by Dani Atkins
Eventually, when I had regained my breath a little, I gingerly raised my knees toward my chest. At least that area of my body wasn’t in pain, but it did feel oddly numb, which I supposed must have been a result of lying on the frozen ground. With my legs in position, I realized I couldn’t afford to tackle my next maneuver so delicately. I didn’t have much strength left and it felt very much like this would have to be an all-or-nothing attempt. I braced my arm to support myself, took a deep breath, held it, and rolled with Herculean effort onto my knees.
Bright spots of light pinwheeled behind my eyes; I felt the sway of an incipient faint, and bit deeply into my lower lip to fight back against the weakness. When it had passed, I cautiously opened my eyes. I was still on all fours, and was so grateful not to have succumbed to unconsciousness that it took me a moment or two to realize there was something wrong with my eyes. Seriously wrong. An involuntary cry of terror escaped my frozen lips. I had no sight in my right eye, and in my left only tunnel vision, the periphery of my eyesight disappearing into a cloudy fog. I knew this wasn’t anything to do with exposure, hypothermia, or intense grief. The loss of sight was the last dire link in the chain of symptoms my specialist had cautioned about, which I had unwisely chosen to ignore.
I couldn’t afford to let myself panic. I groped with my left hand, found the wide marble edge of Jimmy’s headstone, and pulled myself upright on legs that felt as stable as elastic. I had stupidly left my mobile in the hotel room, so my only chance of aid was to try to get to the road. Hoping they would forgive me for the disrespect, I used the surrounding grave markers as handholds as I made my slow and unsteady way through the graveyard.
The sight in my left eye was decreasing at an alarming rate; the small circle of vision now felt as though I were looking through a narrow tube. I tried to ignore my greatest dread that this might be permanent. I couldn’t allow that thought to overwhelm my mind, or exhaustion to take my body. It was hard, particularly when what I wanted to do more than anything was lie down and close my eyes against this pain-racked nightmare. Even walking was now proving difficult, and each shaky step I took had all the fluidity of a newly awakened zombie.
As I left the last gravestone support, I thought I could vaguely make out a distant sound. Was that a train from the station or could there be a car approaching? It was probably not yet eleven o’clock, surely not that late for someone to be driving by? The road, although quiet, might still have the occasional passing car. But from where I stood, in the shadows of the church and the trees, I knew I would never be seen. The noise grew louder. It was a car.
“Help!” I cried out uselessly. “Please stop, help!”
I lurched forward, trying to run and raise my arms to flag down the car. It was my last bad idea, in an evening full of them. Running isn’t really an option when you can barely stand. Or see. I was already pitching headfirst toward oblivion when the car’s headlights arced into the starlit sky.
3
DECEMBER 2013
Also Five Years Later …
The man must have been watching me for a considerable period of time before I first became aware of him. Of course, he could have been right beside me on the crowded underground platform and I’d never have known it, packed as we were like cattle during the usual Friday evening exodus from London. Moving along the twisting tiled passages while changing underground lines, I wasn’t really aware of anything except the annoyance of having to drag my small suitcase behind me through rush hour. I stopped apologizing after I’d run over about the fifth pair of feet. It had been a huge mistake to leave so late; it would have made far more sense to have driven down with Matt that morning as he had suggested, but I had an immovable deadline for an article I’d been working on that couldn’t be ignored.
“Shall I wait for you, and we’ll drive down together when you’re done?”
I’d considered that for a moment but then dismissed the idea.
“No, there’s no sense in both of us being late. You go on ahead, I’ll finish at work and then catch the fast train down.”
IT HAD SEEMED like such a good idea at the time, and now … well, not so good at all. Between my attempts at weaving through the crowds with the suitcase in tow, I kept glancing frantically at my watch, knowing time was fast running out if I was going to make the mainline train out of London for Great Bishopsford. At this rate I would be lucky to get to the restaurant before dessert was served. Guilt at letting Sarah down added impetus to my stride and I caromed between two suited businessmen, earning a very ungentlemanly comment from one of them.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, not even glancing back to see if my apology had been heard.
I looked again at my watch: I had less than twelve minutes until the train left. I was going to have to make a run for it. As I lowered my arm a sudden flash of brilliance arced back at me, momentarily dazzling in the reflection of an overhead light. Damn! That showed how harassed I was, because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d forgotten to hide my ring before taking the tube. In one swift movement I swiveled the large diamond on my ring finger so that it now nestled against my palm, showing only a plain platinum band. Matt would have been furious if he’d known I’d forgotten. He really didn’t like me wearing it for traveling, but what was the point of having such a fabulous engagement ring if it had to be kept locked up in a safe all the time?
God knows how but I made the train with barely seconds to spare. My heart was still thumping furiously in my chest from my sprint down the platform as I stowed my case in the overhead rack; my legs were trembling from the unaccustomed exertion. As I sat down I promised myself that this year my New Year’s resolution would be to actually go to the gym I spent so much money on and hadn’t visited for three months or more. In this area of my life as in so many others, all my good intentions had swiftly been buried in an avalanche of work.
I was lucky that Matt was every bit as busy as I was and perfectly understood the demands of my job, otherwise we’d never have survived together until now. Long hours at the office, plans that had to be canceled at the last minute, late nights and working weekends, these were all things we were equally familiar with. When I thought about it, when I had a free second to think about anything that wasn’t work-related, I wondered how anyone ever managed to find the balance between a successful career and a relationship. And if at the back of my mind there was a nagging voice telling me that things shouldn’t be the way they were right now, then I just ignored it, telling myself this was only a temporary glitch and that everything would be sure to settle down sometime next year when Matt and I eventually found somewhere to live together. That’s supposing we ever found enough time to clear our schedules to go flat hunting.
Perhaps if I still didn’t feel very much the “new girl” at the magazine, I’d be able to relax more. But each time I considered doing less, I could hear the echo of doubts that had been voiced at my interview as my prospective employers read my CV, detailing my very provincial two years’ experience on a local newspaper. But I had, against all the odds, been offered the job above people who I knew were far better qualified and experienced than I was. That was eight months ago, and I was still trying to prove both to them and, more importantly, to myself that they had made the right decision. And if that meant being the first to arrive each day and the last one to leave at night … well, that’s just what I had to do. For now.
But I’d lately realized that I was seeing more of the office nighttime cleaners than I was my own fiancé, which made me consider that perhaps I needed to relax my work regime a little. And it wasn’t only Matt I had been neglecting. I hadn’t been back to Great Bishopsford to see my father for nearly six months, and it was really not to my credit that I’d continually postponed visiting him, knowing I’d be going back in December anyway for Sarah’s wedding.
The train rattled through a station, the waiting commuters a multicolored blur as we flashed past. It was only when we bulleted back into the darkness that I caught the
reflection of the man sitting diagonally opposite me on the other side of the aisle. In the perfect blackness of my window I saw a thickset and balding man sitting upright in his seat, uninvolved with the travelers’ usual pastimes of newspapers, iPod, or the like. No, this man seemed to have only one thing on his mind. Me. Although I made no move, he must have seen that I’d noticed him staring at me. Unabashed, he didn’t look away immediately, as convention demanded. Instead he seemed to intensify his scrutiny and then slowly, revealing ugly and distorted teeth, he began to leer. An ice cube of inexplicable alarm trickled down my spine.
I pulled a magazine from my bag and in an instinctively defensive pose angled my body away from the rest of the carriage and toward the window. I flicked through ten or twenty pages before acknowledging I had no idea whatsoever what had been on them. I swear I could physically feel the intensity of his gaze upon me, and surreptitious glances into the reflection from the window confirmed this was still the case. The hair on the back of my neck prickled uncomfortably. It was unfortunate that during one such furtive inspection, he caught me watching him watching me, and gave again that slow ugly smile, followed by an almost imperceptible licking of his lips.
That did it. A different sort of woman might have raised her glance and challenged him, either verbally or with a meaningful stare. I wasn’t one of those women. Feeling foolish, but working purely on instinct, I plucked my coat from the seat beside me and moved to a vacant place on the opposite side of the carriage some distance away. As I hurried down the narrow passage between the rows of seats, I thought I heard a low, dirty self-satisfied laugh from somewhere behind me.
I chose a seat opposite a middle-aged woman engrossed in a book. I now had my back to the stranger and his reflection was no longer visible. But instead of being comforted, I almost instantly regretted the move, feeling more vulnerable than ever now that I couldn’t see his whereabouts. This was ridiculous. What on earth was I getting so worked up about? This wouldn’t be the first time I had had to fend off some undesirable male attention. And while I was certainly not in the same category as my old school friend Cathy, any passably attractive young woman could normally handle unsolicited male advances with scarcely a second thought. Yet I couldn’t help but feel that this stranger’s intentions toward me didn’t fall into that category at all.
It was one of the most uncomfortable train journeys I could ever remember, but there was at least a reassuring safety in the number of people in the carriage. When the guard came through to check the tickets, I considered for a millisecond mentioning the man. But then, just as quickly, I dismissed the idea. However menacingly the man had stared at me, I really had no grounds at all to alert the guard. I could almost imagine the inevitable reaction to such a complaint: “… And he was looking at you ‘in a funny way,’ miss, is that correct?” Yet even as I swallowed back my complaint, there must still have been some betraying anxiety in my eyes that alerted the guard, for on returning my ticket, he stopped and scrutinized me carefully before inquiring, “Are you all right? You look a little …” His voice trailed off. I silently filled in the blanks: paranoid/manic/crazy. The woman seated opposite lowered her book and openly awaited my response. A little diversion from the monotony of the usual commute home. I was happy to disappoint her.
“No, I’m just fine, thank you. Just concerned I’m going to be late for a special dinner tonight, that’s all.”
“Well, we’re running right on schedule, so you can’t blame British Rail this time,” he joked. I joined in his laughter, which sounded, even to my own ears, over-jovial and forced.
As the guard moved on to the quartet of seats directly behind me, I risked looking over my shoulder and was just in time to catch a glimpse of a bulky figure clad in a scruffy tan-colored jacket exiting the carriage, striding with some haste to the adjacent one. My sigh of relief was so loud that the woman sitting opposite once more lowered her book and looked at me with questioning eyes. I smiled briefly and returned my attention to the magazine.
The rhythm of the train was soporific and before long I lowered my magazine, settled my head more comfortably against the headrest, and closed my eyes. It felt strange to be going back home; even stranger to be meeting up with friends I had not seen in years. It was impossible not to feel guilty when I realized the vows we had all made to keep in touch had been empty promises, more full of good intentions than actual resolve.
It had been easy to stay in touch during our student days, returning as we did to our families at the end of each term. Not so easy now, though, when the majority of us were scattered the length and breadth of the country. For most of us, our old hometown had been too small to hold us when careers and relationships began to tug us away.
Pursuing my own career in journalism had made my move to London inevitable. The same applied to Matt, who had needed to be based in the capital for his business since taking over from his parents after their retirement to Spain. I still saw Sarah whenever I could, of course; some friendships could endure any distance of separation or neglect. But there were people I had thought I would always have in my life, important people, who had somehow just faded away.
I had been looking forward to the evening ahead and was disappointed that my work commitments had meant the reunion would already be under way by the time I arrived. More than anything, I was curious to see if the threads of our friendship were still there, or if the unraveling of the old group was sadly irreversible.
The man whose unwanted attention had so disturbed the beginning of my journey never returned to the carriage. And while this should have quieted my fears, I couldn’t stop myself from checking the commuters who disembarked the train at the various stations, my eyes scouring the darkness, hoping to catch sight of a shabby tan jacket. I didn’t see him. Knowing he was most likely still on the train did very little to calm me. At one of the major stations the train had emptied dramatically and it had been impossible to check for him among the throng of commuters on the platform. There were only a handful of stations left until we reached Great Bishopsford, and even fewer on the line beyond that. What were the chances of him alighting at the same stop as me? Greater now than they had been, I supposed. The ice cube down my spine was back.
From the station I intended to catch a cab across town and go directly to the restaurant. It was a shame there wasn’t time to go to the hotel and change first, but I was going to be ridiculously late as it was. I regretted now not asking Matt to meet me at the station, but it had seemed selfish to drag him away halfway through the evening. Grabbing a cab had seemed the best option. I only hoped there would be one ready and waiting at the rank.
With only ten minutes until my stop, I delved into my large handbag and extracted a compact and comb. As I was, by then, one of only three people left in the carriage, it didn’t seem too inappropriate to reapply some makeup on the train. And while the overhead fluorescent light wasn’t exactly flattering, it did at least allow me to tidy up some of the ravages of the day. I applied powder, touched up my eye shadow, and streaked a smooth layer of gloss across my lips. Unfortunately, the size of the compact made it impossible to view the overall effect. I tried angling the mirror both up and down in an attempt to get a better look, which wasn’t very effective, and I was on the point of snapping shut the compact when in the corner of the mirror I caught a fleeting glimpse of tan reflecting in the tiny glass.
I spun around in my seat as though electrocuted, imagining the strange man from before standing directly behind me. There was no one there. The carriage held only myself and two other occupants, both of whom appeared to be asleep. Cautiously I stepped away from my seat, terrified the bald man was somehow lying in wait behind one of the banquettes. As I hesitantly moved down the gangway, I kept aware of the location of the nearest emergency cord. Screw the £250 fine for misuse, if anyone had so much as said “boo” to me at that moment, I was ready to bring the train to a halt in an instant.
Of course there was no one there. An
d by the time I was halfway down the carriage, I had already begun to feel more than a little ridiculous. I had convinced myself that what I thought I had seen in the mirror was most likely a flash of orange reflection from a passing streetlamp. It was just my overactive imagination that had made a quantum leap to the wrong conclusion. No one was lying in wait and unless I intended to search every last carriage on the train—which I most certainly did not—I just had to let go of the crazed-stalker notion.
With relief I heard the loudspeaker announce the next stop was Great Bishopsford, which left me only a minute or two to retrieve my case from my first seat and my other belongings from my second one. I was waiting with impatience by the automatic doors and was one of the first people to alight from the train when it eventually slowed to a standstill at the station. I was pleased to see three other people disembarking from a carriage further up the platform, and trotted as quickly as my suitcase would allow to keep pace with them.
Climbing the long flight of stairs dragging my case behind me caused me to lose ground, so I’d lost sight of the other commuters when I heard, or thought I heard, someone on the platform below me, someone out of sight of the pool of light from the staircase. Someone who had got off the train after I had.
I ran up the remaining stairs, my suitcase bouncing over the concrete treads. When I reached the small ticket office, I looked around for either the other commuters or a guard. There was no one, but I could hear a car pulling away from the station entrance. I could only assume that my fellow passengers had already departed. But surely the guard should still be here? It was only just ten o’clock; did they really leave the station unmanned this early?
