart jogging bottoms.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re doing it too?’ she asked, with feigned surprise.

  He smiled back, holding eye contact with her for a lingering moment. Feeling his excitement rising. His chance! ‘Do you fancy a coffee afterwards?’

  Her face clouded, the moment gone as fast as it had c
ome. Breaking eye contact and looking at the ground, she said, ‘I’ve actually got a pretty busy morning. I suppose I could have a really quick one.’

  ‘That would be great!’

  She added, hesitantly, ‘The only thing is, no disrespect, in case I come in quicker than you, I don’t want to have to hang around, freezing, for long.’

  Marcus felt a little slighted. ‘Sure, of course. How’s Roger? I haven’t heard from him this week.’

  ‘He’s great! Really great! Busy as ever. He’s got loads of work on at the moment, a lot of people seem to be wanting to learn to fly all of a sudden. But yes, he’s well, thanks.’

  He saw in her eyes that she really was smitten by her fiancé.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Terrific – so – tell him to get in touch, we need to fix up that meal together.’

  ‘I will,’ she said, looking distracted, staring around as if looking for someone. ‘I’ll wait for ten minutes after I finish, OK? I’ll hang around the finish line.’

  ‘I’ll be there!’

  She suddenly turned away from him and called out to a tall, muscular iron man in his early thirties, kitted like a pro. ‘Hi, Chris!’

  ‘Hey, Georgie!’

  Marcus watched them kiss. Old buddies. They looked very happy to see each other.

  ‘What time are you going for?’ Iron Man asked.

  ‘If I break twenty-four in these conditions, I’ll be happy. You?’

  ‘Well, I got my PB last week – nineteen forty-seven.’

  ‘Pretty good! Wow!’

  ‘Thanks. I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I had a client with an injury who was going away, so I had to see him.’

  Marcus stood still, watching and listening as they chatted, all touchy-feely with each other, Georgie putting a hand on his arm, then playfully stabbing his chest in response to something he said that Marcus could not hear.

  He stared at the two of them, anger rising inside him. Georgie seemed to have totally forgotten him. Or was deliberately ignoring him.

  He did some half-hearted warm-up stretches.

  Over the loudspeaker an echoey female voice boomed out, ‘Welcome, parkrunners! Do we have any visitors?’

  Several people put up their hands.

  ‘Welcome!’ the commentator said.

  There were a few claps.

  ‘Do we have any Jersey parkrun first-timers?’

  Marcus didn’t bother raising his arm.

  There were several cries of ‘Yay!’ followed by more claps.

  She explained the route, then she said, ‘Dave Woodsford is on his hundredth parkrun and it’s Chris Dorey’s birthday!’

  There were several desultory cheers and more clapping.

  ‘Don’t forget about all the brilliant volunteers that make this happen. You can do your bit by volunteering in the future!’ Then she called out, ‘Timekeepers ready? Three . . . Two . . . One . . . PARKRUN!’

  They were off.

  Iron Man sprinted ahead with Georgie close behind, weaving through slower runners, whilst Marcus followed, barging his way past people, determined to keep pace with her. But within minutes she was way ahead of him and he was losing sight of her pink cap through the bobbing heads. He stepped up his speed and immediately felt a stitch developing. He kept going, faster, faster. The jabbing pain was worsening.

  Shit.

  They were going up a hill.

  He did his best, but he was running out of breath and the stitch was almost unbearable now. And then the agonizing pain started once more in his calf muscle. He needed to stop. But he couldn’t allow himself that luxury. Georgie said she could only wait ten minutes. He glanced at his watch. He’d heard her tell Iron Man that she was hoping to get in under twenty-four minutes. He tried to calculate how far behind he was at this moment. No way could he stop. Had to keep on, run through the pain.

  A motivational expression popped from a dark recess of his memory banks. If you’re going through hell, keep going.

  Trying to think who it was who said that, he stumbled on. Driven by the thoughts of a coffee with Georgie. Everything was becoming a blur. People were passing him, bashing his arms, some calling out apologies.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouted out to one lanky man in loose fluorescent shorts and wearing ear buds, who almost knocked him over.

  After a few more paces, murmuring to himself, ‘Going through hell, keep going, keep going,’ he stopped and attempted to touch his toes, to relieve the stitch. But a few seconds later someone ran straight into him, sending him sprawling, face first, into the muddy grass. The man stopped to help him. ‘So sorry! My mistake, I was going a bit enthusiastic there. You OK, mate?’

  People were pounding past him on either side as he hauled himself, miserably, to his feet and carried on, trudging up the hill, head bowed against the stinging, blinding rain. He didn’t start running again until he had crested the hill, by which time almost all the pack was ahead of him, except for a couple of old men who were power walking and a woman determinedly striding with a pushchair and gaining on him fast. The baby inside, protected by a crinkly see-through rain cover, looked like a ready meal from the chill section of a supermarket, he thought. Microwave five minutes!

  It was over thirty-eight minutes before he limped across the finish line, barely aware of the applause from the cheerful volunteers and spectators, and hit the stop button on his running watch. It was a good time, but he had been hoping to have done faster, closer to Georgie’s time.

  Soaking wet from the rain and perspiration, his hands almost numb with cold, he looked around for Georgie. For her pink cap. Was she still here? She’d said she could only wait ten minutes but surely she could have had the decency to hang on. She’d have waited for Iron Man, wouldn’t she?

  Maybe she’d gone to the loo. He decided to hang around and see. Five minutes passed, ten minutes. The rain was still teeming down, and the few remaining people were rapidly thinning out.

  After a quarter of an hour it was clear she had definitely gone.

  Has she gone off with Iron Man?

  Leaving me here in the rain?

  Thanks, Georgie.

  33

  Saturday 12 January

  Georgie stood in the shower, grateful for the needles of hot water pelting down on her as she gradually warmed up. She was pleased with her time today. Twenty-three minutes and three seconds, her PB. Eight seconds off last week and in such rubbish conditions – and carrying a passenger!

  She was pleased also, and not a little relieved, that Roger had cancelled his scheduled flying lessons because of the weather and lousy visibility, which meant they’d spend the day together. He’d suggested lunch at El Tico by the sand dunes of St Ouen. And she had already decided what she was going to have to eat there – Yankee pancakes with vanilla mascarpone cream and warm maple syrup.

  After that they were going to catch a movie at Cineworld, and this evening she would make a salmon and avocado salad with the bits Roger had gone to buy whilst she was doing her run.

  But minus the wine she normally enjoyed with him at the weekend.

  Hey, that abstinence wouldn’t be forever.

  Would it, Mr Bump?

  Or Miss Bump.

  Your dad and I don’t mind. We will love you forever whichever you turn out to be.

  Mike Uniform Mike to Bravo Uniform Mike Papa. Are you hearing me? Over.

  34

  Saturday 12 January

  ‘Did you fall?’ Claire asked, concerned.

  Marcus, dripping and still cold, limped into the kitchen. ‘Fall?’

  ‘You’ve got mud on your face.’

  And egg all over it, too.

  ‘How was it, how did it go?’

  ‘Let’s just say OK for a first effort.’ He looked around. ‘Now where are the little darlings?’

  The twins were bunched up together on a sofa, absorbed in a cartoon they were watching. Cormac was crawling around on his play mat, with the determination of an explorer on a mission.
Marcus sat down next to the twins and tickled each of them in turn, sending them into a frenzy of giggles. But his focus was on Claire. She looked worn out. And she was wearing the rubber Crocs, which she insisted were the most comfortable shoes ever and he insisted were the least sexy creations. Ever.

  She had always taken great care in her appearance, but much less so since the children came along. There used to be times when they were home alone and not even going out anywhere, when she wouldn’t answer the door without lipstick on. Now, he supposed, it wasn’t such a high priority – or was it that he wasn’t such a high priority? In his mind he kept contrasting her with Georgie, who even looked good in her gym kit at the Bel Royal.

  His phone pinged with an incoming email. It was an automated message from noreply@parkrun.com.

  Hello Marcus.

  Jersey parkrun results for event #174. Your time was 00:38:20.

  He stared at the email, angry and ashamed of his performance in equal measures.

  Thirty-eight minutes and twenty seconds. He should be faster.

  Shit. Georgie wouldn’t even bother looking that far down the list when she checked her time against others, as many parkrunners did.

  He hoped.

  ‘Nick called while you were out,’ Claire said. Nick Robinson, his golfing partner. ‘To remind you it’s the monthly medal tomorrow.’

  ‘I thought I told him, I’m taking a break from golf to get fit.’

  She peered at his soaking tracksuit, matted hair and cheeks purple from his exertion, and grinned. ‘I’d go back to golf, it suits you better.’

  He felt the sarcasm in her voice. ‘Very funny.’

  ‘So, let’s make a plan for today,’ she said.

  ‘I have to go to the hospital.’

  ‘But you said you had the weekend off,’ she protested. Lowering her voice, she added, ‘We promised Rhys and Amelia we’d take them to the zoo.’