by Gemma Rogers
I peeked over the bonnet, but the man was already running down the street; spooked by the wailing. I saw him pull his balaclava off as he went. Then I caught sight of the girl, huddled on the ground, but there was no time. I couldn’t lose him now.
Pushing myself away from the car, I gave chase, as fast as I could move without my footsteps giving me away. He pelted along the opposite side of the road, putting some distance between us, but then he turned into a side road and immediately slowed to a brisk walk, running his hand through his dark hair and pulling out his phone. To anyone else, he would have looked normal, not someone who was escaping the scene of a crime. I hadn’t seen his face, only glimpses of his profile. He didn’t turn around to see if he was being followed. Was his heart pounding as loud as mine? The sound of it was all I could hear.
A few minutes later, he turned right into another residential street, which narrowed to a single lane winding underneath a railway bridge. I quickened my pace, assuming he would walk under the bridge; but he turned right again, and I lost sight of him. Shit. Where did he go?
I sped up, reaching the spot where I saw him last; and followed the path to a newly built block of apartments. There looked to be around eight from the number of floors, although I couldn’t be sure. The outside was sandstone with white brick detailing around large sash windows. All the balconies had seagrass surrounds, allowing the residents privacy.
I loitered for a few moments before continuing to the door at the base of the building. It was a secure entry system with a key code; six apartments in total, but no names on the buzzers, only numbers. The reception of the building was awash with white marble, lockers for bikes at the far end and beneath, in the basement, was where owners parked their cars. It looked expensive. He couldn’t have gone anywhere else, I would have seen. He must live there.
I retreated, jogging back in the direction I had come from. When I reached the driveway, the blonde girl was nowhere to be seen. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, maybe sirens and flashing lights, but all I could hear was the rape alarm still going. I retrieved it from under the car and switched the alarm off, my ears ringing. No one had come out of their houses to see what was going on. Perhaps they assumed it was just another car alarm, more of an irritation than something that had to be acted upon.
I went over and looked around the grassy floor where he had been, for anything he might have left behind. But there was nothing other than leaves and stones; no evidence an altercation had even taken place.
Nervous energy buzzed around my system and I was unsure what to do next. Should I call the police? Would the girl have reported the attack? I didn’t see what happened, so maybe they wouldn’t believe me if she hadn’t. Was she okay?
My head whirled, I needed time to decide what to do next. There was one thing I was sure of. Knowing where he lived gave me the upper hand.
22
Him
Fuck! That was close. Too close. She was blonde, just like my mother. Peroxide blonde, dirty yellow hair like straw, her roots still dark. She turned my head. A fine catch at this time of the morning. Dangerous so close to home but I have to take these opportunities when they present themselves.
I wanted to look her in the eyes as I took her, hold her by the throat. I hear my father’s voice behind the bathroom door, the screaming and sloshing of water. The mourners telling me how awful her tragic accident was, how dangerous it is to fall asleep in the bath.
The girl and I were interrupted before we’d even started. Before I’d had time to touch her. Almost before she’d realised what was happening. I glimpsed her terror, wide-eyed, lips parted. A car alarm? No, too loud. At first, I thought it was sirens. They’d finally found me.
Still the itching continues, a constant clawing at my skin. I know I must seek out another. If only I could find my angel from the park.
23
Sunday 28 January 2018
From the yard, I am taken straight to the toilets so I can wash my hands and face. My skin is crawling. The smell of incarceration lingers, turning my stomach. Thinking about the bath I will have at home motivates me. I must leave here today.
When done, I am delivered to the interview room, where Terry, my solicitor and Detectives Hicks and Becker wait. It’s surreal, everything looks the same as the day before except for Becker’s outfit. Yesterday she wore a crisp white shirt, today it’s blue. Hicks has returned in last night’s clothes, I’m sure of it. It must be him I can smell.
The atmosphere is charged with something and I sense I’m in trouble, which is laughable considering I’ve been arrested for murder. How much worse can it get? Despite this, I resort to chewing my nails.
‘Your full name is Rose Evelyn Harding, yes?’
I nod. I try my best to look oblivious, but I’m very much aware of what they’ve found.
‘But you go by Eve?’ Hicks raises an eyebrow and pauses for effect before continuing. ‘Last September you were indecently assaulted in Grove park. When you gave the police a statement, you did so under the name Eve Harding. Why was that?’
‘I go by Eve, I have done for years, since high school; I told you that when we started.’
‘Are you trying to be difficult? Is there something you’re withholding from us?’ Becker’s tone is laced with cynicism.
I shake my head vehemently. ‘No, no of course not,’ I say.
‘Then why, when asked for your details last night, did you tell us you were Rose Harding?’
‘They asked me for my full name and I gave them the one I was christened with. I was in shock, it didn’t occur to me it would make any difference. I don’t have a criminal record.’
Hicks sighs and rubs his forehead, unable to hide the frustration on his face.
So now they know who I am, it took them long enough to connect the dots. I watch them exchange looks and catch the slightest shake of Becker’s head. She shuffles some papers and slips them under her notepad. Pen poised, she continues.
‘Let’s go back to the first time you visited Ian’s house; where we left off last night.’
Saturday 28 October 2017
Back home, I sat at the table chain-smoking and scribbling notes on the back of the psychiatrist’s appointment letter. My hands shook, making my writing barely legible. Possibilities spun around my head. I needed to calm down and think practically, but the adrenaline hadn’t left my system yet. My legs bounced under the table, unable to keep still.
I’d found him. I’d found him by myself, without any help from the police. Every fibre in my being told me he was the man who raped me. My body reacted before I was even sure, the memory of him on my skin still fresh. I knew where he lived, where he hunted, and it wouldn’t be long before I knew his name. The feeling of empowerment was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I felt more alive than ever, my achievement was tangible. All my senses were heightened, like a lion stalking its prey. A tingling sensation ran over my flesh. I knew I was right about him. I knew he’d attack again.
I boiled with fury. What gave him the right, the audacity, to take what he wanted? Terrorising women in our town, how had this not been stopped? He was a predator; stalking women, cornering and overpowering them. A menace to society. Why were we not warned? Emmerson knew he was a possible suspect for past cases. I could see it written all over her face. Was he too clever for them?
If I contacted the police and passed over the information, they might not have enough evidence to arrest him. Perhaps not even enough to be granted a search warrant? I bet his apartment concealed plenty of dirty secrets. Would they follow him like I had? If they messed it up and he got wind he was being tailed, he could bolt. I’d lose him forever. No, he was mine. He was going to pay. There would be justice. He had to be stopped.
I needed to think of a plan, something that couldn’t be traced back to me. I got up and paced the kitchen, unable to sit still. I wanted him to know who I was. I flicked the switch to boil the kettle, catching my reflection magnified in the chrome. I loo
ked so different; thinner and pale, forever changed. Hair a different colour. What if I could change my eyes too? Would he even recognise me now? How much of me had he seen, not much of my face? We were strangers.
Forgetting the tea, I grabbed the pen again and scrawled an idea until the page resembled a spider’s web. My spider’s web and I was going to catch a fly. Taking the letter to the sink, I set it alight, watching shards of the page float to the floor before disintegrating to black dust. There had to be no trace. I didn’t need it to be written down. The plan was cemented in my mind. It was crazy, but perhaps I was a little crazy now.
For the first time, I was glad Ben wasn’t here to witness the manic high. After weeks of feeling low, I’d finally had a breakthrough.
I treated myself to snacks and wine from the convenience store downstairs, going outside for the first time at dusk, my confidence brimming. Then I settled on the sofa for the night to celebrate. I wanted to ring Jane, but I couldn’t disturb her weekend away, it wouldn’t be fair. And I knew she’d talk me out of it. Any sane person would. I’d have to keep it to myself.
I couldn’t concentrate on the movie I’d chosen; my mind was on him. What was he doing? I imagined him angry, smashing through his flat in frustration at his attack being foiled. Had he gone straight back out to find someone else? Surely it would have been too risky? He had to assume she’d gone to the police.
Many crimes of this type were not reported, and I knew why. What was the point if you had no confidence in the police finding the perpetrator? A flawed justice system where the witness is cross-examined, their character smeared, allowing the offender to walk free. If I gave them his name and address, it would still be his word against mine. No witnesses, no DNA, no decent CCTV. The case wouldn’t even make it to court, and even if by some miracle it did, what jury would convict based solely on my circumstantial evidence? To be guilty, it had to be beyond reasonable doubt and I couldn’t give the police that.
I knew it was him, but it wasn’t enough. He would never be convicted. It was the reason I had to step in. Make sure he got exactly what he deserved…
Sunday 29 October 2017
Awaking with a jolt, the room pitch-black; I was convinced I’d heard a noise outside. From the kitchen, there was a narrow black iron balcony with spiral stairs to the ground below. A fire escape, which every apartment above the parade of shops had. The sound I was sure I’d heard was metal creaking. The balcony made that sound when someone was on it. Groaning under the strain of any weight. Ben and I barely used it, convinced it was a death trap.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness. The television had gone into standby and I remained still, my head tipped to one side, ear raised to the air. Had he found me? What if he had seen me nosing around the entrance to his building and followed me home. Fuck, why hadn’t I been more careful?
There it was again, the sound reminiscent of a gate blowing in the wind, the creaking of rusty metal. Someone was on the balcony.
My heart pounded so fast, it sounded like one continuous hum. I could feel my muscles pinging; my body entering fight or flight mode. I grabbed my phone ready to dial 999 and pressed the screen accidentally. The home screen flashed up, the light so bright it stung my eyes. I smothered the phone. Shit, would he have seen it? Did he know I was home? It must be him. Who else could it be? Ben would always use the front door. No one ever came around the back of these flats unless they were delivering groceries to the store or collecting rubbish.
I heard a shuffling sound as I stood, my bones cracking, and tiptoed across the hallway, pausing to look at the front door. Should I just run? Escape while I still could? I’d had enough of being afraid. Plus, it couldn’t really be him, could it? I crept into the kitchen, easing open the cutlery drawer and grabbing the first knife I came across. I couldn’t make anything out through the glass, not even a shape. If I turned the light on it would only make myself easier to see, not anything outside.
I crept towards the back door, ignoring the moan from my bladder. Gripping the handle, I violently shook the door, yanking the lever up and down. The door wouldn’t open as it was locked, but I hoped it would scare the intruder away. I heard a crash and a squeal which didn’t sound human. My heart stopped. Turning the key and opening the door, a rush of crisp air surged in, propelling me back. Outside, bright amber eyes glared at me, teeth bared, ready to pounce. I let out a scream, and the fox scurried away down the stairs. It had been going through the rubbish which was strewn all over the balcony. The darkness seemed threatening, so I didn’t linger, instead curling up into my cold bed to hide under the covers until dawn came.
24
Sunday 28 January 2018
‘On Friday the twelfth of January at approximately twenty-two thirty hours you left Mangos Bar, but there were no available taxis. Ian offered for you to wait for one at his apartment. Is that correct?’ Detective Hicks looks back over the notes from our last interview.
‘Yes, that’s correct. It was cold.’
‘Tell us what happened when you got back to his place.’
‘We walked for about ten minutes to get there. It was nice, modern, he told me he’d bought it when the development was built. Quite posh. We had a coffee and he rang for a taxi.’
‘What time did the taxi arrive?’ Becker asks.
‘Around quarter past eleven. Something like that. I remember being home by half past.’ My stomach turns as I try to behave normally. Thinking about it makes me shudder.
‘Did you notice anything strange about his apartment? Anything unusual?’ Hicks asks, his stomach straining the buttons holding his shirt together. They are like a tag team today. Becker doesn’t look quite as together as she did yesterday. Overnight, the dark circles under her eyes haven’t completely receded.
‘No, nothing. It was tidy, I remember that, but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary.’ It was spotless, clinical even. Minimalist design with everything in its proper place. I was frightened to touch anything. I had to though, there was one reason I’d agreed to go back with him. It wasn’t for more of his charming conversation or to get out of the cold.
‘Okay, you spent twenty minutes there. Did Ian make a pass at you at all, did you feel uncomfortable?’
I almost laugh then, uncomfortable? How about revolted. I thought he could see straight through me. The way he looked at me I was sure he knew, but the conversation flowed, and it wasn’t until the taxi arrived that he attempted any physical contact.
‘We had a kiss goodbye when the taxi arrived, but that was it. He walked me downstairs and opened the car door for me.’ When Ian leaned in to kiss me, I shut my eyes tight, hoping my pounding chest would be mistaken for excitement and not panic. His tongue darted between my lips like a snake and I had to fight the urge to shrink away from him. Thankfully the kiss was short-lived.
‘When did you hear from him after the date?’ Becker asks, interrupting my thoughts.
Sunday 29 October 2017
I jumped out of bed, unable to understand why bright sunlight shone through my window when it should have only just been starting to get light. It wasn’t until I checked my phone that I realised I’d completely missed the clocks going back. It was eight thirty and, worried I was going to miss him, I skipped the shower and threw on yesterday’s running clothes.
Jogging towards the railway bridge my knee twinged, so I took it slowly, keeping my eyes peeled for him. The streets were quiet, everyone else enjoying their extra hour in bed. Yesterday I found out where he lived, today I aimed to find out his name.
I took a gamble and waited at the entrance to his road, the opposite end to the bridge, and did some stretches. There was a possibility he might not come out at all. I had visions of watching him walk out of the apartment, a woman by his side pushing a pram. I prayed that wouldn’t be the case. He’d ruined enough innocent lives.
As I waited, occasionally jogging up and down the road when I got cold, my thoughts turned to the girl from yesterday. I hoped she was oka
y and that I’d stopped him before he caused any unrepairable damage.
It was after ten o’clock before he showed; he was the first person I’d seen from his apartment building, sporting jogging bottoms and a green hooded top, with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. I crouched down behind a green junction box and held my breath, glad he was on the other side of the road. Too engrossed in his phone as he walked past to notice anything. Where was he going? What was in the bag? I had an image of sawn-off limbs.
I watched him walk around the corner and waited for a minute before getting to my feet. He was fifty or so yard s in front, walking with purpose towards the main road into town. I followed him for ten minutes, all the time worrying he was going to turn around and see me. We walked past the library and through a small skate park, then I lost him. Standing where I last saw him, I spun round, but there was only one place he could be.
A new twenty-four-hour gym had opened in the summer. I remembered getting a leaflet through the door about it a month ago. These gyms were a new concept. During the day they were staffed, but at night, they were managed by security off site, who controlled the cameras. There was a key code and card entry to get in and the idea had become popular with those who worked shifts. So, he had gone to train.
I turned to walk back to the apartments. He wouldn’t be home for a while. I jogged back to his street and sat on the kerb at the top of the road; unsure what to do next. I needed to know his name and which number he lived at, but how to go about it? Googling the address brought up details of the building company. No information on the residents. I could press all the buzzers and see if anyone would let me inside? It was the best plan I could think of at short notice.
