“You can go to hell, mate,” he said and slammed down the phone.
Back in Polly’s flat Jack hung up.
“Pleasant fellow. I think I met him earlier,” Jack remarked casually to the top of Polly’s head, her face still being lost in her hands. “I guess he’s your stalker, right?”
Polly was regaining some control. “Yes,” she said in a snotty, teary voice. “I’m sorry. Usually I try not to let it affect me, but it’s been going on so long. He’s always like that, disgusting, horrible…”
“Let me see if I can catch him,” said Jack, and he might have been talking about the postman.
Jack took up his coat, slipped his gun back into his pocket and hurried out of the flat, leaving Polly in a state of shock. Jack figured that there was a good chance that the man had been phoning from the callbox where Jack had seen him skulking before. It was certainly worth giving it a go, because life would be a great deal easier for Jack if he could catch the sad bastard that night.
Peter had been making his way back from the callbox on the other side of the road when he heard the door of Polly’s house opening. Quickly he retreated into the shadow of a doorway. For all his bravado on the phone he realized how dangerous the American man was. Peter watched as his former assailant emerged from Polly’s house and ran up the path. Peter considered leaping with his knife from the darkness as Jack ran past but the memory of their last encounter was too fresh, the taste of his own blood still in his mouth. Peter would have had to cross the road to get to the American and by the time he did that the man might have pulled out a knife of his own. Peter reasoned that he could take no chances. If he lost the fight he would never be able to take his revenge on Polly for betraying him.
Jack ran past and round the corner towards the phonebox. Peter had intended to remain in his hiding place, but then he saw something extraordinary.
Jack had left the door to Polly’s house open.
46
It was too good a chance to miss. Peter had not been inside Polly’s house since the very beginning of their relationship, and now the door was open and Polly was alone. Peter darted out from the shadows and scuttled across the road and up the path of her house. He hesitated for only a moment before pushing open the door and going in.
Once inside the hallway he paused and breathed deeply, taking a moment to absorb the atmosphere. This was her private place, her home, her “sanctum”, she had called it in court. He was risking a prison sentence just being there, but it was worth it. It was exquisite to be a part of her private world. He almost thought that he could smell Polly.
He began to climb the silent stairway, torn between the need to hurry and the desire to luxuriate fully in the moment. As he ascended he dragged one hand gently along the banister, imagining her hand upon the same polished wood, each morning and night.
In his other hand Peter held the knife.
A few moments later he stepped into the orange semi-darkness of the top landing. Only one door led off it, which Peter knew to be Polly’s. A light shone through the crack beneath it. She was inside, and she was alone. This, then, was it. The supreme moment. Peter did not know what would happen next. He had made no plan. His great opportunity had sprung itself upon him too quickly for that, but there was one thing he did know: if anyone was going to spend the night alone with Polly it was him.
He knocked on the door.
Inside the flat Polly stirred herself. She was grateful that Jack had returned so quickly; she had so hated being left alone. She got up from the bed, buttoned up her nightshirt and went to the door. Contrary to her usual habit she did not glance through the spyhole before beginning to undo the chain.
The phonebox had been empty. Jack had not expected anything else; hunters rarely find their quarry presented to them on a plate. There had been no point in trying to search the street either. There were so many shadowy doorways, basement stairs, gates and walls that it would have taken the rest of the night to investigate them all. Jack had longed for a set of infra-red nightsights, but of course, he reflected, you never have the right tool when you need it. He walked back to the house deep in thought. Turning the corner into Polly’s road, Jack noticed suddenly that the door to her house was wide open. He broke into a breathless sprint.
Polly turned the deadlock, and before reaching for the latch dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her nightshirt. She dreaded to think what sort of state her face must be in. Her eyes stung and she wondered if they were red and puffy, but there was nothing to be done. She opened the door.
Peter had seen Polly’s shadow in the crack of light beneath the door, he had even fancied that he’d heard her breathing as the door chain rattled – but he was too late. He could hear noisy footsteps bounding up the stairs behind him. His enemy had returned. Quickly he stepped back out of the gloomy light and crushed himself into the darkness of the landing, pressing himself hard against the wall.
The door of Polly’s flat opened. The American reached the top of the stairs and rushed in without breaking his stride. He did not see Peter in the darkness and Peter did not leap out to attack him as he had half intended to do. It was all too quick, too confusing. Killing was not an easy business. The door closed.
Peter stood for a moment, dumbfounded, scarcely able to contain his thoughts. She had been there. The door had been open. He had missed his chance to kill the man and possess Polly, have her for his own. On the other hand, he was inside the house. He had penetrated her environment and they did not know it. They thought themselves safe. He must work out his next move. Peter retreated down the stairs and sat down on the threadbare carpet to think.
47
Inside the attic flat Polly kissed Jack, grateful to him for trying to fight the Bug and glad not to be alone. Jack returned her kisses while trying to catch his breath, tasting the salty tears around her lips. She felt so small and helpless. Jack longed to protect her, to possess her. At that moment, he and Peter were experiencing very similar emotions. Jack steeled himself against such thoughts, against Polly’s magic.
“I didn’t get him,” he said. “He’d gone.”
“You’ll never get him,” Polly replied. “He’s invulnerable. I’ve been trying for so long.”
Jack put his lips to Polly’s ear. “Did you ever think about killing him?” he whispered.
What a question. Of course she’d thought about killing him. Victims of stalkers often find themselves thinking about nothing else. Polly had wished that sick bastard dead a thousand times.
“No, I don’t mean wishing him dead, Polly,” Jack said. “I mean actually getting him dead. Killing him. For real.”
“Don’t joke,” Polly replied. “You don’t know what it’s like. If you knew what it was like to be a victim, how awful it is, you wouldn’t joke.”
Gently Jack sat Polly down upon the bed and fetched her drink. “I’m not joking,” he said. “I’ll kill him for you.”
“Oh, Jack, if only.” She was near to tears again.
“Polly.” Jack spoke firmly now. “I’ll kill him for you. I just need to know who he is and where he lives.”
Polly’s head swam. It was such a lovely thought. Such a truly lovely thought. To have the Bug dead. Squashed. Gone for ever. Not warned off, not threatened with arrest, not made to give a solemn undertaking to stay away, but dead. Completely and utterly ceasing to exist. It was a beautiful dream. But that was what it was, a dream. You couldn’t just kill people.