by Alex Marwood
‘Suzi Booker,’ she says.
‘Can’t she let us in?’
Bel tuts. ‘She’s outdoor staff. The gardeners don’t have keys either.’
She puts a hand over the top of the topmost tyre, and feels around inside the rim. ‘If you tell anyone,’ she says, ‘I swear I will come and get you.’
‘I won’t,’ says Jade. Her tummy is rumbling. She’s beginning to feel slightly faint. All she can think about is the huge collection of luxury foods she imagines to be sitting in the fridge indoors. They’ve probably got real ham, on the bone, she thinks. And Coca-Cola; not Co-op.
Bel rummages about, then looks surprised. Brings her hand back, clutching a piece of folded paper. ‘Hunh,’ she says. She unfolds it and reads Romina’s scrawl, frowning. ‘Oh no.’
‘What?’ asks Jade.
Bel shoves the letter at her. Jade pushes it back. ‘I can’t read that,’ she says.
‘Why not?’ Bel looks at her for a moment, then a look of notso-nice comprehension crosses her face. ‘Can’t you read?’
‘Course I can read,’ blusters Jade. ‘I just can’t read that sort of joined-up writing. You read it.’
Bel looks down at the capitalised words on the page. Romina’s not so literate herself, especially in a language that is not her own. ‘“You say you back eleven o’clock,”’ she reads out loud, ‘“and you not back. I go Bicester. Take key. You know you not allowed in house without me. You are bad girl. Now you wait I come back. You see how is feel.”
‘Bugger,’ she says.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The noise level halves when Kirsty turns the corner from Mare Street. By the time she’s reached Fore Street, it’s as though the world has come to an end and she is the sole survivor. She’s in the pedestrian arcade: chain stores and pound shops and discount chemists – all of them closed by six o’clock – and office suites on the floors above. A zoning desert, created by idealists from an era in love with the internal combustion engine and the garden suburb.
Not a light shows in a window. The shops are protected by grilles and shutters, as though awaiting a globalisation protest. Whitmouth got off lightly in the riots, mostly because it’s not the sort of town that can support a Foot Locker. The only illumination comes from sodium arc lights which shine weakly through the foliage of weedy, salt-stunted saplings. She checks her watch. Half-past twelve, and cold enough to be autumn.
She hurries forward, uncomfortable with her solitude and keen to reach the station and the safety of her car. Her encounters in DanceAttack have left her buzzing, jumping at her own shadow. It’s been a long time since she last attracted that sort of random hate, and the memory is as disturbing as the experience. Her heels scrape over the paving stones, the sound bouncing off the blank façades above. A couple of times, the echo sounds like there are two of her. She stops, twice, and glances sharply over her shoulder to check that that isn’t the case.
Stupid, she thinks. What kind of idiot walks by herself at night in the base of the Seaside Strangler? I should have waited at the taxi rank. I had plenty of time, really. It’s not like I’ve got a deadline to get home. There were only twenty people in front of me, for God’s sake.
She can hear the rush of sea on cobbles half a town away, but she’s not heard a voice in three minutes. How can this happen? In a town so full it takes ten minutes to walk a hundred yards, where a parking space is as rare as diamonds, how can the crowds simply vanish?
The same way those women vanished. Everyone’s been speculating about morals and stupidity and how this man, whoever he is, can be so plausible that all these girls have ended up alone with him, and in the end it’s a matter of town planning. You take an old town, its higgledy-piggledy people-on-people centre, and you zone it and control it and pedestrianise it, and you move the people out and up and away, and suddenly, when night falls, you’re on the set of I Am Legend. How can anyone be safe when there’s no one around to hear you scream?
She has another half-mile to cover. As she hurries along, she digs in her bag, looking for her key chain and her purse. She’ll tuck them into her bra: make sure that, whatever else, she can get into the car and buy the petrol to get home. It’s an old habit from early adulthood, living anonymously on the Stockwell Park Estate, filing housing applications for Lambeth Council by day and doing her Open University course at night. She didn’t go out much at night back then, but if she did she always made sure that she, and not some lurking junkie, had the means to get back into the flat.
She wonders about the creepy little man. They’re always the ones who attract the attention of the police. Neighbourhood pests, hanging about in the shadows, bothering women, playing with replica guns and, now, finding ‘communities’ to share their rotten little fantasies with on the internet. They don’t necessarily act them out, but they make other people uncomfortable, and often that’s enough. You can’t change human nature. Outsiders have always had a hard time of it. They disturb people.
She finds her purse, tucked where it is supposed to be, in the interior zip pocket of the bag. The keys have found their way out of the compartment into the general jumble. Her frustration mounts as she scrabbles in the depths; touches, loses, touches, loses again. Who is he? What did he want? Would I have found out, even if that other man hadn’t got between us? I don’t suppose he knows, himself. He’s just one of those lone nutters who thought he had something to say to me.
Shit. I don’t suppose he followed me again, did he?
She reaches the market cross halfway along Fore Street. She can go the short way – carry on up the hill through another half-mile of this wasteland to the station at the end. Or she could turn left, up Tailor’s Lane, and work her way through to the lights and population of Brighton Road. It’s a longer route, with a nasty little detour, but there will be people at the end of it. And right now people are what she craves.
She peers into the ill-lit depths of Tailor’s Lane, trying to recall her daytime impressions. It’s hardly a street – more an upgraded alleyway: narrow, and with a turn in the middle. A hundred yards to the corner, then another hundred to the main road. Behind her, the street is so silent, she feels as though it’s listening.
She doesn’t want to go up there. Doesn’t like the thought of plunging into the dark. A couple of mews – if the rubbish storage for a bunch of shops can really be called a mews – lead off to left and right: pools of the unknown, lit only when the shops themselves are open. Because it’s mainly blank walls and refuse containers, the road is perfunctorily lit: she can see the lamp that marks the corner, and the small pool of light cast by the one in between, but they are old Victorian lanterns that don’t look as though they have been updated since they were converted to electricity. And, in between, deep, malodorous shadow.
There could be anything up there, Kirsty. Anyone.
Yes, but … at least you know what’s at the other end. Fore Street is half a mile of the unknown, no turnings off after this; just the choice of forward or back and a hell of a long way to run either way. It’s two hundred yards, Kirsty. A two-minute walk. Just go confidently; don’t look left or right, don’t peer into the shadows. Don’t think about what’s in those alleyways. Just walk and look certain. Why would anyone hide on a road no one goes up? Just two minutes and you’ll be out where the people are again.
She starts to walk.
The going is rough underfoot, the tarmac deteriorated by bin lorries and neglected because it’s not a popular cut-through. She nearly turns her ankle twice before she reaches the mews. They keys still evade her grasp, distracting her from her surroundings; the chain is wrapped round something and the fob keeps slipping from her fingers when she pulls on it. She’s loath to go further into the dark without at least the comfort of these sharp metal objects protruding from between her knuckles.
‘Shit,’ she says out loud, and stops.
Somewhere in the dark behind her, a single footfall sounds out into the silence.
A jagged shard of
fear strokes its way down the back of her neck. She is all muscle, all tendon, her back pressed to the wall before she is aware that she has moved. She stands rigid, wide-eyed, and listens; strains to see the path she has already covered.
Nothing.
Against the lights of Fore Street, the silhouetted dumpsters crouch like dragons. She has no way of knowing what is hidden in the shadows. But she knows, too, that she must go forward. Further into the dark.
She forces herself to wheel and walk on deliberately, steadily, though her legs are liquid and her hands shaking. She slots the keys between her fingers, palm gripping on the ring that holds them together. They’ll be little use as a weapon, but they might be enough to shock. Leave marks on a face. DNA on their jagged edges …
Jesus. Stop it. Don’t make plans for how you’ll help the police from beyond the grave.
External sound is blocked out by the swoosh of her circulation, the hiss of her breath. Her heart feels like an angry feral animal; threatens to punch its way through her sternum. Breathe. Breathe. Keep walking.
She counts her footsteps, concentrates on keeping them even, on maintaining her balance, on projecting a sense of calm control. If he doesn’t know she’s heard him, she might buy herself a few extra feet of head-start. Breathe. Breathe. One footstep, then another. The light on the corner dancing before her eyes, nothing but black around it.
Someone’s foot catches a can in the road behind her. Sends it scuttering emptily along the pavement, closer than she had imagined.
Kirsty runs. Hears a sound – half moan, half shriek – burst from her throat, catches a heel in a pothole, staggers, bangs her shoulder against the wall, belts on. Heavy footfalls, no need for subterfuge, barrelling towards her, a splash as he stamps in a puddle, damp frogman tread as he slaps his way out the other side.
He grows, in her mind’s eye, as he gains on her. Has transformed from a little rat-man into an ogre eight feet tall, with teeth of razors. Her bag weighs her down, slap-slap-slapping against her buttocks. She thinks about simply shedding it, decides, no, if it’s the first thing he can reach, it’ll be the first thing he grabs, and that will buy me one more precious second.
Help, begs her brain. Help me.
Her momentum carries her past the corner, bouncing off the far wall as she makes the turn. The man behind gains more ground as she recovers. She can hear his breath now: heavy, but not laboured. Not frayed like her own. More garbage hoppers here; piles of cardboard boxes, stacked wooden pallets and the lights of Brighton Road a million miles away. If he gets me behind one of those, no one on the street will ever see …
Fingers brush against the bag; a promise of things to come. Kirsty lets out a gasp, finds a reserve of speed and hurls herself forward. Godjesus help me. Should I scream? Shout for help? She can hear the cacophony of Brighton Road – howls and laughs and cackling hens – and knows that any breath she wastes will go unnoticed.
‘FUCK!’ she shrieks, despite herself, and feels a hand clamp down on her bag strap. Feels it tighten and yank her body back.
Her response is rage. Fear, yes, but overwhelming it fierce, animal rage. She lets out a yell, whirls round with full-stretch arm and slaps the keys through the air. They connect with scalp; thick coarse hair under her fingers. She hears a grunt, then feels his other hand snatch at her head.
She slips her shoulder out from the bag strap, shakes her hair like a pony. She has never been so grateful for her practical haircut; there’s not enough for him to clutch a forceful handful. Strong, hard fingers dig through, slither, snag in a knot and then, ripping a hank out by the roots, slip free. She pushes the bag towards his face and runs. Hurtles up the road, sees the tarmac fall into relief as the light begins to penetrate the gloom.
Still full-tilt now, though she knows already that he is no longer behind, that that last grab was his swansong. But she runs and runs, leaps a hole the size of a lorry wheel, surprises herself with the cat-like grace with which she lands. She doesn’t slow until she has tumbled – crashing into the middle of a stag party – into the light.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Amber is shocked by how easy it is to make the change, now she’s started. She’s been so afraid of her anger, of being unable to control it if she ever gave it rein, that she’s amazed by how restrained she can be as she lets it play out.
Instead of the frenzied stuffing of bin liners, the shower of clothes from upstairs windows, the bonfire-of-the-vanity products that the weak indulge in, she has quietly come home, waited for Vic to wake up, and told him it’s time for him to leave. No screaming, no shouting, no tears: just a calm statement of fact. The mortgage is in her name, and for once, instead of running when things get difficult, she has stood her ground and stated her case. She’s not flung him on to the street with a suitcase, not changed the locks – though she thinks she probably will, once he’s cleared his stuff – or emptied the bank accounts. She’s just told him that he needs to make other arrangements, and that then he must be gone. And then, quite calmly, she’s gone to bed.
It’s gone lunchtime when she wakes. She’s only had a few hours’ sleep, but they’ve been deep, dreamless and restorative in a way she can barely remember. She feels awake and alive; strong and decisive. The house is silent. Mary-Kate and Ashley curl round each other on the bedspread, chins on paws, gazing. A tail thumps as she sits up, and they jump down to follow as she goes downstairs.
He’s still sitting at the kitchen table where she left him, staring into space, his face blank as though he’s rebooting, his hands flat, palms-down on the table. She has an eerie feeling that he’s been here all this time, switched off and waiting for stimulus. He doesn’t acknowledge her as she enters; doesn’t, as far as she can see, even blink as she crosses the room and puts on the kettle. The dogs skirt wide, eyes fixed on his rigid shoulders as though they expect him to spring suddenly to life like a big cat. She opens the back door to let them out, goes to the fridge to get the milk.
He leaps to his feet as though an invisible hand has thrown the On switch. ‘Let me get that,’ he says.
‘Nope, you’re OK,’ she replies; tries to put herself between him and the fridge door. But he keeps on coming. Snatches the milk from her hand – she cedes her grip on it to avoid having a mess to mop up – and takes it to the countertop. Goes into the cupboard and gets down the mugs. ‘Earl Grey?’
Behind his back, she shrugs. ‘Earl Grey,’ she says. She’s never learned to like PG, not really. ‘Thanks,’ she adds. No point in dropping the façade of civility when it’s all going to be done and dusted sooner or later anyway.
Vic drops the bags in the mugs, pours in the water. ‘Do you want something to eat? You must be hungry.’
‘No thanks. I’ll get myself something in a bit.’
He adds milk, spoons in the sugar. ‘Come on. I can make you a bacon sandwich.’
She shakes her head. ‘Thanks.’
‘Amber, you should eat,’ he says in that reasonable voice of his.
She can’t stop herself snapping. ‘No, Vic! I said no!’
He does that infuriating shrug that indicates that all women are mad. Takes his tea and sits down at the table. ‘How did you sleep?’
Her mood is deteriorating rapidly. She grunts and takes her tea over to the door and looks out at the dogs. They are sniffing and wagging around the gap at the bottom of the gate. I must take them for a walk, she thinks. Poor little sods don’t get nearly enough exercise.
‘I was thinking,’ he says, ‘about maybe building a proper barbecue. You know. Bricks and that. Then we could have people over. Not have to go out all the time.’
Shit. He’s pretending it never happened.
‘What do you reckon?’ he asks. ‘We don’t do enough entertaining, do we? Wouldn’t you like that?’
Amber sighs and turns back to the room. ‘No, I wouldn’t, Vic. I don’t want you to do any DIY or make me meals or try to be nice. Thank you, but there’s no point.’
V
ic raises his eyebrows. ‘Wow.’
‘I’ve said my piece,’ she says. ‘I don’t want you thinking I didn’t mean it.’
‘And I don’t get a right of reply?’
She tips her tea down the sink. She doesn’t want it any more. ‘No. You forfeited that when you fucked my friend.’
‘One mistake,’ he says.
She feels like screaming. Wishes she hadn’t tipped the tea away because the satisfaction of dashing hot liquid in his eyes would be exquisite. Instead she puts the mug down hard in the sink and snatches the dogs’ leads from the hook by the door. ‘I’m going for a walk.’
She goes out and crouches down by the dogs. It’s hard to clip the leads on: her hands are shaking and the dogs are dancing with anticipation. She feels him behind her, in the doorway, watching; shakes Mary-Kate by the collar to make her stand still.
‘God, you can really bear a grudge,’ he says.
‘I’m not talking about it. I’m not!’
‘You at least owe me that,’ he says.
She flings herself to her feet and dashes for the gate. ‘No I don’t!’ she snarls back. She struggles with the bolt. It’s hardly ever used because they always go in and out through the front, but she doesn’t want to have to push past him, doesn’t want to be confined within those walls, until she’s regained control of herself.
‘Here, let me help you,’ he offers.
‘No!’ She’s barely aware that she’s shouting. ‘Just fuck off, will you?’
‘Amber!’ His voice is calculatedly reasonable; designed to make her angrier. ‘Come on, love. Calm down.’
The bolt gives suddenly. Shoots back and gouges a great runnel of skin out of her thumb. ‘Shit!’ she screams. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
‘Oh my God,’ he says. ‘Let me look.’
He steps forward, his voice all concern, his face all enjoyment. She doesn’t understand what he’s doing. All she knows is that she wants him nowhere near. She hauls the gate open and steps backwards on to the road, screaming into his face. ‘Just keep away from me! Fuck off! Don’t fucking touch me!’
