by Adam Croft
I hang up the phone and put it back down on the desk. A few seconds later, I pick it up again and redial the number. The same thing happens. It rings and rings.
I can feel myself getting short of breath and I know I need to stay calm. Having a panic attack now isn’t going to do any good. There’s no-one in the office to help me if I start to hyperventilate and getting worked up will have no benefits.
I try to tell myself all these things, using the coping mechanisms and strategies my therapist taught me, but I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle.
I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing. In through my nose, hold it for three seconds, out through my mouth. In through my nose, hold it for three seconds, out through my mouth. I feel my arms on the armrests of my chair, listen to the sounds in the room — the whir of the computer fans, the humming of the central heating system — and try to ground myself in the here and now.
My breathing starts to steady and I manage to get myself to a point where I know I’m probably not going to have a panic attack. But I still need someone — need something — to tell me what the hell’s going on.
I dial the other number in my recent calls list and pray that Mandy isn’t too busy at work to answer. To my relief, she answers on the fourth ring.
‘What’s up?’ she says, sensing something isn’t right.
I take a deep breath and tell myself not to babble.
‘I got some more photos. From Gavin. But they weren’t taken at the studio.’
There’s a couple of seconds of silence as Mandy tries to take this in.
‘What do you mean?’
I swallow. ‘One was a picture of me leaving work. The other one was of us in Zizi’s on Saturday night.’
Mandy’s on the verge of yelling now. ‘What the fuck? What the actual fuck?’ I hope my silence tells her that I don’t need any convincing. What I need is a friend who can help me. ‘But how? You didn’t see him there, did you?’
‘No. The picture’s of our backs, but it’s definitely us. And the one of my leaving work looks like he took it from across the street, but I don’t know how he knew where I was. I didn’t tell him where I worked. I didn’t tell him we were going to Zizi’s.’
‘Shit. Has he been following you?’
I sigh. ‘I don’t know. It looks like it. I’m scared, Mand.’
This seems to bring her back down to earth. ‘I know. But you can’t be scared. He’s just a dirty little pervert who thinks he can intimidate you. We need to make sure he knows he won’t get away with it.’
I have no idea what she’s proposing we do, but right now I’m glad I didn’t tell her his surname or where his studio is. Knowing Mandy, she’d be straight down there with a baseball bat.
‘Alice, you have to call the police.’
My heart sinks. ‘I don’t want to get involved with all that. I don’t want any trouble or hassle. I just want it all to go away.’
‘What, and you think he’s going to stop because you ask him to? This guy’s clearly deranged, Alice. If he’s the sort of person who follows women around taking photos of them, who knows what else he could do? Look, call the police, give them his name, phone number and address and they’ll sort it out. Please.’
I think about it for a few moments, but I know there’s no decision to make. There’s only one option. As usual, Mandy’s forthright but making complete sense.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll call them.’
11
My hands are shaking as I ring the police. I don’t think I’ve ever rung them before.
I decided to ring 101, the non-emergency number. It doesn’t seem to warrant a 999 call. There’s no immediate emergency, and to be honest I don’t want the drama.
The woman on the other end of the phone is professional and calming. I guess she has to be. That’s her job. I tell her everything I can remember, going back to the first time I met Gavin on Friday. I tell her about the patisserie, about him approaching me, me going into the studio. I tell her about the weird underwear photo, then the photos I received from him today. I make a point of the fact that I did my research on this guy, and that everything seemed legit. I tell her I’m worried, that he knows where I work and where I go out socially. I think she hears the panic in my voice, and she tells me in a reassuring manner that she’ll log the details and get a local officer to call me to arrange taking a statement.
Within an hour, I get a phone call from PC Jason Day, who tells me he’s been assigned to look into my report. He asks me if he can come and see me. I’m about to tell him I’m at work at the moment and that it’ll have to be later, but I have a different idea. My mind is all over the place right now and there’s no way I’m going to be able to get any work done. I tell PC Day I’ll be home within the hour, and he can meet me there.
I email Khurram to let him know I’ve gone home ill. He’ll pick the message up at some point, I’m sure. Then I head home, taking an extra glance across the street as I leave, now paranoid that someone is following me with a camera.
True to his word, PC Day arrives shortly after, the sound of the doorbell jolting me even though I was expecting it. I usher him through to the living room and sit down, before realising I’ve not offered him a cup of tea. Fortunately, he says no.
He asks me to tell him what happened, right from the beginning. Every time I tell the story I feel more and more daft. How did I not spot the signs from the start? Why didn’t I tell him I wasn’t interested? Pure vanity, that’s why.
I tell him the whole story, and he writes it down almost word for word, stopping me occasionally to check some details or specific wording. When I can’t think of anything more to say, he stops writing and looks up at me.
‘So his full name is Gavin...?’
‘Armitage,’ I reply.
‘What does he look like? Approximate age, height, build?’
I try to think. ‘Just... Normal, I guess. He had dark hair. Short, but not shaved. Still enough length that it was curly. But not floppy, if you see what I mean. A natural tight curl. He was probably about... Forty, maybe? Difficult to say. Taller than me, but not massive. Slim to average build.’
PC Day nods and writes this down. ‘And what about his ethnicity?’
‘White, I think.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah. I mean, with his hair and things, I wondered if he might have like a Moroccan grandad or something, but yeah, white.’
I decide to try and keep things simple. I feel like I’m confusing him.
‘And this studio of his. 86b Reynolds Street?’ He looks at me for confirmation. I nod. ‘What can you tell me about it?’
I wince as I realise the first thought that comes to mind. ‘The intercom doesn’t work properly. It’s up a flight of stairs. Iron railings. Open brickwork. A large room, bare floorboards, big windows but some of them had blinds down over them. I suppose it was so he could control the light.’
‘And what sort of equipment did he have?’
‘Loads of stuff. General camera gear, I guess. I didn’t know what most of it was, but it looked like a proper professional setup.’
PC Day nods again as he writes. ‘And you’ve never seen this man before or since?’
‘No, just outside the patisserie on Friday and at his studio on Saturday.’
‘But you’d recognise him if you saw him again?’
‘Definitely,’ I reply. ‘No doubt about it.’
He seems to consider this for a moment. ‘So how come you didn’t recognise him taking photos of you outside work? Or at the bar?’
PC Day’s question catches me off guard. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him. I wasn’t looking for him.’
‘But would you not have noticed someone pointing a camera at you?’
I start to feel like I’m being interrogated. I tell myself he’s just trying to get all the information he can, trying to get to the bottom of this for me. But I can’t help how I feel. I swallow and try to control my bre
athing.
‘In the photo of me leaving work it looks like he’s on the other side of the street. And in the bar we were facing the other way. I wasn’t exactly expecting to see him in either place, so why would I be looking out for him?’
PC Day says nothing. Instead, he picks up my mobile phone from the coffee table and flicks through the emails again.
‘Can you forward these to me?’ he asks. ‘You’ll need to keep the originals as well. We might need the tech people to have a look at them in case they need to trace them.’
‘Yeah, course,’ I reply. I watch him as he copies down Gavin’s email address from the screen onto his notepad.
‘Here’s my card. If anything else happens, call 101 and let us know. Unless it’s an emergency of course, or you’re in any danger. In that case, always call 999.’
I swallow and nod. How do I tell him I already feel like I’m in danger?
12
I felt calmer after speaking to the police on Tuesday. After a while, I mean. I didn’t know what to expect, didn’t know what their plan of action would be. I presumed it would be very little, particularly as I’m not even sure a crime has been committed. Sure, I feel harassed, violated. But is that a crime in itself? I don’t know. All I know is the police seemed to take it seriously and that’s what matters most. It put my mind at rest more than I expected it to. Just knowing that somebody knows who this guy is. That helps. That there are eyes on him. That the authorities know I’m in some sort of danger. I feel less alone. But that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable.
Mandy keeps suggesting we go down there and confront him. I keep telling her I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ve made out that I lost Gavin’s business card and don’t remember the address of the studio or his phone number. I don’t know if she believed me or not, but I don’t care either way. I don’t want any confrontation. I want the whole thing to go away. I want to forget about it all.
I don’t think I’ve ever been any good at handling tricky situations. I know. That sounds like a bizarre thing to say when my job involves ending people’s careers, but it’s true. I’ve often wondered whether I took that job because a part of me was yelling to get over my fears. For me, detaching myself from the situation helps. I try not to think about their families, their unpaid bills. I just look at the facts, the figures. I think about how it’ll benefit the company, and a part of me tries telling the rest of me that it’ll give the person a chance to find a job elsewhere. Potentially a better job, for a better company, where they’ll be happier. Where their families will be better off and their bills will get paid. I know I’m kidding myself, but it’s the only way I can reconcile what I’m doing.
I realise how much nervous energy I’ve still got every time my phone rings or a text message comes through. I look down at my phone and see Kieran’s name on the screen. The fact that my heart sinks a little tells me everything I need to know. If I was at all conflicted as to how I felt about him, that involuntary reaction has put paid to any doubts.
‘Hi,’ I say as I answer the phone. I try to keep my tone neutral.
‘Hi. How’s things?’
I see. Friendly chat, is it? ‘Yeah, not bad. You?’
‘Yeah I’m alright,’ he replies, unconvincingly. ‘Well, sort of anyway. I’ve been thinking.’
Here we go.
‘Listen, Alice, I know what you said about not feeling like we were going anywhere, but I never really knew what you meant by that. I thought we were good together.’
I try to mask my sigh. ‘We were. But sometimes you just get the feeling that things haven’t got a future.’
‘I don’t.’
‘No, but I did. And it might be news to you, Kieran, but a relationship involves two people. Not just one.’ I feel bad the moment I stop speaking. He didn’t deserve that, but I can’t help feeling frustrated that he’s making me out to be the bad person here. ‘Look, I’m sorry, alright? It wasn’t anything you said or did, and it wasn’t because of anyone else. I just looked forward a few years and didn’t see us there. We had a great time, and you’re a great guy, but there wasn’t a future.’
Kieran stays silent for a moment or two before speaking. ‘I can change.’
I sigh again, and this time there’s no doubt he hears it. ‘I don’t want you to change, Kieran. You don’t need to change anything. We can still... Look, I think we both need to move on.’
‘You were about to say we can still be friends, weren’t you?’ Kieran says, as I sense a bite of venom in his voice. ‘Got any more clichés to throw out there? “Go our separate ways”? “It isn’t you, it’s me”?’
I don’t reply to that. It’s unlike Kieran to get worked up about anything. But when he does, giving him a second or two usually leads to an apology.
‘Look, I’m sorry Alice. I’m just a little bit... y’know? It took me by surprise a little. Maybe I should have seen the signs. I dunno. Maybe it was my fault.’
If I didn’t know him better, I would think he was playing the guilt trip card. ‘It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It’s just one of those things.’ I cringe as I hear myself speaking yet another cliché. Fortunately, Kieran doesn’t pick up on it.
‘I just... Can we try again? Please. I know we can make this work.’
He catches me by surprise. Kieran isn’t the begging type, and I didn’t expect him to come out with this.
‘I don’t think so, no,’ I reply. ‘I’ve made my mind up, Kieran. I’ll let you know if it changes, but I don’t expect that it will.’
I don’t want to hurt him. He’s a great guy. But he needs to know that it’s over. I feel like an utter bitch for having to be so firm with him, but he just doesn’t seem to be able to take no for an answer.
‘So it’s totally over?’ he asks, after a good ten seconds of silence.
‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘It’s totally over.’
13
I don’t know whether it was Kieran’s phone call last night that put me on edge, but I was awake for most of the night, worrying and panicking, my heart rate increasing with every noise I heard. I lost count of how many times I jumped out of bed and peered through the curtains every time I heard a car stop on the road outside.
I didn’t go to the kickboxing class this week. I couldn’t face it. I feel bad now, especially knowing that Simon is disappointed at the dwindling attendance figures. I’ll send him a text at some point today to apologise and promise I’ll be there next week.
I thought I was doing alright, thought I was dealing with it all. But now I realise I was just trying to push it to the back of mind, as I always do.
There’s no way I can face going into work today, so I call in sick. I don’t even need to try and sound tired and groggy — I reckon I must’ve had two hours’ sleep at the very most. After I’ve called work, I make another phone call; one I now realise I needed to make a little while ago.
I haven’t been to see Maisie Haynes in a while, and part of me wonders whether she’ll still remember me. She must see so many people every day, I doubt she can recall everyone she’s had through her door.
I’d put off that call to Maisie for far too long. The doctor promised me the medication would help and I was hanging on for the morning I’d wake up feeling better. The morning I could stop taking my pills and all would be better. But now I know that was unrealistic.
When I’m like this, I feel like I’m drowning. I can feel the water creeping up over my nostrils as I flap and splash about, doing nothing much but at least feeling like I’m trying. The medication was my set of inflatable armbands. It allowed me to bob around in the water, keeping my head just above the surface. Safe, unless an armband were to burst. If a massive prick came too close, for example. The sessions with Maisie were different. They were swimming lessons. A long-term method of changing the way I do things. Lessening the danger in the first place. I’m still not a great swimmer, though, and the armbands give me extra comfort. Sometimes I forget how to swim.
; The waiting room looks strangely familiar, but then again I suppose it should. Nothing much has changed. The same posters are on the walls: a phone number for the Samaritans, a collage of good mood foods, three steps to remaining calm in an anxious situation. The furniture’s the same, too: a laminated chipboard table with a selection of books and magazines on top of it, surrounded by five large eighties-style beige chairs. No arms, but covered in a horrible soft plastic vinyl which is either too cold in winter or too hot in summer.
Fortunately, I don’t have to wait long. The waiting room is empty when I arrive, and within a couple of minutes Maisie calls me through.
My first worry is how much this is going to cost. It sounds silly, I know. My initial round of sessions were covered by the NHS, but this time I decided to self-refer. The last thing I wanted was anything going on my medical record.
Maisie immediately puts me at ease. ‘It’s been a long time,’ she says, sitting down in her chair and gesturing for me to sit opposite her. ‘How have you been getting on?’
I take a deep breath, exhale, then tell her.
‘Generally, not bad. Pretty good I guess. But lately I’ve been having some problems. Work has been stressful. And I went through a relationship breakup recently. The silly thing is, it was completely my decision but I still feel dreadful about it. I can’t even put my finger on why. I guess because he was a nice guy, but that doesn’t really mean much. I think I just feel like I’ve taken a step back, like every time I have something good I run away from it.’
Maisie smiles. ‘Do you remember when you came to see me before and we talked about Imposter Syndrome?’
I nod. I remember her saying it’s actually quite common. Certain people, when things are going well, are beholden to their brains trying to right this sudden dissonance. The person doesn’t feel like they have a right to be happy or successful. Their mind tells them their success is down to pure fluke — not hard work — and that someday they’ll be found out to be a fraud. It’s almost as if they’re afraid of happiness. Time and time again, they push away loved ones, overruled by this internal sense of not deserving to be loved or admired.
