Swimming in the Shadows

by Diane Janes

  He produced a torch from his pocket and shone it on to the ground. What was he looking for? Had he dropped or forgotten something? A droplet of water ran down the side of my face and dripped silently into the leaf mould. He hadn’t forgotten anything – not Alan. I felt that icy certainty run through me again. He had prepared every little thing in readiness for my arrival, right down to concealing a bicycle somewhere in the vicinity of the place he had identified in advance for my disposal, knowing that he would need a way to get back to his boat. The thought that he had planned so thoroughly for my disposal made me shake harder than ever – his efficiency was chilling. I wondered why he had not made absolutely sure, by killing me before I went into the river? Was it to try and make it look like some sort of an accident? Then I remembered what he had said about knives. Alan wasn’t interested in making the thing look like an accident. He was only interested in evading capture. In the event that he encountered anyone on his ride back to Neatishead, he wouldn’t want to look out of the ordinary. It might be a funny time to go out on a bike ride, but no doubt he would have a ready-made, plausible explanation for that. What he could not have easily explained would be blood-spattered clothing, or the scratched face he might have sustained in the course of a struggle.

  And just to be absolutely sure that everything had gone to plan, he had stopped en route home to make doubly certain that I had not escaped. He knew that if I had managed to get out of the river I would be soaked – water would be cascading from my clothes, making damp patches, even puddles, wherever I moved. At any moment he would catch the sound of my panicky breathing, hear my wet clothes dripping. I wasn’t even properly hidden. He would see me as soon as he played his torch along the track.

  There was still a lot of water coming off my clothes, and I knew that my shoes must have exuded water at every step, but surely he would not be able to detect footprints on earth or grass – not by the light of a torch? But the place where I had sat to undo my feet – what if he put his hand down and felt the grass? And the rope? Rope floated. Would the cords which had bound me have disappeared downstream or had they fetched up against the reeds? Were they lying there now, snaking treacherously in the current, ready to give the game away?

  He had been walking towards the river, shining the torch in that direction, but now he turned back and I instinctively ducked my head, not wanting him to catch the pale disc of my face. He had already passed close by me once, so there must be a chance that he wouldn’t see me unless he actually shone his torch directly into my hidey hole. If he did, then I must be ready for him. My hands explored for a stone heavy enough to inflict damage, but my fingers encountered only thin gravel and last year’s dried-up leaves, which rustled dangerously at the slightest contact.

  Then it happened. The torch beam dipped as he bent over and I sensed rather than saw the shape of him, feeling the ground. He might not be in the right spot … but then the torch jerked upwards and there was a new urgency to his movements. He began to sweep the beam from side to side until it hit me full in the eyes.

  I scrambled to my knees, hauled myself out of the ditch and tried to dart away, but he was too quick, covering the ground in a couple of strides and managing to grab the shoulder of my sweatshirt. I tried to pull away, hoping the fabric would rip, but it held strong. As he raised the torch to strike me I twisted round to face him, working on instinct with no time to consider the odds or formulate a plan. I launched one fist at his head, while simultaneously kicking him as hard as I could, before again attempting to drag myself out of his grasp.

  When Alan had embarked on his previous kidnappings he had probably perfected a method of taking his victims by surprise, perhaps immobilizing them before they had time to put up much of a fight. Determined resistance had not formed part of the ‘script’, and the blows seemed to take him by surprise. When he tried to bring the arm holding the torch across my neck, I ducked my head and bit him before grabbing the hand that still gripped the neck of my sweatshirt and attempting to prize it loose, while continuing to kick wildly at his legs.

  Though he managed to land a blow to the side of my head which made it ring, I kept on fighting. It couldn’t last, of course. He was bigger and stronger – altogether at an advantage – but then I lost my footing, stumbling and falling heavily, dragging him downwards so that he automatically relinquished his hold in order to save himself. I had fallen on to my front, but I rolled over and, as he attempted to regain his hold, I unleashed another almighty kick, sending the full force of my training shoe, heavy with water, in the direction of his head. He saw it coming and I only managed to connect with the hand holding the torch, but even so I heard him exclaim in pain. I took advantage of his instinctive recoil, catapulting my entire body away from him, hauling myself to my feet and setting off, back towards the river.

  There was perhaps a full two or three second’s grace before he took up pursuit. Maybe I hurt him badly enough to give him pause, but I believe he had dropped the torch and had to retrieve it. As he pursued me the beam became a wavering spotlight ahead of me, bisected by my own grey silhouette. I hurtled along the riverbank, expecting any moment to stumble and fall again, or else feel the renewed grip of his outstretched hand. Sheer terror gave an impetus to my sprint – I ran as I had never run before, several times almost losing my footing, my ears filled with the sound of him crashing along behind me and my own frantic breathing, ever more laboured, each lungful of air a little harder to come by than the last. The light from his torch and the sound of his progress told me that I was managing to maintain no more than half-a-dozen yards between us, and how long could I keep up this pace?

  Then the path became firmer and steeper beneath my feet, and in the light provided by the torch I made out the shape of a bridge up ahead which the river went under but the path evidently did not. I knew better than to check and though the short slope to the bridge impeded my progress, it slowed his too. As I gained level ground again my trainers slapped against solid tarmac and I realized that I had reached a road. It wasn’t wide and I cast around desperately, hoping for a house, a passing motorist, but there was nothing – only a moonlit country lane which vanished into the shadows in either direction. Which way should I run? Split seconds to make a decision – and then I made out a distinctive shape against the dark shimmer of the water on the furthest side of the bridge. I had not considered prolonging my flight alongside the river, but there, about twenty yards further upstream was a moored boat. And a boat meant people.

  I hurled myself down the slope on the opposite side of the road, a helter-skelter descent, not slowing when I regained the bank.

  ‘Help me,’ I sobbed, even before I got level with the craft. ‘Please, somebody, help.’

  I was too breathless to yell effectively, but I jumped into the cockpit of the boat and began to bang on the cabin roof with my fists. ‘Open up – please, help me. I’ve been attacked. Please, please help.’

  Glancing back along the path, I was aware that the circle of light which marked the position of Alan’s torch was a little fainter than it had been – perhaps the batteries were running down. He had followed me down from the road, but now he was waiting about halfway between the boat and the bridge, ready to scarper back to his bike the minute any lights showed behind the curtained windows of the vessel, but not a glimmer appeared – no voices, curious or irate, enquired as to the nature of the disturbance. No welcoming bark of a dog, not the slightest sound of any occupants stirring.

  I hammered desperately on the roof again, making a noise fit to wake the dead, pleading with the occupants to let me in quickly, but of course there were no occupants. The boat had been left secured and empty for the night.

  I was sobbing aloud with fear and disappointment. The conviction that there was no one aboard must have come to Alan at pretty much the exact moment as it did to me, for the torch advanced swiftly along the bank, the shape of its owner solidifying as he closed on the bow.

  I was cornered. I should have tr
ied to leap back on to the bank and run again, but I had hesitated too long. As he drew level with the cockpit I backed away, using my hands to check for an escape route. There was a narrow walkway running around the outside of the cabin and I clambered on to it, never taking my eyes off Alan. I began to sidestep towards the front of the boat, my balance precarious with my shoes damp and slippery, and my hands vainly seeking a hold on the smooth cabin roof.

  Alan did not immediately attempt to follow me aboard, perhaps reluctant to undertake a game of blindfold dodge around the side decks of an unfamiliar boat. Instead he remained on the bank, walking slowly enough to keep level with me, addressing me in a strangely calm voice.

  ‘Why don’t you come down from there, Jenny? Otherwise you may fall and hurt yourself.’

  I continued to inch my way along, even though I knew it was pointless, because by the time I reached the bows he would be there to meet me.

  ‘Now Jenny, don’t be silly. You know you can’t go anywhere. You were right, you know, when you said that I loved you once. And I could love you again. I could help you, Jenny. I could take care of you, like I used to. Why don’t you come down from there before you slip and fall? We could go back to my boat and get you some nice warm clothes and a hot drink. We could talk about how to resolve things, just like you said.’

  Don’t listen. He’s a madman. He tried to murder you.

  ‘At least come down from that side deck. I know I frightened you, but your punishment’s over now.’ His voice was silky smooth, persuasive. A compelling voice I knew so well. ‘I let you get away, don’t you see? But it’s all over now, sweetheart. Come back to the boat with me. You must be so cold – we don’t want you catching a chill.’

  When I still failed to reply, he climbed aboard the boat and stepped into the small well at the front, reaching out and offering me his hand, but I had already begun to shuffle back in the opposite direction, putting more than an arm’s length between us.

  ‘Take my hand. Come on, I’ll help you down from there and then we’ll get that wet top off and you can have my jacket.’

  ‘You’ve got a knife,’ I countered.

  ‘Jenny, darling Jenny, didn’t I tell you that I’m not a knife man? Here, let me show you.’ He drew the knife from his pocket and shone the torch on to it, angling the beam so that I could see him drop the knife over the side. I heard it hit the water – there was no trickery. ‘Now will you take my hand and let me help you down?’

  ‘You also told me that you can kill a woman by strangling her – in seconds – with your bare hands.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake.’ He gave a little laugh – it was the one he had habitually used when letting me know that he thought I was making a fuss out of nothing. ‘I can’t cut off my hands and throw them overboard now, can I? Why won’t you trust me?’ He was trying to keep up the calm, hypnotic voice, but I sensed an edge creeping into it. He knew that he had given up the knife for nothing, that I would not willingly surrender myself into his hands.

  ‘I can’t trust you,’ I said, ‘because you have already tried to kill me once tonight. But if you want to strike a deal, then why not this one? You leave me here and go – go right away – and then I’ll make my way back home and say nothing which will help anyone find you. You asked me to trust you – why don’t you trust me instead?’

  I was expecting him to make some clever reply, but instead he made an impatient tsking sound that I recognized of old. It was a noise I associated with his minor displeasures – an antimacassar out of place kind of noise. To my surprise he stepped ashore and began to walk back along the bank. I stood watching him, optimism rising within me, for surely this was silent acquiescence? But he only went a matter of feet before stopping to bend over something on the bank. I strained to see what he was up to, but his shape was dark against the foliage which hemmed the riverside, and the torch was definitely not as bright as it had been. Then I realized that he must be doing something with one of the mooring ropes. What on earth? Was he planning to send me and my craft drifting down the river? What the hell would that achieve? He switched off the torch and I sensed him putting it into his pocket before he crouched down again. I heard him grunt with effort as he pulled out the mooring spike – someone had evidently hammered it well into the bank. It must have come free suddenly because I saw him lurch backwards before straightening up and hopping nimbly aboard the stern of the boat, which was already starting to swing out into the stream, pivoting on the remaining rope.

  Then I understood. A mooring spike, particularly if it happened to be a metal one, would make an excellent weapon, and he had put the torch away in order to give himself a free hand to hold on with. ‘One hand for yourself, and one hand for the ship’ – wasn’t that the old maxim?

  I began to shuffle back towards the bows again, reasoning that if he followed me, I might be able to work my way round to where the remaining line was still securing us to the bank, jump for it and flee for my life again. I didn’t think I could run far, but maybe if I ran along the road I would come to a house or find somewhere to hide?

  Then I realized that Alan wasn’t so stupid as to follow me along the narrow side deck. Instead, he used the side deck as a stepping stone to climb on to the cabin roof, where he advanced steadily, his arm raised, ready to strike. In the instant that I saw him swing back the spike, an idea half formed in my mind and I acted on it, raising my arm instinctively to ward off the blow, then, as the spike connected, deliberately toppling backwards into the water. I steeled myself not to struggle, letting my body surface as naturally as possible and allowing the current to float me slowly back towards the bridge, reasoning that without his torch, Alan would be able to see little or nothing, knowing only that he had struck with sufficient force to knock me into the water.

  He was quick to bring the torch back into play. I saw its beam cleaving the air, then its brightness was focused on me. I forced myself not to blink, kept my eyes open and my features rigid, concentrated on looking up at the sky, focusing on a particular cluster of stars. I couldn’t be sure how much he could see by the light of that failing torch, but I knew that it would be difficult to keep it shining steadily on my face. I was moving and the boat was unsteady beneath him. What would he do next? Get off the boat and follow me, obviously. Try to keep level and hope that I would drift somewhere within his reach, so that he could check whether I was dead and if not, finish me off.

  It took every atom of willpower to stay still and calm, but then I saw a dark shape looming over me, cutting off my group of stars. I was drifting under the bridge. If Alan wanted to go on following me, he would have to climb up one side of the road and down the other – and while he was doing that, he couldn’t possibly see what I was up to.

  When I judged that I had reached the centre of the bridge, I drew myself into a vertical position and began to tread water. I knew I had to be quick. I dragged my sweatshirt over my head and down my arms, gagging and spluttering as the operation took my head under water. I couldn’t know whether my idea would work, but I pursued it because I had no better ones.

  There had been no time limit imposed when we had contrived floats from our pyjama tops to earn our ASA swimming badges, and the school swimming pool was a million miles removed from a night-time river – but then again, I did not need to make a life saver as such, just something which would stay afloat for a while, with a semblance of solidity about it. I made no attempt to knot the sleeves – there was no time for that kind of fancy manoeuvre – but working by feel I found the waistband and held it open as wide as I could, drawing it to and fro to trap as much air as possible in the main body of the garment before sending it on its way.

  The sweatshirt was barely out of my hands before I saw Alan’s light again. From the angle of it I realized that he must be standing on the bridge, working the beam back and forth across the surface of the river. I watched as the pale circle criss-crossed the water until it fell upon an alien object, close under the further bank. It w
as my sweatshirt – the logo showing white against the darker fabric. If I was lucky, Alan would not immediately suspect that the top and its owner had parted company. The sweatshirt would work like one of those conjuring tricks where you think you see what you’re expecting to see instead of what is really there. Was the torch emitting enough light to show exactly what was there? Or more crucially, what was not?

  My panicky breathing seemed to echo around the stonework, filling the arch of the bridge with a contagion of fear. Surely Alan must be able to hear me? I saw the shaft of light flicker – it was definitely failing, but the batteries had not quite given out – and as the beam steadied to a sickly yellow I saw the lump in the water drift out of sight beyond a bed of reeds.

  I heard Alan curse and then the torch beam vanished momentarily before reappearing as he descended from the bridge to the level of the river. Every moment that Alan’s interest was retained by the sweatshirt bought me another yard. Now was my chance, while he was hurrying in the opposite direction. A couple of strokes brought me upstream of the bridge. I dragged myself over the muddy bank, so burdened by the weight of my clothing that at one point I almost slid back into the water, but I grabbed frantically at weeds and tufts of grass, finally hauling myself on to dry land. Once clear of the water I climbed as silently as I could to the level of the road, trying to control my chattering teeth. I crept to Alan’s side of the bridge and peered over it, but I could see nothing. Presumably he had disappeared round a bend in the river, still in pursuit of the sinking sweatshirt.