Jane watched Paula’s retreating back. Damn, she thought. Now she’s pissed off with me. ‘Milk, no sugar,’ she called, just to keep the conversation going. ‘I’ll get a chain for the door tomorrow, OK?’
‘And report last night to the police?’
‘OK, OK.’ Jane took another swipe at the wall. It was almost finished.
After a moment Paula came back out of the kitchen. ‘And promise you’ll phone them the instant he comes back?’
‘That too.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
* * * *
Nothing that night. Nothing the night after. Jane started to think it had been a one off. The night after that she was putting a poster up by the front door when she heard the noise again.
She turned and saw his eyes. Blue eyes in a strip of white skin. She got an impression of thick eyebrows, heavy cheekbones. The moment dragged on. I’m out of his line of sight, she thought. The chain, purchased the day before, lay on the kitchen table; despite her promise to Paula, she had forgotten to fit it. Idiot, she thought fiercely at herself.
She heard him say something, but the door muffled the sound. It was enough to break the spell, though.
‘Fuck off, you bastard!’ she shouted, and was pleased at how strong her voice sounded.
The letter-box swung shut. She reached for the phone and punched 999, was appalled at how long it took first to get an answer, then to be put through. What do I say, she wondered as she waited. Please, someone just came and looked through my letter-box, but he’s gone now, so it’s all right?
‘I think someone is trying to break into my flat,’ she said when they would let her. She listened numbly as the police telephonist told her someone would be there soon, that she must not let anyone in.
She stood by the door until the police arrived: three of them, two men and a woman, not much older than she was.
‘Not much we can do without a description, love,’ one of the men said.
‘Once you’ve got the chain fitted, you could try opening the door to get a look at him,’ said the other.
Sure, Jane thought. Sure.
‘If you could keep him talking for a while, we might have a chance to get here before he goes,’ said the first man. ‘The main thing is to keep calm and not do anything that might make him angry. I don’t want to frighten you, but if he decides to hang about. . .’
Christ, that never even occurred to me . . . Jane made a conscious effort to unclench her fists, noting the sharp look the woman gave him.
‘We’ll catch him sooner or later, love,’ the woman said. ‘We’ve got a very strong presence on this estate. Just give us time.’
* * * *
That night she dreamed of him. His eyes, caught by the moonlight, stared out of the darkness at her. Giant shadows jumped on the green walls behind him as he came towards her. Light glinted on the knife he carried . . .
Her foot slid on the stair and she fell, twisting, towards him. His mouth opened, and he started to speak, but she knew she must not listen. Her scream cut the night. She woke, trembling and sweating, and did not sleep again.
* * * *
Jane slept late the next day. When she did get up she was gritty-eyed and irritable. She wandered from room to room in the flat as if it were a cage. She couldn’t bring herself to do any more painting or unpacking, and she knew she ought to fit the chain on the door. She ended up slumped in the sofa drinking cup after cup of tea. All her energy had gone. A job application stared up at her from the coffee table. There were vacancies for assistants at the local library. She had been really excited when she saw the advert. Now she felt that even trying to fill out the form was tantamount to asking for a kick in the teeth.
She was supposed to meet Paula in the pub at seven. She thought about calling her to cancel, but she knew it would lead to an argument. Paula would ask about the chain. She knew it. She hauled herself up and forced herself to fit it. It took far longer than she had expected, what with trying to line the two halves of it up and sorting out the right screws.
‘Oh sod this,’ she muttered; then wondered if he were on the other side of the door listening.
She did get it done in the end, and immediately felt much more secure. At least the door was the only way into the flat. She grinned: she’d make it a fortress if she had to.
The hallway outside was empty. Jane shivered as she fumbled to double lock her door. The fluorescent light cast harsh, multiple shadows on the institutional green walls. It’s like a prison corridor, she thought; and then: If I screamed for help, I wonder if anyone would come. A vision flashed through her mind. She was lying on the floor, T-shirt stained with blood. But then her eyes opened, turned from brown to blue: blue eyes set in a wide-cheekboned face. In her dream he had tried to speak to her. Now his mouth hung slackly open. She bit her lip and the vision passed.
Determinedly, she set off down the corridor. Her footsteps rang around the hall as if it were an echo chamber. Bloody prison, she thought.
The dog in the flat opposite started to bark; by the sound of it, a Doberman or a Rottweiler, maybe even a pitbull. Jane was out in the stairwell before she realized just how used to that sound she had become in a short space of time. The damned dog barked every time anyone walked past. But when her visitor came, it had made no sound at all.
She tried not to think about it as she got outside, as she pushed past the two old men sharing a bottle of cider on the steps, as she crossed the road to avoid the knot of kids outside the chip shop.
The others were already in the pub. She got herself a half of bitter and a stool in that order.
‘Hi Paula. Kath . . . Dave.’ She never had liked him. She turned to talk to some of the others. She felt much more secure now she was surrounded by friends. ‘How you doing, Phil? Anita?’
‘Hi, Jane,’ Dave said from behind her. ‘How’s your midnight crawler, then?’
Sensitive as a brick wall, as always Jane thought. ‘You’d probably have more idea than I do,’ she said, wishing she could come up with a wittier put-down. ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe he lives in the block.’
‘Oh surely not.’ That was Kath. She always had been too innocent for her own good.
‘Well, the dog opposite didn’t bark, and I didn’t hear the stair doors slam, so -’
‘This dog, does it bark at everyone?’ It was Phil, being as reasonable as ever.’
‘I told you it does -’ Jane snapped.
‘What, the postman, the caretaker -’
‘Yes,’ she said irritably. She sipped her beer. He had a point, she decided after a moment. He usually did. ‘No,’ she conceded. ‘Actually, it doesn’t.’
‘So maybe it isn’t one of your neighbours. Maybe the dog only barks at you because it isn’t used to you yet . . . Get you another?’ He pointed at her drink.
She shook her head. Phil went up to the bar.
‘Still, this creep must have hung around for a while, if the dog’s used to him,’ Dave said as soon as Phil had gone. Jane scowled. ‘Sorry. Just trying to cover all the bases.’ He took a pull at his lager before he went on, ‘But he must be a genuine weirdo, I mean, what the hell’s he getting out of it? It isn’t like he’s watching your bedroom or anything . . .’
‘Thanks a million, Dave,’ Jane said. She turned away from him deliberately.
‘I reckon you ought to squirt an aerosol in the bastard’s face. That’d convince him to look for easier pickings,’ Anita said.
‘The police told me not to -’ Jane began, but her voice was drowned out by all the others chipping in.
‘Paint. . .’
‘I still think jabbing a knife at his eyes . . .’
‘Wire a battery up, give the so and so a good jolt.’
‘We could ambush him -’
‘But paint. . .’
‘- If there was somewhere to wait.’
‘You ought to tell the police.’
‘...Or indelible ink . . .’
In the end she just sat there and let it all roll over her. A spontaneous silence fell, in which she became aware that her hands were clenched round her glass, that she was frowning.
‘C’mon, Janie. Tell us what you’re going to do about the son of a bitch.’ It was Dave. It would be Dave.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to live my life. He’ll get bored and go away eventually, I’m sure.’ She looked hard at Dave. ‘And I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to panic. I’m not going to let him scare me away. And I’m not going to let you lot hype me into doing something stupid that would end up with me in trouble.’ She slammed her glass down. Beer slopped over her hand.
‘Jane, for God’s sake listen. We’re just worried about you -’ Paula put her hand out toward Jane.
‘No, you listen. Maybe you think I ought to be afraid, and maybe you’re right. But all I know is as long as there’s a solid door between him and me - and he runs off if I shout at him - I’m not as bothered as you all appear to want me to be. And that’s just tough.’ She stood up. ‘Night everyone. See you around.’
‘Jane -’ It was Paula. Jane ignored her. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking. Maybe you should ask your neighbours if they’ve seen anyone hanging around.’
‘No.’ The very thought appalled Jane, though she couldn’t have explained why. ‘Supposing he does live there? I wouldn’t want him to think he’s got me rattled. That would probably just turn him on.’
‘And if you do nothing, that’s playing into his hands too. But go ahead, be a victim. See if I care.’
She always has known how to press my buttons, Jane thought. ‘Be a victim? You just don’t ever listen, do you Paula? Letting him think I’m running scared - now that would be giving in to him, and that would be being a victim.’
‘But you can’t just let this go on. You have to do something -’
‘Cause if I don’t, you’re going to nag me to death?’
‘If I have to,’ Paula said. Her eyes glinted dangerously. Jane knew she wasn’t joking.
‘OK, mama. Anything for a quiet life.’ I can always plead self-defence, Jane thought.
‘Good. I’ll come with you, if you like.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Tomorrow,’ Jane said. She turned and walked away.
‘Don’t you want me to see you home?’ Paula called.
‘I’m all grown up. I’ll manage,’ Jane said over her shoulder, then immediately wished she hadn’t.
She stayed furious all the way home. Furious that they couldn’t see that she was doing everything she could; furious at herself for not being certain of herself.
As she climbed the stairs, it occurred to her that he might be there - that she might catch him in the act. The way the corridor was arranged she could be almost on top of him before he noticed her. But there was only the echoing silence, the rasp of her own breathing. She went on, slowly at first. She came out into the hallway and made sure the stair door banged loudly: she wanted to give him time to get away. The dog began to bark. She almost ran to her flat. The letter-box was firmly shut.
She got inside and checked the locks. The chain too. She made a pot of tea and took it into the front room, intending to meditate before bed. Perhaps then she wouldn’t dream. It seemed such a shame when getting the flat at all had been such a piece of luck. She stared at the bare windows. Curtains. In the circumstances maybe she ought to get some after all. Or perhaps blinds would be better . . .
A few moments later she came to with a start, realizing she had drifted off. Something was moving on the balcony. Shadows made by car headlights, she told herself firmly. That’s a very busy road out there. But no sound broke the silence. She did not move; realized she was scarcely breathing.
But something was out there. She was sure now: there was the outline of a head, an arm. A hand, surely holding something - a brick? - coming towards the pane of glass. A mouth, wide open to shout, indistinct through the glass. ‘Pah . . . seh . . .’ Prostitute? she wondered. Does he think I’m one? She had heard of serial killers who had fixated on them.
She heard herself scream, then launched herself towards the balcony door. There was nothing there except the weeds in the window box, swaying gently in the night.
She slumped against the door for a long while, knowing she was crying and hating herself for it.
Eventually she dragged herself to bed. She did not undress. She kept thinking she would wake up to find him standing over her, with his blue eyes illuminated by the moonlight. She dozed, fitfully; confused dreams of the man - in the alley, with his mouth open to shout, and his hand coming towards her - and of something moving on the balcony. The last dream was the worst, and she woke knowing she had smelled blood, that it had covered her face and hands and T-shirt.
On her way to the bathroom she touched the letter-box - just out of curiosity, of course. It was open. It’s nothing, she thought. Nothing the wind couldn’t have done. But it wasn’t the wind, and she knew it.
* * * *
That evening Paula came round and they went knocking on doors. Jane hung back at first, but so few people answered that she stopped worrying.
As they got closer to her flat, she started to get nervous again. The Rottweiler started to bark. It didn’t help. There were six doors left; then four; then only the one opposite Jane’s, where the dog was.
‘Might as well get it over with,’ Paula said cheerfully as she went up to the door. Inside, they could hear the dog going wild. ‘Bet it bites my hand off.’
Jane realized Paula was watching her. To hell with her thinking I’m a wimp, Jane thought. She pushed past Paula and knocked on the last door herself.
Nothing happened for a moment. Then a harsh male voice shouted something. Claws scrabbled on a hard surface, and the barking died away. The door opened. The man that stood there was six feet plus. His sleeveless T-shirt did nothing to conceal his body-builder’s muscles.
Jane stared up at him, at the wild hank of greying hair and thick moustache; at the wide cheekbones. And he stared back out of blue, blue eyes.
With a jolt Jane realized he had spoken to her moments before. Paula answered, but it was as if she were in slow motion. The sounds were dragged out and unintelligible. The man replied. Jane saw his lips stretch out around the words. Then it was as if he split in two: the person she could see, and the figure from her dream, with blood splattered over him, and his mouth opening wide. ‘Prostitute,’ he called out. ‘Prostitute.’ The light glinted on his knife blade. She understood with sudden clarity that she was seeing the future: that she was bound to it, to the moment when he would come towards her, unavoidably come towards her with that knife, and that after that there would be no more future for her . . .
. . . but it wasn’t his knife, it was his belt buckle, and already the door was closing, hiding his eyes from her. She stepped back, realized she was going to fall and put her hand out to stop herself.
‘Well that’s that, I guess.’ Paula’s voice was shockingly normal. Jane couldn’t speak. She stared at Paula, who frowned. ‘What’s up? You look terrible.’
‘That was him.’ The wall was cool against Jane’s back. She let herself rest against it. Her mouth had gone dry, and she felt as if she were floating three feet above her own skull.
‘Don’t be daft. You’re letting this get to you.’
‘Inside,’ Jane said, suddenly realizing that he might be listening to every word they said. She pushed herself off from the wall, and by concentrating very hard, was able to get into her own flat without too much trouble.
Paula followed. ‘Tea,’ she said. It was a command, not a question, and without waiting for an answer she filled the kettle. Jane sat on the sofa with her head in her hands. She wondered if she was about to be sick; no doubt Paula would clean up very efficiently after her. Sometimes Paula was just too wonderful to be true.
‘I’m telling you, that was him,’ she said a little later. ‘I know.’
‘Not when he looked through the letter-box, no.’
‘Well for God’s - if you saw him some other time, why didn’t you tell me? You’ll have to phone the police you know.’
‘I can’t,’ Jane said. She stared at Paula over her tea, then took a sip to steady herself. ‘I only saw him in a dream.’
‘A dream? Oh for pity’s sake. Next you’ll tell me your horoscope said to beware of a tall dark stranger -’
‘Don’t laugh at me. Don’t. He was in my dream. Not just anyone. Him. Waiting for me on the stairs. He had a knife and there was blood everywhere. He called me a prostitute. It’s going to happen, Paula. I know it. And there won’t be anything you or I can do to stop it.’
London Noir - [Anthology] Page 23