She wonders about the creepy little man. They’re always the ones who attract the attention of the police. Neighbourhood pests, hanging about in the shadows, bothering women, playing with replica guns and, now, finding ‘communities’ to share their rotten little fantasies with on the internet. They don’t necessarily act them out, but they make other people uncomfortable, and often that’s enough. You can’t change human nature. Outsiders have always had a hard time of it. They disturb people.
She finds her purse, tucked where it is supposed to be, in the interior zip pocket of the bag. The keys have found their way out of the compartment into the general jumble. Her frustration mounts as she scrabbles in the depths; touches, loses, touches, loses again. Who is he? What did he want? Would I have found out, even if that other man hadn’t got between us? I don’t suppose he knows, himself. He’s just one of those lone nutters who thought he had something to say to me.
Shit. I don’t suppose he followed me again, did he?
She reaches the market cross halfway along Fore Street. She can go the short way – carry on up the hill through another half-mile of this wasteland to the station at the end. Or she could turn left, up Tailor’s Lane, and work her way through to the lights and population of Brighton Road. It’s a longer route, with a nasty little detour, but there will be people at the end of it. And right now people are what she craves.
She peers into the ill-lit depths of Tailor’s Lane, trying to recall her daytime impressions. It’s hardly a street – more an upgraded alleyway: narrow, and with a turn in the middle. A hundred yards to the corner, then another hundred to the main road. Behind her, the street is so silent, she feels as though it’s listening.
She doesn’t want to go up there. Doesn’t like the thought of plunging into the dark. A couple of mews – if the rubbish storage for a bunch of shops can really be called a mews – lead off to left and right: pools of the unknown, lit only when the shops themselves are open. Because it’s mainly blank walls and refuse containers, the road is perfunctorily lit: she can see the lamp that marks the corner, and the small pool of light cast by the one in between, but they are old Victorian lanterns that don’t look as though they have been updated since they were converted to electricity. And, in between, deep, malodorous shadow.
There could be anything up there, Kirsty. Anyone.
Yes, but… at least you know what’s at the other end. Fore Street is half a mile of the unknown, no turnings off after this; just the choice of forward or back and a hell of a long way to run either way. It’s two hundred yards, Kirsty. A two-minute walk. Just go confidently; don’t look left or right, don’t peer into the shadows. Don’t think about what’s in those alleyways. Just walk and look certain. Why would anyone hide on a road no one goes up? Just two minutes and you’ll be out where the people are again.
She starts to walk.
The going is rough underfoot, the tarmac deteriorated by bin lorries and neglected because it’s not a popular cut-through. She nearly turns her ankle twice before she reaches the mews. They keys still evade her grasp, distracting her from her surroundings; the chain is wrapped round something and the fob keeps slipping from her fingers when she pulls on it. She’s loath to go further into the dark without at least the comfort of these sharp metal objects protruding from between her knuckles.
‘Shit,’ she says out loud, and stops.
Somewhere in the dark behind her, a single footfall sounds out into the silence.
A jagged shard of fear strokes its way down the back of her neck. She is all muscle, all tendon, her back pressed to the wall before she is aware that she has moved. She stands rigid, wide-eyed, and listens; strains to see the path she has already covered.
Nothing.
Against the lights of Fore Street, the silhouetted dumpsters crouch like dragons. She has no way of knowing what is hidden in the shadows. But she knows, too, that she must go forward. Further into the dark.
She forces herself to wheel and walk on deliberately, steadily, though her legs are liquid and her hands shaking. She slots the keys between her fingers, palm gripping on the ring that holds them together. They’ll be little use as a weapon, but they might be enough to shock. Leave marks on a face. DNA on their jagged edges…
Jesus. Stop it. Don’t make plans for how you’ll help the police from beyond the grave.
External sound is blocked out by the swoosh of her circulation, the hiss of her breath. Her heart feels like an angry feral animal; threatens to punch its way through her sternum. Breathe. Breathe. Keep walking.
She counts her footsteps, concentrates on keeping them even, on maintaining her balance, on projecting a sense of calm control. If he doesn’t know she’s heard him, she might buy herself a few extra feet of head-start. Breathe. Breathe. One footstep, then another. The light on the corner dancing before her eyes, nothing but black around it.
Someone’s foot catches a can in the road behind her. Sends it scuttering emptily along the pavement, closer than she had imagined.
Kirsty runs. Hears a sound – half moan, half shriek – burst from her throat, catches a heel in a pothole, staggers, bangs her shoulder against the wall, belts on. Heavy footfalls, no need for subterfuge, barrelling towards her, a splash as he stamps in a puddle, damp frogman tread as he slaps his way out the other side.
He grows, in her mind’s eye, as he gains on her. Has transformed from a little rat-man into an ogre eight feet tall, with teeth of razors. Her bag weighs her down, slap-slap-slapping against her buttocks. She thinks about simply shedding it, decides, no, if it’s the first thing he can reach, it’ll be the first thing he grabs, and that will buy me one more precious second.
Help, begs her brain. Help me.
Her momentum carries her past the corner, bouncing off the far wall as she makes the turn. The man behind gains more ground as she recovers. She can hear his breath now: heavy, but not laboured. Not frayed like her own. More garbage hoppers here; piles of cardboard boxes, stacked wooden pallets and the lights of Brighton Road a million miles away. If he gets me behind one of those, no one on the street will ever see…
Fingers brush against the bag; a promise of things to come. Kirsty lets out a gasp, finds a reserve of speed and hurls herself forward. Godjesus help me. Should I scream? Shout for help? She can hear the cacophony of Brighton Road – howls and laughs and cackling hens – and knows that any breath she wastes will go unnoticed.
‘FUCK!’ she shrieks, despite herself, and feels a hand clamp down on her bag strap. Feels it tighten and yank her body back.
Her response is rage. Fear, yes, but overwhelming it fierce, animal rage. She lets out a yell, whirls round with full-stretch arm and slaps the keys through the air. They connect with scalp; thick coarse hair under her fingers. She hears a grunt, then feels his other hand snatch at her head.
She slips her shoulder out from the bag strap, shakes her hair like a pony. She has never been so grateful for her practical haircut; there’s not enough for him to clutch a forceful handful. Strong, hard fingers dig through, slither, snag in a knot and then, ripping a hank out by the roots, slip free. She pushes the bag towards his face and runs. Hurtles up the road, sees the tarmac fall into relief as the light begins to penetrate the gloom.
Still full-tilt now, though she knows already that he is no longer behind, that that last grab was his swansong. But she runs and runs, leaps a hole the size of a lorry wheel, surprises herself with the cat-like grace with which she lands. She doesn’t slow until she has tumbled – crashing into the middle of a stag party – into the light.