by Adam Croft
I feel his breath on my shoulder. I smell it. It’s foul. His warm, moist breath sends cold shivers down my spine.
I physically jolt in my bed as I wake. The noise wasn’t in my dream.
It was here.
It was in the real world.
I hear it again, but quieter this time. It sounds like a bang, followed by a faint rattle. It’s almost like an open shed door banging in the wind, except I know there is no wind. Any time there’s even the slightest gust, it whistles and hums under the eaves of the roof. It’s like a wind early-warning system.
I hear it again.
I pull the duvet up over my head, willing it to stop, to disappear. But I know it won’t.
I convince myself it’s the sound of someone trying to get in my front door. Or maybe my back door. What does that sound like? I don’t know, I’ve never heard it.
I tell myself not to be so silly. I’m imagining things. There are all sorts of noises going on all the time. What if I heard a couple of bangs during the day? Then I’d think nothing of it. But under cover of darkness, everything seems much more sinister. Needlessly. That’s all that’s going on, I tell myself. I’m being daft and—
There’s a scraping noise. It sounds like someone dragging something solid along concrete. I try to think where the concrete might be. It could be my back patio, or the path leading up to my house.
I desperately try to work out which direction the sound is coming from, but I don’t want to put my head back outside the covers again. It’s the most pathetic protective bubble, but it’s helping. A bit.
I hear the banging noise again. It’s definitely coming from outside the front of the house. I think.
I take a deep breath and pull back the duvet. I wish to God I didn’t leave my bedroom door open at night. The landing on the other side of the threshold is pitch black, although my bedroom is lit up slightly by the streetlight outside. If the door was closed, I’d feel much safer. But I never close it. Never have. When you live alone it seems kind of pointless, but that might have to change.
I make my way slowly over towards the window, making sure I tread carefully lest the sound of a creaking floorboard alert someone to my presence.
When I get to the window, I stand for a moment and steel myself before pressing the side of my face against the wall and pulling back the curtain slightly. I can’t see much from this angle, so I try to push my head further into the window recess without disturbing the curtains too much.
I have a better view of the street now, but I can’t see anything happening. Everything is still. The cars are sitting gracefully on people’s drives, as if fast asleep themselves. Curtains are closed all along the road. A few wheelie bins are out, but that wasn’t the sound I heard. And anyway, who puts their bin out at — I look at the clock — twenty-past-three in the morning?
Maybe it was foxes. Do foxes bang and scrape? I guess so, if they’re trying to get into a bin.
But something tells me the sounds I heard weren’t a fox. They sounded too deliberate, too human. It’s hard to describe how I know, but I just know.
I can feel my heart rate increasing again as I begin to panic. Ever since finding out Toby Sheridan’s name and having his photo, I’ve felt much safer. Almost as if the power was starting to swing my way. But now I know that was all a façade. It was just my brain trying to protect me, trying to stop me from going mad over it all.
How can the power be starting to swing my way when I get freaked out by the slightest sound in the darkness? How can I say I feel safer? I’ve never been scared by night-time sounds in my life. Even as a kid I tended to sleep right through. I never needed a night-light, never got up in the middle of the night and climbed into my parents’ bed. But now that feels like something I definitely want to do.
What’s happening to me? I’m regressing back past my own childhood insecurities, and developing insecurities I didn’t have even in childhood.
I’m falling apart.
I turn with my back to the wall and lean back against it, allowing the cold surface to seep into my shoulders and kidneys as I slowly slide down the wall, scraping my buttocks on the skirting board as I come to a rest on the soft carpet.
I bury my head in my hands and press my fists into my temples. I just want it all to go away. I need it all to be over. Because until there’s a solid, definite conclusion to all this, I’m always going to be on edge. I’m always going to be jumping at every noise, suspicious of every car, worried on some level at every minute of every day.
And in that moment, I realise Kieran might actually have a point. More than that. He’s right. I can’t just do nothing, even though there’s very little I can do.
Except for one thing.
48
My head’s still foggy from the lack of sleep last night. Well, in the early hours of this morning, anyway.
I couldn’t get back to sleep after hearing those noises. My brain wouldn’t let me. But it had come up with an idea, one which I needed to share with Kieran the moment I thought he might be awake.
I left it until six o’clock, knowing this is the time his alarm goes off for work. He still sounded groggy when I phoned, but I was anything but.
I told him he was right. I told him I couldn’t go on like this, that something needed to be done. And I had an idea as to what we could do.
I got Darryl’s phone number from Kieran, and sent him a text.
One small question. I promise I won’t ask any more. Is he working today? A x
Darryl seemed to have worked out pretty quickly who I was and what I was talking about — I didn’t want to make it any more explicit in black and white — and he replied within a minute.
OK. Will look when in. X
I told Kieran my plan. I presented it as if it was based on his plan, though. I mentioned his idea about going round to his place and getting some evidence. I lied slightly and said that in hindsight that didn’t seem like such a bad idea, but that there was no way we were going to be able to get his home address from Darryl, or from anywhere else for that matter. But there was a way we could find out for ourselves.
I suggested to Kieran that we find out when Toby was next working, then follow him home covertly at the end of his shift. Then we’d know where he lived. We’d know what car he drove. We’d have more information, more to work with. Even if we didn’t use it. After that, who knows? I haven’t got that far yet. But it gives us options.
It seemed like hours before Darryl texted me again, but it was only just over two.
Yes. Due to finish at 3. Might be later. X
I could see Darryl was trying to be deliberately vague, not wanting to put anything in writing that could incriminate him. I texted him back to thank him. I presumed the reason for possibly being later was that police officers could never guarantee being able to finish a shift on time.
Still, that didn’t matter. I had time.
After what seems like the longest day in history, Kieran comes and picks me up at around two-thirty. The police station is only ten minutes away, even in traffic, so it leaves us plenty of time. There’s a public car park opposite the police station’s staff car park. That’s where we’ll wait for Toby Sheridan to finish work. Kieran’s brought a pair of binoculars over with him. I don’t ask why he owns binoculars. I don’t think I want to know.
‘You sure you want to do this?’ he asks, at my front door before we leave.
‘I’m sure,’ I say. ‘Are you?’
‘Course. Anyway, you don’t drive. You’d stand out like a sore thumb trying to follow him on a skateboard.’
I laugh, for the first time in as long as I can remember. I don’t know whether it’s optimism or just a release of tension, but I let it happen anyway.
We stand at the top of my front steps, in silence for a few moments before Kieran speaks again.
‘So. You ready?’
I swallow and take a deep breath.
‘Yep. Ready.’
49
> We pull up in the public car park with a good view of the police station’s staff car park. There are brown metal gates across the entrance, which whir open every now and again to let a car in or out.
You could cut the atmosphere with a knife, and I’m almost worried that Toby Sheridan might somehow be able to sense the tension from where he is and know something’s going on. I can hear my heartbeat in my chest, the blood pulsing in my eardrums.
‘You alright?’ Kieran asks.
‘Yeah. Fine,’ I lie.
All of a sudden, this seems like a really bad idea. What the hell are we doing here? Even though I’ve had all day to think about this — indeed, I have been thinking about it all day — it’s now real. I’m actually here, watching the entrance to the police station car park, waiting for the man who’s made my life hell. And then what?
And then we start up the car and follow him home. But why?
I’m not entirely sure myself, but I know I need to do this. I need to know who he is. I need a hold on him. I need something. Even just knowing what car he drives will give me security. I’ll be able to spot him a mile off if he’s following me again.
But that’s the thing. He’s been silent for a while now. Maybe he’s left me alone. What good would it do finding out that he drives a red Citroën, for example? What am I going to do with that? Become instantly suspicious of every red Citroën I see? Edge slowly up towards every red car I see parked on the street, getting closer and closer until I can be sure the badge isn’t a Citroën one?
I worry that I might be torturing myself. He hasn’t done anything since making eye contact with me that day at the police station. I didn’t recognise any emotion on his face, but he could well have been as shocked as I was. Maybe he just hid it better.
Would that have been enough to scare him off? The realisation that I’d spoken to the police, that I’d recognised him. Knowing that if he did anything else, I’d be able to tell them exactly who this man is, despite how well he covered his tracks. But then again, he could only have so much confidence in how well he’d done so far. He could never be certain that I didn’t have any evidence. All he could have is confidence in the covering up he’d done. He wasn’t to know I had literally nothing.
Maybe seeing me at the police station that day made him realise things were a little too close for comfort. But somehow I doubt it. Deep down, I think he’s restructuring his whole approach. He’ll be back, but in a different way. And in the meantime I’m left wondering why and how, if at all. And that wouldn’t be great for anyone’s mental health, least of all mine.
The gates to the police station car park begin to move apart, and Kieran raises his binoculars in front of his eyes.
The nose of a car appears — a big black 4x4 — a Range Rover, I think.
Kieran shakes his head.
‘Blonde woman.’
He puts the binoculars back in his lap, and I try to stifle a laugh.
Again, nervous tension.
‘What’s funny?’ he asks.
‘This,’ I reply. ‘Us sitting here in a car park, spying on people with binoculars. It’s just bizarre.’
Kieran looks at me as though I’ve hurt his feelings.
‘I don’t mean it like that,’ I say. ‘It’s just... Honestly, I’m sorry. I’m just getting so worked up about the whole thing, it’s put my nerves right on edge. I have to either laugh or cry.’
I see Kieran’s jaw tighten a split second before he puts his hand on my upper leg and squeezes, before letting go. It’s his way of trying to reassure me. The familiarity of the contact buzzes inside me.
I look at the clock on the dashboard. It’s three minutes to three. Just as I go to look away from the clock, it ticks over onto the next minute. 14.58.
Realistically speaking, I know the gates aren’t going to open at three o’clock with him pulling out in his car. Even if he finishes his shift on time, I presume he’s going to have to change out of uniform, maybe have a chat with a colleague, grab his stuff. And that’s if he finishes on time. What if he’s out taking a witness statement somewhere? What if that takes him another hour or two? What if someone’s tipped him off and he hasn’t even come in today, but is sitting somewhere else, watching us?
I look around furtively, but I can’t spot anyone else sitting in any other cars. There are people walking along the footpath, but none of them are him.
The time seems to take an eternity to pass, but pass it does. Slowly.
I watch every single minute tick past on the dashboard. There isn’t a number between 14.57 and 15.21 that I don’t see, but a few seconds after it ticks over onto 15.21, the gates open again. I know it instinctively, but Kieran peers through his binoculars and confirms it for me.
‘It’s him.’
50
Kieran fumbles to start the car engine, and I take the binoculars from his lap, putting them in the glove box. Finally, the engine starts and we pull away.
Sheridan’s in a silver Volkswagen Golf. It won’t be the easiest car to spot again if we lose it, but there’s only one car between us as we all wait to pull out onto the main road.
I shuffle down in my seat slightly, feeling my feet press against the end of the footwell, trying to keep myself out of the line of sight. I rest my arm on the door and put my hand to my forehead as if shielding myself from the sun.
There’s a gap in the traffic, and Sheridan turns left. The car between us turns right. Kieran goes to pull out to follow Sheridan, but I stop him.
‘Wait. Go after the next one.’
‘But the gap’s huge. I can—’
‘Just wait,’ I say. I’d feel much more comfortable with another car between us again. If we’re following right behind him, he’s bound to spot us. He need only look in his rear-view mirror, which a well-trained driver — a police officer, say — would do often. This way, we’re close enough and can keep him in sight without blowing our cover.
Kieran pulls out and we follow Sheridan at a two-car distance for the next two miles, out onto the country roads. My parents used to take me out walking in these hills when I was a kid. Every Sunday morning we’d wake up, have breakfast and head off in the car. We’d walk for hours, occasionally stopping at a country pub for lunch and a drink. It was almost a ritual. But now my memory of this area would be spoilt forever, eternally tainted by association with the scumbag two cars in front of us.
The line of traffic starts to slow down as we reach a roundabout. The turning to the left heads off to another big town about seven miles down the road; straight ahead and right leads to a couple of small villages. I keep my eye on Sheridan’s car as it heads straight over the roundabout.
‘Shit,’ Kieran says, and I realise straightaway why. The car between us has turned right. ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to slow down a bit, put some distance between us.’
I lean across and look at the speedo on the dashboard. He’s doing a steady forty-five in a sixty zone already, and Sheridan’s not exactly pulling away from us. If we go any slower, it’ll look really suspicious.
‘Alice, I swear he keeps looking in his rear view mirror.’
These are words I don’t want to hear. I tell myself it’s not true, and I tell Kieran, too.
‘Don’t worry. Just keep a distance. He probably won’t be able to see anything from where he is. The sun’ll be bouncing off our windscreen.’ True enough, we’re driving towards the low mid-afternoon sun, but I know I only made that comment to make myself and Kieran feel better.
Kieran slows his speed down a little. 42. 40. 37. By the time we’re down to 35mph, we’re still gaining on Sheridan’s VW. Just as I start to wonder what’s going on, a plume of thick black diesel smoke comes out of the back of his exhaust and the Golf takes off up the road.
‘Fuck fuck fuck,’ Kieran says. I’ve never heard him swear so much as I have in the past day or two.
He puts his foot down as far as it’ll go, but his Hyundai doesn’t have anyth
ing like the power Sheridan’s Golf does.
‘He’s spotted us,’ I say, stating the obvious.
‘What now?’
I think for a moment. ‘I don’t know. Follow him.’
He’s doing his best, but the VW is pulling further and further away. There’s a sweeping left-hand bend that heads into a wooded area and we lose sight of him for what seems like hours but must only have been a couple of seconds. We reach the bend ourselves, though, and get him back in sight.
Sheridan’s brake lights come on as he reaches the next roundabout, but he’s not indicating. Still, he goes round the roundabout and heads off to the right. I have no idea where that road goes, but he’s long gone before we even get as far as the roundabout.
‘We’ve lost him,’ Kieran says, the dejection clear in his voice.
‘He wouldn’t have led us to his house anyway. He spotted us miles off. Probably from the moment we left the car park. There’s no way he’s heading home. He’s deliberately thrown us off the trail.’
Kieran goes right round the roundabout and back onto the road we’ve just been on, in the opposite direction. He stops a couple of hundred yards up the road in a lay-by.
We’re both silent for a good minute.
‘Now what?’ he says eventually.
I don’t know what to say. I shake my head, close my eyes and let out the tension I’ve been holding in all day.
If I thought there was any chance that Toby Sheridan might have given up tormenting me, I’m now as sure as I can be that I’ve only got more hell to come.
51
That was really stupid. Really fucking stupid.
I don’t like having my hand forced, Alice. And that hand is now bouncing off my dashboard as I pound away at it, the windscreen misting up as I yell at the top of my voice.
