A Rip Through Time(3)

My thumb grazes the screen, but my eyes stay fixed ahead. Get a better idea of what I’m facing, and then I’ll pause to search for the local number.

As I approach the end of the lane, I clutch my phone in one hand. In the event of urgent trouble, I’ll dial 911 and pray it forwards to an emergency service. I don’t expect to need that, though. The closer I draw to the lane, the more I’m convinced that I’m about to interrupt an intimate moment. The woman’s date had surprised her and made her shriek. They’d goofed around and then whispered together and then it fell to silence as they settled into a private spot.

That doesn’t mean I turn around. I’ve rousted couples in dark alleys because what I heard didn’t quite sound consensual. Half the time, I’ve been right.

I ease into a shop alcove. At the first indication of shared passion, I’ll scoot. I hear nothing, though. Maybe they’ve moved on, seeking true privacy—

A whimper.

I press my hand to the wall and lean as far as I dare, my eyes half shut as I strain to listen.

A muffled sound, one I can’t make out.

Damn it, give me a little more.

I lift my phone and open the browser. I’m halfway through typing “Scotland emergency phone number” when a cry comes, a stifled word that is unmistakable.

Help.

Then another cry, this one of pain and surprise, and I bolt from my spot before I realize what I’m doing. I swing into the lane to see …

Nothing.

It’s more alley than lane, stacked with boxes and bins for trash pickup. The cobblestones stretch into darkness, and I race along them, following the whimpers and muffled cries of a woman, until I reach the back corner and look around it to see …

An empty lane.

It’s a narrow alleyway between the rows of shops, and there is nothing in sight.

I squint into darkness lit only by a single flickering lamp over a door. Even without better lighting, I am absolutely certain there’s no one here.

They must have moved on. I misunderstood, and the couple moved on.

I’m turning away when a gasp sounds behind me. I spin, fists rising, to see that empty expanse of alley again.

Then there’s a flicker. The shifting of light. A flash of cornflower blue, hovering like a haze. The haze becomes a dress. A long dress, half-translucent. A glimpse of light hair. Then another gasp, as the wisp of a figure falls back against the wall, only to disappear as she strikes it.

What the hell?

I blink hard. A projection? It must be. Some kind of video projection from a tour, a young woman in an old-fashioned dress struck down by an unseen assailant. I peer up at the opposite wall, looking for the malfunctioning projector.

Something moves behind me. Do I catch the whisper of a foot on stone? The smell of another body? Or just a shift in air pressure. Nan would call it a sixth sense, but all I know is that my gut says “Turn around now!” and I obey.

I wheel just as something swings toward my head. I spin out of the way and catch a glimpse of rough rope gripped in a man’s hand.

Synapses fire, a connection made. An article glimpsed in passing. Edinburgh. Two bodies found in the past month. Strangled. Old rope around their necks.

A spark of realization, smothered by the far more important fact that I am being attacked. This is not a malfunctioning ghost-tour video.

My arm smacks up into his, and he staggers back grunting in shock. His face rises, hidden in the shadow of a dark hoodie. Then the hood falls half back and—

It’s the man from the coffee shop. The man I spilled coffee on.

If asked what he looked like, I’d have said I had no idea. I only saw his shirtfront, dappled with coffee droplets. But I never ask witnesses whether they would recognize someone if they saw them again, because half the time they’ll say no, but if I put a lineup before them, the memory will slam back.

That’s what happens now. I thought I didn’t see his face earlier, but then this man looks at me—white guy, midthirties, average face, light hair, dark eyes—and I know him. I know him beyond any doubt.

I spilled a few drops of coffee on some suit in a crowded shop, and now he’s in this alley, dressed in a black hoodie, with a length of fraying rope in his hand.

It makes no sense, and that is where I fail. My foot was flying up to kick him, and then I recognized him and I falter. He feints out of my way. I stumble and twist to right myself and in a blink, the rope is around my neck.

I claw to get my fingers under it as twenty thoughts explode at once. Twenty instructions, and above all of them, the scream that I should do better. I’ve taught women how to fight off an attacker in every situation, and here I am, uselessly clawing at a rope already around my neck.

It happened so fast.

It happened so goddamn fast, and part of me screams a curse for every time I calmly told some woman how to fight this. Get your fingers under whatever is choking you. Free some air. Claw. Kick. Punch. Scream.

Scream? I can’t breathe. How the hell can I scream?

I do claw, but the rope is already digging in, my nails shredding against it. I kick backward. Rear kick. Side kick. Roundhouse kick. I know them all, but my foot never makes contact. Even when I manage to get my hand behind my neck, all I feel is that length of rope.

He hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t made a sound.

My sneakers scuff against the stone, and I’m gasping, the world tinging red at the edges.