by West, Sam
“Wait a minute, how do you know where I live?” she asked cutting through her rambling.
“What?” she asked looking a little sheepish. And was she blushing?
“How do you know where I live?” she repeated.
“Oh, I think Esther must’ve mentioned it one time, or something.”
Freya raised her eyebrows. “Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s no big deal, is it? It’s not a secret, or anything? So I’ll go home after work, grab some stuff, and head on over to yours for around eight?”
Freya was struggling with a feeling that she couldn’t quite place; a strange niggling in her guts that something was wrong right now.
How does she know where I live?
She frowned and glanced over at the familiar figure of Jean with her customary brown and grey streaked bun on top of her head, who was just emerging through the door marked PRIVATE, STAFF ONLY at the end of the shop-floor. She had a big box cradled in her arms, stuffed full of tweed skirts.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Freya said, going to her.
“Oh, thank you dear, but I can manage,” the older woman said, even though she was clearly struggling.
A wave of irritation at Esther washed over her; this woman, Jean, was a cancer survivor, for God’s sake, she shouldn’t be lugging boxes around. But her job for today was to hang the new stock and do a stocktake of the top and bottom stockrooms.
With a grunt, the woman dumped the box next to the clothing rack where she was to hang the new clothes.
Lucy came over to the woman and smiled kindly. “Esther shouldn’t be making you run around like this, it’s not right.”
Jean waved her hand dismissively, making a funny ppfft noise as she did so. “Thanks for your concern, my darlings, but the stock I need is only in the downstairs stockroom. And when I get round to stocktaking, it’s almost relaxing – it’s not like I have to lift anything.”
The woman’s voice osculated between a husky drawl and a rasping whisper. A few years back, she’d had throat cancer, and now permanently wore a plaster with clear edges over the scar in the middle of her neck that was from her tracheostomy surgery. Today, she had also tied a bright red scarf around her neck to hide the plaster.
“We’ll get whatever boxes you need,” Lucy said.
“Really dear, it’s nothing, but thank you. You’ve got your own jobs to be getting on with. If Rob was still here, he’d say that you were a right pair of bonny lassies. Ah yes, in many ways you both remind me so much of my daughter, God bless her soul.”
Rob had been Jean’s husband, but he had tragically died of cancer a year before she too had contracted the disease. Not only that, but her only child had died in a car accident a few years back.
Freya regarded her with some sympathy. At least she still had her youth, and her health, and her future, however bleak that may seem to her right now.
Maybe there is hope for me, after all.
This job was bad for her, she decided. It was actually making her care about people, and that simply wouldn’t do. It could only lead to heartache.
“Well, best be getting on with it,” Freya said, heading in the direction of her till in search of a new red pen because hers had run out.
A white envelope propped up against the till caught her eye, and she frowned at it. That definitely hadn’t been there before. Picking it up and turning it over in her hand, she saw that her name was scrawled across the front of it in big, black letters.
She tore it open and began to read the typed note on the A4 sheet of white paper inside:
You like to go out at night. I do, too. I like to watch you. I saw what you did last night.
So this is what is going to happen. You are going to complete a series of tasks that I set. Failure to do so will result in someone close to you dying. You may think that you are an island, that no one cares about you, or you about them, but we both know that isn’t entirely true. People are creeping into your life, as people are want to do.
The first task I ask of you is that you confront your biggest fear: SEX. Yes, I can imagine that the word alone makes you feel ill, am I right? Tonight, on one of your ‘night walks’, I want you to go to City Park. As I am sure you are aware, just up from where you were last night is a clearing surrounded by trees that is renowned for its night-time, dogging activity. Have you ever been dogging, Freya? Have you ever watched strangers have sex at night and masturbated? Have you ever been that person, seeking the touch of a stranger under the blanket of the night sky?
No, I don’t suppose that you have. But fear not, for tonight, Freya, all your wishes will come true, because tonight, you are going dogging. At midnight tonight, you are to go to go down to that clearing, wearing nothing but your DM boots and your long leather coat. You will lie down on the grass, spread your coat wide and open your legs, and wait for whatever may happen. Because what happens next is up to you, all I ask is that you lie there for half an hour.
Know that I am watching you. Even when you think you are alone, I am watching you. I wish you nothing but luck.
X
Her blood ran cold in her veins and the shop span around her. She had to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright and she couldn’t catch her breath. In disbelief, she stared down at the letter, re-reading it one more time. It was hard to focus on the words because she was trembling so badly.
They’re bluffing. No one saw what I did last night, it’s impossible.
“Is everything all right, dear?” Jean asked.
Freya looked up from the letter, confused that someone was speaking to her, having temporarily forgotten that she was out in public. A little old lady, who was browsing a clothing-rack nearby, pretending not to be watching her.
“Everything’s fine,” she said in a too-high voice. She cleared her throat, and assertively folded the letter back up, shoving it back in the envelope. She went over to Jean, so she wasn’t shouting over the only customer’s head. “Did you see anyone put this next to the till when I was upstairs just now?”
Jean frowned, squinting through her half-rimmed glasses at the envelope in her hand.
“No dear, but then, I’ve been busy going in and out of that damn stockroom.” She leaned in closer and Freya caught a waft of some old-lady perfume that made her think of lavender sachets in a musty underwear drawer. “The only customer that’s been up this part of the shop that I’ve seen anyway is that lady over there. Is everything okay? What was in the letter?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
She tucked the offending letter in the waistband of her skirt, hidden by the long cardigan, turning away from Jean. Esther was heading towards them, and for the first time in her life, she was pleased to see her, grateful as she was for the distraction so that Jean didn’t ask anymore awkward questions.
“Do you think we can we get some work done, please? You’re not getting paid to gossip.”
Fleetingly, Freya wondered why Jean bothered working here, it must be so humiliating at her age, but the thought wasn’t in her head for long; she had far more pressing things to worry about.
Like, who the fuck had given her this letter?
Without saying a word, she went back over to the knitwear stand and concentrated on red-crossing the label of each pullover, her mind racing with the possible origins of the letter. If what Jean said was true, then that meant either Jean, Lucy, Esther or Jim had shoved the letter next to her till.
What if it was one of them?
The thought made her feel sick.
No, it couldn’t be. It had to be a stranger who put it there when I was upstairs. She glanced over at Lucy in the front of the shop. Maybe she saw someone come up here.
Then the horrible thought occurred to her: What if it was Jim? It wasn’t like she knew him, and it was painfully obvious that he did seem to like her. So who was to say that he wasn’t a crazy stalker?
Even more reason to meet him tonight, then. To find out.
<
br /> CHAPTER THREE
The rest of the day at work had passed without incident, and on her first break, Freya had tucked the disgusting letter into her bag in the staffroom.
At six pm. Freya caught the bus the two miles home like she always did. She never walked – that was reserved solely for her night-time excursions. Jean would always offer her a lift, but she always declined. Lucy, however, never failed to take the older woman up on her offer when they were working a shift together.
Once she was safely home in her two-bedroomed flat on the outskirts of town, she retrieved the letter from her bag to read it one more time. She wasn’t just frightened anymore, she was mad.
“Fuck you,” she said, scrunching the letter up into a ball and throwing it across the living-room.
It hit one of her big canvasses propped up against the far wall, landing on the floorboards next to it.
“Fuck you,” she said again, jumping to her feet.
She was still in her work uniform, and she kicked off the flat, sensible black shoes as she unbuttoned and yanked off the cardigan.
Be naked under my leather coat indeed. What kind of a cunt would write something that fucking sick?
Over the course of the day, she had slowly come to the conclusion that whoever it was that had written the vile letter, was bluffing. There was no way that anybody was following her on her nightly excursions. She was the one that blended so effortlessly with the shadows, she would damn well know if someone was following her.
You sure about that?
With a disgruntled sigh, she pulled off the disturbingly hairy, scratchy skirt and cardboard-like blouse, pausing for a second to sniff the armpits. Yep, that was good to go again for her next shift the day after tomorrow. Striding into the small bedroom in her underwear, she dumped her work uniform over the back of the chair. Not bothering to retrieve fresh clothes, she got down onto her hands and knees and went straight into twenty push-ups, swiftly followed by a hundred sit-ups. That done, she grabbed the two, fifteen kg free-weights that always lived under her bed, and worked out for a further half hour.
By the time she was done, her body gleamed with sweat and she had a raging thirst on. She felt much better for the work-out, during which time she had thought about nothing except for the pleasurable ache in her muscles. Not bothering with the niceties of drinking from a cup, she stuck her head under the bathroom tap and gulped down a belly-full of water.
Standing up straight, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, then reached behind her back to unhook her bra before sliding her knickers down her legs.
Knowing that it would distress her, but not being able to stop herself anyway, she examined her reflection in the full-length mirror. She frowned in disgust at her body, at the high, round, C cup breasts, the tiny waist with the hint of a six-pack on the flat planes of her stomach, and the gentle curve of her lean hips.
Maybe I should stop working out.
This body was a by-product of her vigorous workouts, not the main purpose of them. She worked out to get strong and keep supple. She did not do it to look like a fucking Victoria Secret’s model – minus the tan. In fact, her perfect body sickened her. It made men lust after her, and it drew attention to herself. Her beauty was a constant reminder why she was so fucked up now. She wasn’t stupid enough to blame her looks alone, but they certainly played a helping hand. In another life, perhaps her looks would’ve been an asset, but in this life, they had been nothing but a hindrance, a red flag to the men that just wanted to abuse her.
She leaned in closer to the mirror, examining her face.
Beautiful, she thought in despair. Sickeningly beautiful.
She wore her mid-brown hair just past her shoulders in a one-length cut that she did herself before this very mirror every couple of months. Through experience, she had learned that if she cut it herself any shorter than this, she looked like a homeless or crazy person, which, in turn drew more attention to her face. Also, if she got it cut at the hairdressers any shorter than this, it only drew attention to her exquisite bone structure all the more. By the same token, if she grew it out any longer, no matter if she cut it herself or got it done professionally, her hair was so lustrous and thick it was just too attention grabbing.
Yet no matter what she did, there was no disguising the face. Her lips were full and soft, the vertical line running down the middle of her bottom lip that of an angel’s. The pronounced cupids bow was rare on a pair of lips so full, and her nose was just long and narrow enough to give those full lips an air of elegance and aristocracy rather than cheapness, like that of a silicone enhanced porn-star. Her eyes were large, slightly turned up at the corner and a dazzling shade of silvery blue. Her skin was pale and flawless as it never saw the sun, and her oval face shape with the jutting cheek bones, and slightly squared-off jawline was nothing short of perfection.
The whole thing made her sick to the fucking core. Turning away from the mirror, she switched on the shower.
The buzzer of her flat went half an hour later, just as she had made herself a cup of tea and had settled into the sofa with the computer, her hair wet and plastered to her neck. Dressed in an ancient, baggy t-shirt with a faded John Travolta from Pulp Fiction plastered across her chest and a pair of black jogging bottoms, she was the picture of slovenliness.
“Jesus, I sincerely hope you have some real clothes,” Lucy said by way of greeting when Freya opened the door to her.
She lived on the ground-floor of a converted, three-story Edwardian house, so she didn’t bother buzzing her in, instead electing to just open the front-door for her at the end of the shared hallway.
“Hello, Lucy, how nice to see you. Do come in.”
If Lucy had picked up on her sarcasm, she didn’t show it, smiling brightly as she stepped past her into the hallway. Freya thought how pretty she looked tonight. She was a petite girl, and probably a few years younger than Freya – not that Freya had ever bothered asking. Her long, blonde hair, which she normally wore in an assortment of up-dos and plaits for work, hung halfway down her back in loose but structured waves, complete with a 1940’s style, dramatic side parting. Freya went to close the door behind her, when movement over the busy main road caught her eye. She blinked. Squinting in the near-dark evening over at the wheelie-bins parked on the pavement, she began to think that she had imagined it.
You’re jumping at shadows, she told herself. That letter has got you freaked, that’s all.
But for a second there, she was so sure that she had seen a figure crouching behind one of those bins.
Fuck it. Only one way to know for sure.
“Wait there, I’ll be two seconds.”
“What? Where are you going?”
Freya ignored her, and jogged over the still-busy road in just her black socks, almost getting mowed down by a car. The driver honked his horn and she stuck her finger up as the car sped away, not even bothering to look at it.
Her gaze was locked on the wheelie-bin the entire time, and when she reached the other side of the street, she ducked behind it.
There was nothing there.
“So are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Lucy asked on her return.
She had been watching from the doorstep, and she followed Freya back inside her flat.
Back inside, Freya looked Lucy up and down, taking in the strapless, blue polka-dot dress with the nipped in waist and cute, kitten heels. Over her shoulder was a big, black bag that was nearer in size to a suitcase than a handbag.
Do I trust this girl?
She honestly didn’t have an answer for that. But the fact that she was here, in her flat, must mean something. No one had ever been in here before, apart from the meter-reader.
“It was nothing. I thought I saw something, that’s all.”
“You thought you saw something?” she asked incredulously, her green eyes big and round.
“Can we just drop it? Please? What have you got in that bag, anyway?”
F
or a moment, Freya thought that she was going to bombard her with more questions, but she seemed to think better of it and sat down on the sofa with a sigh.
“I have brought provisions, and other things which I shall soon show you in due course. In the meantime…” she said, pausing as she rummaged around inside the voluminous bag, “Ta da!”
“I don’t really drink,” she said flatly, on seeing the bottle of what looked like white wine.
“Oh dear. Because that’s about to change. Besides, champagne doesn’t count. And we’re celebrating.”
“What the hell are we supposed to be celebrating?”
“Why, our friendship of course, and a brilliant night out. So come on, get the glasses.”
Freya regarded her for a second, unsure of what to do. Part of her thought that agreeing to this night was a momentous mistake, that she should just ask Lucy to leave right now.
But the other part of her – the part that was starved of the warmth of basic human interaction – went into the kitchen in search of glasses.
When she came back with two wine glasses that she had managed to dig out from the back of a cupboard, Lucy was over by her paintings that were propped up against the wall.
I knew I should’ve shoved those under the bed.
But she hadn’t, had she? And why was that, she wondered. Maybe because, deep down, she wanted Lucy to see them. She wanted to expose part of her soul to her, to see her reaction. Because if she didn’t approve, understand, or even accept what she painted, then this blossoming friendship, or whatever the hell it was, was doomed for failure before it had even got off the ground.
“Hey, these are really cool. Did you paint them?”
She was leafing through them, her back to Freya. The tallest one came up to her waist, the other four behind it slightly smaller.
“Yeah.”
