I See You(82)

‘At ￡900 per calendar month?’

‘Bugger, I missed off a zero. Sorry.’ I start to log on, to correct my mistake, but Graham stops me.

‘It’s not the only mistake you’ve made today, Zoe. And yesterday was just as bad.’

‘It’s been a difficult month, I—’

‘As for the other evening, in the car – I’m sure I don’t have to tell that I found your reaction extremely irrational, not to mention insulting.’

I blush. ‘I misunderstood, that’s all. I woke up and it was dark and—’

‘Let’s not go there again.’ Graham looks almost as embarrassed as I feel. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t have you here when your mind’s not on the job.’

I look at him in dismay. He can’t fire me. Not now. Not with Simon out of work.

Graham doesn’t look me in the eye. ‘I think you should take some time off.’

‘I’m fine, honestly, I just—’

‘I’ll put it down as stress,’ he says. I wonder if I’ve misheard.

‘You’re not firing me?’

Graham stands up. ‘Should I?’

‘No, it’s just – thank you. I really appreciate it.’ He colours slightly but gives no other acknowledgement of my gratitude. It’s a side of Graham Hallow I’ve never seen before, and I suspect it’s as strange for him as it is for me. Sure enough, moments later business trumps sympathy and he retrieves a pile of receipts and invoices from his office, stuffing them into a carrier bag.

‘You can do this from home. The VAT needs listing separately; give me a call if it doesn’t make sense.’

I thank him again and get my things, putting on my coat and slinging my handbag over my chest before walking to the station. I feel lighter, knowing I have one thing, at least, less to worry about.

I’m turning left from Walbrook Street on to Cannon Street when I get the feeling.

A tingle down my spine; the feeling of being watched.

I turn around but the pavement is busy; there are people all around me. No one stands out. I wait at the crossing and resist the temptation to look behind me, even though the back of my neck burns under the gaze of imaginary eyes. We cross the road like sheep, tightly packed together, and as we reach the other side I can’t help but scan the group for a wolf.

No one is paying me any attention.

I’m imagining the feeling, just like this morning, with the man on the Overground. Just like I assumed the boy in the trainers was running after me, when the truth was, he probably didn’t even notice me. The website is pushing me over the edge.

I need to get a grip.

I walk briskly up the first flight of steps, my hand touching lightly on the metal handrail, keeping pace with the suits. Around me, people are finishing calls.

I’m just going into the station.

I might lose you in a minute.

I’ll call you when I’m ten minutes away.

I take out my mobile and text Simon. I’m on my way home. I’m fine. Up the second flight of steps and into the bowels of the station. Here, the sound of feet changes, bouncing between concrete surfaces. My senses feel acutely tuned; I can hear individual shoes as they walk behind me. A pair of heels, clicking ever louder as they overtake me. The soft pad of ballet pumps. The old-fashioned ring of steel on concrete; a set of Blakey’s segs fitted to a man’s shoes. He’ll be older than me, I think, distracting myself by imagining what he looks like. A hand-tailored suit; shoes made from a bespoke last. Grey hair. Expensive cufflinks. Not following me, just heading home, to his wife and their dog and their Cotswolds cottage.

The prickle on my neck is insistent. I take out my Oyster, but at the barriers I step to one side, standing against the wall by the Underground map. The barriers funnel the crowds of commuters to a walk, their feet marching virtually on the spot, as if they can’t bear to be standing still. Every now and then the flow is broken by someone who doesn’t know the rules; who doesn’t have their ticket in hand, and is rifling through their pockets or fishing in a bag. There are audible tuts from the waiting commuters, until the ticket is produced and the line can continue moving. No one pays me any attention. It’s in your head, I tell myself, repeating it in the hope that my body will believe what my head is telling it.

‘Sorry, could I just …?’

I move to let a woman with a small child look at the Underground map behind me. I have to get home. I tap my Oyster and push through the barrier, walking on autopilot towards the District line platform. I start walking towards the end of the platform, to where the doors to carriage one will open, then I think of PC Swift’s advice: Change where you sit. Don’t do what you always do. I turn sharply on my heels and walk back the way I came. As I do so, something moves rapidly on the edges of my vision. Not something: someone. Someone hiding? Someone who doesn’t want to be seen? I scour the faces of the people around me. I don’t recognise anyone, but something I’ve seen feels familiar. Could it be Luke Friedland? Luke Harris, I remember. Let out on bail but ignoring the order to stay away from me.

My breath is quickening and I exhale through rounded lips to slow it down. Even if it is Luke Harris, what can he do on a crowded platform? But nevertheless I take a step away from the edge of the platform as the train approaches.

There’s a free seat on carriage five but I decline an invitation to take it. I manoeuvre myself to the rear, where I can see down the full length of the carriage. There are several seats dotted about, but a dozen or so people standing, like me. There’s a man facing the opposite way. He’s wearing an overcoat and a hat, but my view is blocked and I can’t see him properly. The same sensation creeps over me; a sense of the familiar, yet with a prickle of unease. I take my house keys out of my bag. The fob is a wooden ‘Z’ that Justin made at school. I grasp it firmly in my fist and work the Yale key until it pokes between my fingers, before putting my hand – with its makeshift knuckle-duster – in my pocket.