I recognise the skinny young man peering through the glass straight away. He’s wearing the same black donkey jacket and red bobble hat I’ve seen him in before. But, as usual, the jagged scar across his cheek is what really stands out. It’s the homeless guy I first bumped into while looking for Tommy, who then caused a scene at the last free session, a fortnight ago, challenging me when I threatened to kick him out for fighting; only backing down when Tommy intervened.
What did Tommy call him? Moxie, was it? Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s right.
I have a bad feeling as soon as I spot him, but this eases when he smiles pleasantly and waves at me. ‘All right, dude?’ he shouts in his friendly-sounding, light Brummie accent, so I can hear him through the locked door. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. I’m afraid we’re closed now, though. There’ll be another free session in a fortnight.’
‘Sorry?’ he says, cupping a hand around one ear and holding it to the glass.
I repeat my words, only for him to point to his ears and shake his head.
Is he taking the piss? I wouldn’t put it past him, based on how he behaved on the last occasion he was here, although I don’t get that impression this time. Perhaps he’s hard of hearing. It’s a reasonable possibility, which could even go some way to explain his previous behaviour. Not being able to hear things properly is bound to be frustrating and a potential cause of misunderstandings.
I take pity on him and open the door, realising my mistake almost instantly as he wedges his foot, encased in a chunky black army boot, into the gap. His eyes harden to a look of stone-cold determination.
‘Let me in,’ he demands.
‘Get lost!’ I shout, trying to shove the door closed, but failing.
Then he pulls a knife out of the inside pocket of his coat and starts waving it near my hands. I jerk them away in shock, my heart thumping with sudden fear; my vision blurring.
Next thing I know, he’s inside. He has me pinned up against the wall, left hand vice-like on my throat, so I can hardly breathe; right hand brandishing the blade.
‘If you don’t want to die tonight, you need to do exactly what I tell you,’ he says. ‘Got that?’
I nod, terrified, my insides churning like my bowels are about to open.
‘Say it then, prick,’ he snarls, tiny flecks of his spit firing on to my cheek. ‘Tell me you understand.’
His face is only a few centimetres away from mine. I can smell the hot, foul stench of booze and cigarettes on his breath.
‘I understand.’
I manage to squeeze this response out of my compressed throat, although it emerges as little more than a whisper. I feel sick, dizzy; like I’m about to pass out.
How have I let this happen to me?
‘Move away from the door,’ he barks, removing his hand from my throat and backing off while keeping the weapon and his eyes firmly directed at me. Now I’ve had a chance to view it properly, I can see it’s a branded paring knife – the kind used for cutting and peeling fruit and veg – with a sharp, solid-looking blade that’s probably three or four inches long. It looks like something swiped from a kitchen.
I do as he says, moving into the body of the shop and thus out of view of anyone walking past on the street, which is clearly his intention.
Dammit. Being spotted by a passer-by was my best hope of getting help. I’m totally screwed now – my fate entirely in the hands of this unhinged, violent man.
But what else can I do other than what he demands?
Surely, that’s my safest play now, isn’t it?
God, I can’t even think straight.
My limbs are shaking.
I wish I could be brave or calm, but I’m neither.
Utterly petrified is what I am.
I fear for my life now like never before.
‘What do you—’
‘Shut it,’ he says. ‘You speak when you’re spoken to.’
‘Right.’
‘I said shut it.’ He brings the knife closer, waving the tip dangerously close to my eyes, making me flinch.
He sneers at me. ‘Not so high and mighty now, are you? Think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Well, you’re not. Like a free bloody haircut is going to sort my life out. It’s an insult, that’s what it is.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Why did he come here last time if he finds it so offensive? Why did he take a free haircut? I can’t understand his extreme anger towards me. Is it because of my threat to kick him out that time? He definitely didn’t like it. I still remember the defiant, aggressive look he threw at me before Tommy got involved. Is this some kind of warped revenge for him having felt humiliated in front of the other homeless guys? Bloody hell.
I get the feeling he’s on some kind of drug: likely a stimulant – speed, coke, crack maybe – because the pupils of his eyes look huge and he keeps sniffing and chewing. I’ve noticed a few involuntary muscle twitches too, particularly on his face. He’s almost definitely wired.
Is this a good or a bad thing? God knows. Perhaps it’ll start to wear off and he’ll calm down a bit. On the other hand, if he’s off his face on whatever, he could be capable of anything.
He could be prepared to do anything to get another fix.
‘Right,’ he says, slapping me around the face with his empty hand and then pushing me down into one of the seats in the waiting area. ‘Where’s all the money? I want it right now. No bullshit.’
This is what I feared he was going to ask for. I take a deep breath before answering, knowing he’s not going to like what he hears. ‘There are a few pounds of petty cash in the till, which I can get out for you no problem, but that’s it. It’s only a small float for giving people change. I don’t keep any real cash on the premises.’
‘Bollocks!’ he shouts, standing over me, the knife firmly gripped in his hand, edging ever closer to my skin. ‘You’re a liar. You have loads of customers. You must make a fortune. Why would you be offering free haircuts if you weren’t rolling in it?’
If only. Has he seen how little I charge? I’m tempted to draw his attention to the price list on the wall, but anything that might upset him seems like a dumb move. It could even be fatal. So I reiterate that I’m telling the truth, pointing out there’s even a sticker in the window saying as much.
‘It all gets banked before closing,’ I say. ‘And lots of people pay by card.’
‘Why do you have the shutters, then?’
‘You need to around here. Everyone does. It’s mainly to stop the windows getting smashed.’
‘I don’t believe you. Open the till. Now. I want to see for myself.’
Slowly, afraid of making any sudden moves that might trigger him to do something stupid, I stand up, walk over to the till and open it, before moving to one side and letting him look.
‘Prick!’ he shouts, grabbing a handful of change and flinging it against the wall. Then he turns back to me, teeth bared. ‘It must be somewhere else. Tell me where or I swear I’ll kill you.’
I hold my quivering hands up. ‘Please, there’s nothing else here. Like I said, it’s all in the bank.’
‘Aargh!’ he screams, his empty hand balled into a fist that he shakes in fury, stomping his feet on the ground like a stroppy teenager and still waving around that scary damn blade.
Subtly, I shuffle as far away from him as I can, putting a precious bit of distance between us. But he’s in my face again an instant later and my back is against the wall.
His eyes scan mine, like they’re looking for clues, and then they narrow, suggesting he’s thought of something. ‘Pockets,’ he snaps. ‘Empty them now.’
I do as he says, pulling out my phone and wallet. I wonder for a second where my keys have gone, but then I realise they’re still in the door from when I made the mistake of opening it and starting this nightmare.
He snatches my phone immediately, looks it over and then, sneering, shoves it inside his manky jacket
. Next he opens my wallet, pockets the two twenty-pound notes in there and examines the bank cards.
‘Take them,’ I say. ‘They’re yours.’
‘Oh, I’ll do whatever I want,’ he replies with a menacing snigger. ‘I don’t need your permission for that, Mr Hairdresser. There’s only one person in charge today and guess what: it’s not you.’
‘Listen, it’s Moxie, isn’t it? I just meant—’
‘I don’t care what you meant. And don’t you dare say that name. Shut your mouth or I’ll carve it wide open.’
I nod and look down at the floor, attempting to steady my frantic breathing. Trying to hold myself together and not totally lose it, despite my entire mind and body being gripped by panic.
‘Hmm, three cards,’ he says, turning his attention back to my wallet. ‘All your money’s in the bank, you say. Well, why don’t we pay a little visit to the cashpoint and see if we can’t get our hands on some of it?’
Initially, my heart sinks on hearing these words, as it means this ordeal is going to continue, whereas I hoped he might take my stuff and leave. However, on the bright side, we’ll be going out into the street with other people who could spot something untoward and raise the alarm. Plus there’ll be lots of space to potentially break free from him and make a run for it.
There’s a cash machine around the corner and that’s where he wants us to go. He instructs me to lock up the barbershop first to avoid suspicion, but he’s right at my side the whole time, whispering that if I do anything stupid, it’ll be the last thing I do.
Once that’s done, he jostles me along the street, one arm clamped around my shoulders, the other inside his open jacket, still holding the blade but keeping it out of sight.
I hope he might accidentally stab himself while doing this, but he keeps reminding me that I’ll be the one impaled by it if I make even the slightest wrong move.
‘Try to escape or call out for help and that’s it for you: game over,’ he rasps into my ear. ‘And don’t think I wouldn’t do it, because you’d be wrong. There’s nothing I’d enjoy more than to gut you like a pig.’
I believe him. It petrifies me.
Although we pass various people on the street, I say nothing. I don’t have the guts.
I walk with him, his horrible arm feeling like a rod of steel across my back. My mind is racing, my eyes scanning all around, looking for a way out, but nothing presents itself.
‘Listen to me, prick,’ he says in a low voice, so no one else can hear. ‘When we get to the cash machine, this is how it works: you calmly put in each of your cards, one by one, and withdraw the maximum amount you can. No funny business with forgetting the PIN or trying to raise the alarm somehow, because I’ll be right next to you with this knife in my hand. Got it?’
‘Yes.’
He squeezes my shoulders hard enough to hurt. ‘Good.’
What do I do? The money is the last of my worries. But if I get it out for him, what then? Will he stab me anyway once he’s got what he wants? I know who he is, meaning I could report him to the police.
Am I going to die here?
How on earth am I having to ask myself that question again?
Five minutes ago, I was trapped under the fallen scaffolding, wondering exactly the same thing. What if I never actually escaped from that situation and everything since has been a figment of my imagination?
Maybe I’m still lying there on the ground, unconscious.
Maybe I’m already dead.
No, please don’t let that be the case. That would mean I haven’t changed; that I’m still the nasty, negative person no one would miss – someone my parents would have been ashamed to call their son. That would mean Meg and I never made up after our falling-out; no haircuts for the homeless; no being a good neighbour to Doreen and her pals; no meeting Rita or Nora.
I’m ashamed of that old version of myself, trapped under the collapsed scaffolding: unpleasant, unhappy and friendless. I’d rather die now, knowing I’ve at least tried to become a better man, than back when I was still him.
God, what am I doing?
What am I thinking?
The fear’s making me delusional.
Of course this is real. I desperately wish it wasn’t – but if I’m going to find a way to survive, I need to focus, not get lost in flights of fantasy.
I have to do something – and soon. That’s risky, of course. But surely doing nothing is worse than trying to help myself. Isn’t it?
What would Iris have done in a situation like this? I don’t know why that’s relevant, but it’s the thought that pops into my head. I know the answer straight away: she’d have tried to reason with Moxie; to wake him up to the reality of his actions.
The right words elude me. My lips are quivering and won’t form the necessary shapes. I fear saying something that will put his back up and cause a kneejerk reaction. That could get me killed.
My skin is covered in sweat and I’m so on edge it feels almost like I’m on drugs myself. I guess I am, in a way: there must be huge amounts of adrenaline pumping through my body right now. The fight-or-flight response. That’s what they call it, right? I’m not currently doing either; if I do, which one is it going to be?
We’re almost at the cashpoint now. I can see it up ahead on the left. We’ll be there in less than a minute, I reckon. I’m still considering how to handle things when we reach it, part of me praying it’s out of order to buy me some time, when Moxie stands on a discarded water bottle on the pavement, stumbles and momentarily loosens his grip on me.
Time slows down as my brain grasps what’s happening and makes a series of desperate, split-second decisions about how to respond.
This is arguably the best opening I’m going to get to escape.
It’s now or never.
So I go for it.
As I feel his arm slacken and his body twist away from me, I fire my elbow back into him with all the force I can muster. It doesn’t land in his stomach, which I hoped it would in order to wind him, but it does make contact – possibly hitting his ribcage – and I feel him fall further back from me at the same time as he yelps in pain.
It’s enough.
I sprint ahead as quickly as I can, pulling away from him. But when I look back after what must be a few seconds, I see he’s coming after me: red bobble hat discarded on the pavement behind him and knife now on full display, glinting in the headlights of a passing car.
He’s gaining fast.
‘You’re a dead man!’ he shouts, apparently no longer bothered about hiding his intentions from other people.
Shit.
There’s no one in view on this side of the road, but a couple of pedestrians on the opposite pavement have stopped walking and are gaping in our direction. We’re also attracting plenty of rubberneckers in passing vehicles, and yet no one is actually stopping or doing anything to help me.
Can I blame them? Would I intervene if I saw someone being chased by a knifeman?
‘Somebody help me!’ I cry out. ‘Call the police.’
The echoing sound of his heavy boots pounding the pavement behind me fills me with dread and despair. He’s so damn close now I can even hear the rapid pace of his breathing. I want to go faster – to push myself harder – but this is all I’ve got.
I already know it’s not going to be enough.
If only I’d winded him like I wanted to. That might have made the difference.
As soon as I feel the kick of his boot in the back of my knees, I know it’s all over. Time crawls again as my legs crumple and, instinctively, I throw my arms forward in a bid to soften the impact of hitting the pavement on the rest of my body. Then bang: pain everywhere as I hit the ground running, in the most literal sense, only to be pounced on a second later and thumped on the chin by Moxie.
‘You’re going to regret that,’ he pants, punching me again, on my cheek this time, as I bite my tongue and my mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood.
Why is no
one helping me?
We’re in a public place, but not a soul is stepping in.
Out of nowhere, a sense of fury swells in my belly and surges through my chest. Fired up by the injustice of what’s happening here and a desperate sense that if I don’t fight back now, it could be curtains for me, I let out a guttural yell and headbutt my attacker in the nose. He cries out in pain, cursing and staggering backwards, holding his free hand up to his freshly injured snout.
Where did that come from?
I didn’t think I had such an aggressive move in me.
It’s done the trick, though. He’s no longer on top of me and … oh crap.
He still has the knife.
He’s coming back at me now, pure fury burning in the heart of his saucer-like eyes.
And he’s holding the knife like he’s about to …
‘No, no, please! Not that. I’m sorry. Please don’t. You can have—’
CHAPTER 25
‘How are you, Luke?’
I turn my head to the left and admire Iris’s beautiful brown eyes, brimming with warmth and kindness. Is that why her parents named her so?
Possibly. And yet it could be after the plant, or the Greek goddess of the rainbow and messenger of the gods; maybe they simply liked the sound of the name.
‘Good, thanks,’ I tell her, looking down for a moment at our bare ankles and feet, soaking in the warm water as we sit next to each other on the side of the swimming pool, sun beating down.
She replies with a smile.
‘Why do you ask?’ I say after a brief pause.
‘Why do you think?’
‘Hmm. Something feels a bit off to me. Or am I imagining it?’
Iris, wrapped in her customary yellow raincoat, shrugs. Not very helpful.
‘Can I ask you a strange question?’ I say.
‘Of course.’
‘How did I get here? I don’t remember.’
I’ve been to this place before, plenty of times. That’s how recurring dreams work. But in the past, I’ve always had to find my way to the garden via the flat’s unused secret annexe and its unsettling rooms: furnished but empty of life. I can’t think of a previous instance when I’ve simply appeared by the pool in such a way.
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