I See You(46)

He’s still looking at me, and I pretend to study the Tube map above his head, feeling his eyes travel down my body. It makes me uncomfortable, and I look down at my lap, feeling self-conscious and not knowing what to do with my hands. I guess him to be in his fifties; in a well-cut suit and an overcoat to beat the weather, which is threatening the first flurry of snow. His smile is too familiar – proprietary.

The schools must be out today: the trains are far less crowded than usual. At Canada Water enough people get off to leave three seats free opposite me. The man in the suit takes one of them. People do look at you on the Tube – I do it myself – but when you catch their eye, they look away, embarrassed. This man isn’t looking away. When I look at his face – and I won’t do so again – he holds my gaze challengingly, as though I should be flattered by the attention. I wonder, fleetingly, if I am, but the fluttering sensation in my stomach is anxiety, not excitement.

Transport for London have been running a video campaign. It’s called ‘report it to stop it’ and it’s about sexual harassment on the Underground. You can report anything that makes you uncomfortable, it says. I imagine calling a police officer, right now. What would I say? He keeps looking at me …

Looking at someone isn’t a crime. At the back of my mind is the group of kids at Whitechapel – the lad in the trainers I was so convinced was running after me. Imagine if I’d have called the police then; if I’d have shouted for help. Despite the logic of this argument I can’t shake the unsettled feeling.

It’s not just him – this arrogant man taking possession of me with his eyes. It takes more than a man to make me anxious. It’s everything. It’s the thought of Cathy Tanning, asleep on the Tube while someone ransacks her bag. It’s Tania Beckett, lying strangled in a park. It’s Isaac Gunn, and the confident way he’s pushed his way into Katie’s life; into my house. I looked at his Facebook profile last night, after everyone left, and was disappointed to find it locked down so securely that all I could see was his profile picture. I stared at it; at the confident smile, showing even white teeth, and the wavy black hair flopping nonchalantly over one eye. Film-star looks, undoubtedly, but making me shiver, not swoon; as though he’d already been cast in the role of the villain.

The man in the suit stands up to let a pregnant woman sit down. He’s tall, and his hand slips easily through the strap hanging from the ceiling, the loop encircling his wrist as he grips it higher up, where it meets the ceiling of the carriage. He’s not looking at me any more, but he’s barely six inches away from me and I pick up my bag from between my feet and hug it to me, thinking again of Cathy Tanning and her pickpocket. The man glances at his watch, then away, gazing without interest at something further down the carriage. Someone else moves, and the man shifts slightly. His leg touches mine, firmly, and I jump as though I’ve been scalded. I move away, twisting awkwardly in my seat.

‘Sorry,’ he says, looking straight at me.

‘No problem,’ I hear myself say. But my heart is racing; blood humming in my ear as though I’ve been sprinting.

I stand up at Whitechapel. It’s obvious I’m getting off, but the man doesn’t move and I have to squeeze past him. For a second I’m pressed against him and I feel a touch on my thigh so light I can’t be certain it was there at all. There are people all around me, I tell myself. Nothing can happen. But I almost trip in my haste to leave the train. I look behind me as the doors close, more confident with some distance between me and the man who was watching me.

He isn’t on the train.

Perhaps he’s sitting down, I think, gifted a seat by a passenger disembarking. But there’s no one in the carriage with a beard. No one in a dark grey overcoat.

The platform is clearing; commuters rushing to get their next train, tourists looking for the exit, bumping into each other as they pay more attention to maps than their surroundings. I stand, rooted to the spot, as they jostle their way past.

And then I see him.

Standing as still as I am, on the platform about ten yards further down, between me and the exit. Not watching me; looking at his phone. I fight to keep my breathing under control. I need to make a decision. If I walk past him and carry on with my journey he might follow me. But if I hang back and let him go ahead, he might stay. The platform is practically empty; in a moment it will be just the two of us. I have to decide now.

I walk. Eyes forward. Walking quickly, not running. Don’t run. Don’t let him see you’re scared of him. He’s standing in the centre of the platform, a bench behind him that means I have to pass in front. As I grow near I sense his eyes on me.

Three feet away.

Two.

One.

I can’t help myself; I break into a run. I head for the exit, my handbag banging against my side, not caring what I look like. I half expect him to follow me, but when I reach the section of tunnel that will take me to the District line, I turn and see him still standing on the platform, watching me.

I try to concentrate on work, but my head won’t comply. I find myself staring blankly at my screen, trying to remember the admin login for our accounts package. A man comes in to ask for details for office premises for lease and I end up giving him a sheaf of details for properties for sale instead. When he comes back to complain I burst into tears. He is politely sympathetic.

‘It’s not the end of the world,’ he says, when he finally has what he wants. He looks vaguely around for some tissues, relieved when I tell him I’m absolutely fine and would really rather be on my own.