I See You(25)

‘What’s the job?’

‘I don’t know much. The agency haven’t offered her representation, but she made a useful contact and it sounds like there’s a part in the offing.’

‘That’s great!’ I want to get out my phone and text Katie, to tell her how proud I am, but I make myself wait. I’d rather congratulate her in person. Instead I tell Simon about Melissa’s new café, and Neil’s contract at the Houses of Parliament. By the time pudding comes we’ve ordered another bottle of wine, and I’ve got the giggles over Simon’s stories of his time as a junior reporter.

Simon pays the bill, leaving a generous tip. He goes to hail a cab, but I stop him.

‘Let’s walk.’

‘It’ll be less than a tenner.’

‘I’d like to.’

We start walking, my arm tucked into Simon’s. I don’t care about the cost of a taxi ride home; I just want the evening to go on for a little longer. At the crossing he kisses me, and it turns into a kiss that makes us ignore the beep of the green man and have to press the button all over again.

My hangover wakes me at six. I go downstairs in search of water and an aspirin, and switch on Sky News, filling a glass from the tap and drinking greedily from it. When I’ve drained the glass I fill it and drink again, holding the side of the sink because I feel as though I’m swaying. I rarely drink in the week, and I’m reminded this is the reason why.

Katie’s handbag is on the table. She was already in bed when Simon and I got home last night, both of us giggling at the irony of trying not to wake the kids as we crept upstairs. There’s a piece of paper next to the kettle, folded in two and with ‘Mum’ written on the front. I open it, my headache making me squint.

My first acting job! Can’t wait to tell you all about it. Love you xxx





I smile, despite my hangover. She’s forgiven me, and I resolve to be extra enthusiastic when she tells me about the job. No mention of secretarial college, or training to fall back on. I wonder what the gig is; whether it’s extra work, or a real part. Theatre, I suppose, although I allow myself a fantasy in which Katie has landed a job in TV; a part in some long-running soap that will make her a household name.

The Sky News reporter, Rachel Lovelock, is reporting a murder: a female victim from Muswell Hill. Perhaps Katie could be a presenter, I think. She’s certainly got the looks. She wouldn’t want to read the news, but a music channel, perhaps, or one of those magazine-style programmes, like Loose Women or The One Show. I pour another glass of water and lean against the worktop as I watch the telly.

The image changes to an outside broadcast; Rachel Lovelock is replaced by a woman in a thick coat, talking earnestly into a microphone. As she carries on talking, a picture of the murder victim appears on the screen. Her name was Tania Beckett, and she doesn’t look much older than Katie, although according to the report she was twenty-five. Her boyfriend raised the alarm when she didn’t come home after work, and she was found in the park late last night, a hundred yards from where they lived.

Perhaps it’s my hangover, or the fact I’m still half-asleep, but I look at the photo on screen for a full minute before recognition kicks in. I take in the dark hair, the smiling face, the full figure. I see the necklace, with its gleaming silver crucifix.

And then I realise.

It’s the woman from yesterday’s advert.





How fast can you run?

When you really have to?

In heels and a work skirt, with your bag banging against your side: how fast?

When you’re late for your train and you have to get home, and you race down the platform with seconds to spare: how fast can you run?

What if it isn’t a train you’re running for, but your life?

If you’re late home from work, and there’s no one in sight. If you haven’t charged your phone and no one knows where you are. If the footsteps behind you are getting closer, and you know, because you do it every day, that you’re on your own; that between the platform and the exit you won’t see another soul.

If there’s breath on your neck, and the panic is rising, and it’s dark, and cold, and wet.

If it’s just the two of you.

Just you, and whoever’s behind you.

Whoever is chasing you.

How fast could you run then?

It doesn’t matter how fast.

Because there’s always someone who can run faster.





8


There was a hand over Kelly’s mouth. She could feel it pressing down on her face; taste the sweat on the fingers slipping between her lips. A heavy weight shifted on top of her and a knee forced her legs apart. She tried to scream but the sound stayed in her throat, filling her chest with panic. She tried to remember her police training – the self-defence moves they’d been taught – but her mind was blank and her body frozen.

The hand slid away, but the reprieve was momentary. It was replaced by a mouth; a tongue forcing its way inside her.

She heard his breath – heavy, excited – and a rhythmic knocking.

‘Kelly.’

The knocking intensified.

‘Kelly. Are you okay?’

The bedroom door opened and the weight moved from her chest. Kelly took a great gulp of air.