Finding Eva: a thrilling psychological suspense

by J. A. Baker

  Only when they disappear around the corner do I make my move. My legs are still weak with shock, my innards still churning but it won’t stop me. I won’t let it. I need to catch up. I have no idea whether or not I’ll see him now but I have a pretty good idea of where he was headed. I have to get there before him. I have to stop him. I cannot even believe that he is here at all. It never occurred to me that he would make this visit and yet when I think about it, it’s the obvious thing for him to do.

  With my chest so tight it feels as if it’s about to burst open, I break into a run and head towards the top of the street where I turn sharp left and bear towards North Terrace. I stop to catch my breath and stare into the distance, trying to focus properly, the glare of the sun causing me to squint and turn away.

  I continue on. I’ve come too far to stop. This isn’t how I planned it but if I don’t go through with it now, I fear I never will. I have things that need to be said, questions that need to be asked. So many years of unspoken words brewing up inside me, I am in danger of it boiling over and spewing out uncontrolled; a cauldron of hate and fear and loneliness running free and I don’t want that. I have worked too hard to make sure this whole thing goes the way I want it to. There is no way I am about to let it all slip away.

  I pick up my pace once more and run as fast as I can before I stop, pain coursing through me, thousands of needles stabbing at my ribcage. Years of fast food and limited exercise have taken their toll. In no time at all I am doubled over and breathless. I bring my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun and let out a small gasp. He is there, just yards ahead of me, and he is staring straight at me, his face filled with horror and rage.

  Gareth.

  My heart batters wildly as he turns and walks towards me. Pure terror creeps its way up my throat, choking me with its intensity. I have never seen him look so angry before. His features are distorted and his face is blood red as he runs towards me, his arms pumping at his sides, his hands formed into tight, hard fists that look capable of just about anything, including damaging me. I don’t know this person; I don’t recognise any of this anger. This is not the Gareth I remember, the gentle, carefree soul who held me in his arms; this is a man with a charred soul who will obviously do anything to get back at me. Anything.

  Without a second thought, I turn and run as fast as I can. Unfit or not, the look on Gareth’s face is enough to keep me going, to force me back to where I came from, through the side streets where hopefully I can lose him and stay safe. It doesn’t work. I don’t need to look behind me to see him gaining on me; I can hear his footsteps hard against the concrete, moving faster and faster. I visualise his face – that solid, handsome expression bent into something ugly by my deception, by what I did to him.

  We weave through the back streets, my feet aching, my limbs burning. I don’t slow down. I run onto Wellington Terrace and cut through Mount Square. I soon realise my mistake. It’s a narrow alley and is completely isolated. He could do anything to me here and nobody would see a thing. With a small shriek, I tear my sweater off and throw it behind me. Perspiration courses down my back but without an added layer of clothing making me hot and uncomfortable, I feel more capable of running.

  ‘Stop!’

  Gareth’s voice echoes behind me, bouncing off the walls, ricocheting around the confined space we are in. I ignore him. I cannot listen to anything he says now. He means me harm; I can just tell. I will not be persuaded by his charms or his soothing voice. I need to get back home before he catches me and something happens that we both regret.

  I run even faster, flames licking up through my calves and into my thighs, continuing through my torso and punching into my chest, hot and vicious like churning swirling lava. No time to stop. I have to keep going. I need to get to the bridge in order to get home. A thought comes to me in a great sickening swell. What if the bridge has been raised to let a boat through? What then? How in God’s name will I get home? There is no other way over the river on foot. Not unless I fancy making the trek to the main road which is over a mile away, and then I would have to walk back up into town by which time I would be exhausted and Gareth would very probably have his big strong hands wrapped around my neck. Despite the heat billowing out from my clothes and burning torso, I shiver at the thought of it. Were it not for the fact that it is happening to me, this would be rather droll – racing through the town, surrounded by tourists and Goths, and being followed by a man who I am certain wants to kill me. It isn’t funny, however. This is deadly serious, and I have caused it.

  All of this is my fault.

  I barrel out of the alleyway and turn left and then sharp right. He is still behind me. I have no idea if he is getting any closer and am too terrified and exhausted to look. I just need to keep going. Drawing on reserves of strength I didn’t realise I possessed, I run down Cliff Street towards Flowergate. It will be wider there with more people. I can immerse myself in the swarms of tourists. There is no way he can continue chasing me once we reach that part of town. There will be too much going on, too much noise and movement. A chase through such a busy area is unthinkable.

  I hear his footsteps behind and feel my blood freeze as he roars at me once more.

  ‘Eva!’

  I don’t slow down. His voice is losing its impetus. He is getting tired. The anger is still there however and I can’t face his wrath. I no longer recognise who he is. I have done so much damage to him, instilled him with so much hatred towards me that it terrifies me. I’m not surprised really. There are days when I terrify myself with what I have done. Too late to change anything now. I did it and wish every single day that I hadn’t, but I can’t turn back time, can I? What’s done is done and cannot be undone.

  The road seems to go on for miles, every bone and muscle in my body screaming out in pain and threatening to seize up at any second. I pray for my own skin and blood to not let me down. Just this once – please keep me safe and let me get home in one piece.

  ‘Stop!’

  I don’t, even though his voice is softer now. It’s more of a beckoning than a command. Gareth is a charmer and will use all his powers of persuasion to make me turn around and face him. It’s not going to happen. Instead I move even faster, my muscles locked into position.

  Only when I near the end of the tiny road do I slow down. There are people out there. I can see them through the thin gap at the end of the terrace. They will hide me, keep me safe. I will melt into them and disappear.

  With as much delicacy as I can muster, I slow right down and turn into the wider road, my legs glad of the rest, my lungs still burning from the exertion. It’s packed with people who will protect me. Even Gareth with his simmering hatred wouldn’t risk doing anything rash out here. Or at least I hope not.

  I turn left and slip through a gathering of tourists who are listening intently to a tour guide, nodding gleefully at the tales of the shipwrecks and smugglers and ne’er do wells that frequented the place many moons ago. If I can just keep on going, keep up a brisk pace that doesn’t draw any attention to my plight, then I feel hopeful that I might just make it home safely.

  Daring to glance behind me, I can see Gareth’s head bobbing through the crowds, his tousled fringe flopping about in front of his eyes. His height makes him easy to spot. I watch as he runs his hand through his dark hair, dragging it back to push it into place. He stops, narrows his eyes and stares at me. I go cold. He is a good fifty feet away. Far enough for me to hide but close enough to make me frightened. I need to keep going. I have to lose him. I do not want him knowing where I live.

  We emerge onto the main road next to the harbour and I almost weep as I see the bridge directly ahead of me. My apartment is so close I can almost see it. So close, so very, very close.

  I lean my body forward and gently push past the people standing, leaning on the railings and staring over at the water below. Got to keep moving. I have to keep moving. Every step I take gets me closer to home and that’s where I want to be. That’
s where I will feel safe.

  I grit my teeth and almost cry out loud for people to move, to get out of my way. I feel as if I’m pushing against the tide. Out of nowhere, a group of teenagers decked out in garish Goth attire steps out in front of me, almost knocking me to the floor.

  ‘Sorry, missus!’ one of them shouts, a streak of genuine remorse in his voice as he holds out his hand to steady me.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say, the exasperation in my tone difficult to conceal. I pull away from them and see the shocked expressions on their faces as I gallop off leaving them standing there in a whispering huddle. No time for social graces. Every second wasted puts Gareth a second closer to me, putting me in danger.

  I turn up Church Street, my pace hindered by the cobbles underfoot. Damn. But then if I’m struggling to run, so is he. We’ll be disadvantaged together. Except I know this street and I know the side alley that conceals my door. If I can vanish into it without him seeing me, he will continue straight ahead and end up wondering where I went. I feel flushed with excitement at having a slight lead over him.

  With heavy legs I forge on, the base of my back screaming at me to stop, my calves threatening to go into a spasm at any moment. Nearly there. Just a few more steps and I can do it.

  It all happens before my brain has time to register what is going on. At the last minute, my exhausted body folds in on itself. Whether I slip on a loose stone or my legs simply give up on me I don’t know, but before I can stop it, I am down on the floor surrounded by a gaggle of people who are hovering over me. Their words are muffled by the screaming in my head as I look up to see Gareth behind them, waiting, smiling. My stomach leaps up and down, and for a second I fear I might vomit. I wipe beads of sweat away from my brow and feel a pair of strong arms being placed under mine. Slowly, I am hoisted to my feet by two burly looking men who I guess are in their sixties. I’m not sure whether or not I feel terrified or elated by their presence. I mumble my thanks and assure them that nothing is broken. I find myself hoping that they hang around until I get to my turn off into the alleyway. I feel more protected with them here. They don’t. Instead they stroll off away from me and suddenly I feel very exposed. I can’t bring myself to look again but feel sure that Gareth is so close we could reach out and touch one another.

  My movements are awkward and I feel as if I am submerged underwater as I walk home. My legs tremble and buckle under me and it seems to take forever to move the smallest of distances. I just know that somewhere behind me, Gareth is watching. He may even be directly behind me. I don’t turn to see. I just keep hobbling along, weak with fear and self-pity. A thin trickle of blood runs down my trouser leg, the scarlet line a vivid reminder of my clumsiness. I’ve lost. Gareth is here and he is following me. The terrible mistake I made is about to crack right open, here outside my front door. The revenge he wants is here for the taking.

  I swing round, ready to meet with his icy stare. It doesn’t happen. Instead I am met with an almost-empty street. A pulse thrums in my neck as my eyes dart about all around me. There is nothing. He has gone.

  My already-weakened legs turn to jelly. I hang onto a nearby wall for balance and stagger to the exit of the alleyway that leads to my door. Ignoring the concerned and puzzled glances from a handful of pensioners that are making their way up the street, I rummage in my pocket for my keys, gripping them tightly to avoid having to bend down if I drop them. My hands are shaking violently and I am sure that if I were to bend over I would never get back up again. I have never felt so tired.

  I slot the key into the lock and turn it slowly, relishing the sensation of the blast of warmth that greets me as I push the door open and step inside. For a second, I am convinced somebody is behind me. Sucking in my breath, I crane my neck, my spine clicking with every infinitesimal movement. There is nobody. I quickly lock the door, shake my head and laugh so loudly it echoes around the empty flat. It’s a shrieking, hysterical giggle that turns into hot, uncontrollable tears. They pour down my face, dripping onto the floor in tiny, dark orbs.

  I give the door a firm tug to make sure it’s locked then gently pull myself upstairs using the handrail. I feel a hundred years old by the time I get to the top. Blood is smeared on my beige jeans covering the front of my left leg, and I am beyond exhausted. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and what I see is a far cry from the well-groomed individual I was when I left the flat this morning. My hair hangs in rats’ tails and sweat glistens on my face. A streak of oily black mascara is running down under my right eye and to top it all, my nose is running; a stream of snot trailing down over my top lip. I am so hideous I even scare myself.

  Staggering over to the sofa, I make to slump down on it then think of the stain my bloody leg will leave on the fabric and opt for a sturdy dining chair instead.

  Part of me cannot believe what has just happened. The whole thing was ludicrous, farcical even, and yet another part of me thinks that I should have expected it. If I had thought it through properly and not been so impulsive, I should have known that at some point Gareth would make his way here. Bumping into him was unfortunate yet inevitable.

  I bite hard on my lip to stop it trembling. I’m home now; no more tears are needed and yet they are hard to stop. They continue to roll, like a dam that has been building for a long time and has burst with such ferocity, it is almost impossible to hold back.

  I rub at my face and place the heel of my hands over my eyes, pressing down firmly until I eventually regain some sort of control over the incessant weeping. I feel like a small child desperate for comfort from its mother.

  Standing up, I decide to run a bath to clean my leg. I also need to put my jeans in to soak before the stain sets in as a permanent fixture on the fabric.

  I lean down to pull them off then stop and walk towards the window. It’s just as I’m about to close the blinds that it happens. A tiny flicker in the distance, the smallest of movements out there on the street, but I see it. My pulse races once more as I watch the dark-haired figure step out of the doorway opposite and look up at me. And there he is – Gareth – staring, his chiselled features set like stone, his eyes piercing through to my very soul.

  I let out a small shriek and my hand flies up to my mouth as I watch his expression change to mild amusement.

  He finds this funny?

  I close my eyes and when I open them again, he has turned his back and is strolling down the street, his hands slung deep into his pockets as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  I lean against the wall and slide down onto the floor in an ungainly heap, my legs, hands, even my face shaking in fear. My skin feels slack and fragile; so loose it could melt away from my bones at any time. I hug my knees to stop them vibrating, my teeth are chattering rhythmically as I rest my chin on my kneecaps.

  I stay in that position for so long my entire lower half goes numb.

  Gareth.

  He is all I can think about as I drag myself up and half walk, half crawl towards the bathroom. I no longer care about leaving bloodstains everywhere. There are worse things in life. Like Gareth and his untethered hatred.

  Another sob rises and erupts out of me in a child-like hiccup. I try to stop it, but once it takes hold of me there is no stopping it. I tried so hard to lose him, to wind my way through the backstreets, to disappear into the crowds, but it didn’t happen. I lost my cool, staggered and fell, and that fall will cost me dearly because Gareth is here, in town, still furious, still ready to go to any lengths to get to me.

  And now he knows where I live.

  15

  Gareth

  He thought it was all over before it had even begun after that collision on the platform. He genuinely thought it was her – Eva. It was the long, red hair that fooled him; more than just the hair actually. She had the same slim build, the same mannerisms. He saw her from a distance as he got off the train and it was only as he approached her that it became apparent it was somebody else and not Eva at all. It was too late at
that point. He was already on the move, his body angled towards her like a hunter ready to trap its prey. It was all he had thought about on the journey there; meeting Eva and the look on her face when she realised he was in town. He wants to see that raw fear in her eyes; to see her tremble as he closes in on her. He wants her to feel the shame he now feels every day.

  He should have known that it was somebody else, and with hindsight he’s pleased it was. What would he have done or said right there in the train station in full view of all the passengers? He had no plan, no real idea of how he was going to handle the situation, so instead he charged past her, mildly embarrassed by his mistake, and kept on going until he was out on the pavement where he slowed down and tried to regain some sort of semblance of normality, straightening his jacket and slowing his pace to a leisurely walk.

  He had looked around the seafront once he was in the light, and it came as no surprise that nothing had changed since he had left. Why would it? Whitby has stayed the same for hundreds of years so it’s not likely to alter that much in his absence. Apart from a smattering of shops that have sprung up, everything was pretty much as it was when he left well over a decade ago. Still as many tourists cluttering up the place. He had stared at the many Goths touring about the area in their weird get ups with their pale faces. He and his mates had found them entertaining as kids and followed them around town asking them all manner of daft questions, nearly all of which involved having sex with vampires. Had they ever done it with Dracula? What was it like to French kiss somebody who had elephant tusks as teeth? Stupid, childish, schoolboy stuff that never failed to entertain their unsophisticated minds and feed their insatiable curiosity about sex.