Paula put her hand on Jane’s. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can see you’re strung out. You should -’
Jane shrugged her hand away. ‘You can piss off if you’re going to be so condescending. Anyway, maybe I’ll go to the police tomorrow.’
‘Sorry,’ Paula repeated. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘I won’t mention my dream then. Satisfied?’
* * * *
Jane woke next morning drenched in sweat and muggy from the echoes of fast fading dreams. She got up intending to go straight to the police station, but somehow the morning slipped by. It was only when she found herself sorting her books alphabetically that she admitted that she did not want to go out. Suppose he was watching out for her? Suppose he followed her?
Straight to the police station, you daft cow? she thought; and with that she put her coat on and left. There was no one around.
The police were politely dismissive. She would need more evidence, because it was such a serious charge, they said; phone them if anything happened. The duty officer had pale skin and spots. He looked about fifteen. Jane nodded at him, quite unable to speak. Then she turned and stumbled out of the claustrophobic reception, into the hazy sunshine.
Panic took her. She knew she couldn’t go home. Not yet, when he might be waiting for her. Instead she went to a burger bar and nursed a cup of tea through a full hour.
She was calmer after that. The thought of climbing the stairs to her flat no longer made her pulse race. She went home by way of Portobello Road, where she found some old velveteen curtains on one of the stalls. They were pricey but worth it. A stall selling kitchen equipment caught her eye next. They had knives there. Big knives, little knives, all very sharp and very cheap: so the stallholder told her. She stood in the middle of the road with her arms crossed over her body and her head down, trying to think.
A knife would be good protection, but carrying one about with her didn’t seem like a good idea. Perhaps she had been standing there too long, because suddenly the stallholder held a knife in a blister pack out to her. For a moment she thought of taking it; she could almost feel the extra confidence it would give her. But the moment passed quickly. Didn’t they say attackers often turned knives on their owners? Maybe that’s what would happen. Besides, there were probably laws against carrying a knife around in your pocket. She shook her head, ignoring the stallholder’s scowl.
She went instead to the chemist, where she bought a can of hairspray. You can’t get arrested for owning a can of hairspray.
* * * *
She hung the curtains as soon as she got in. There was enough material to cover the front door as well as the windows. When she had finished, she went outside and looked through the letter-box. She could see nothing but a few square inches of lining material.
‘Let’s see you get your jollies now, you bastard,’ she said aloud, then looked around almost guiltily, convinced someone had heard.
When she went back inside she made sure she closed the flap again. That’s better, she thought, as she looked at it. She wondered if she would hear him at all through it. The thought of him wondering around outside without her knowing made her feel quite ill.
She had plenty to do. There was the bathroom to paint and some boxes of books that needed unpacking; and she still hadn’t filled out the application form for the library job. Nevertheless, she found herself mooching around, trying to read, failing to do the crossword, staring out of the window. And listening. All the time listening.
He’s won, she thought. I can’t live my life like this. Determinedly she picked up the application form. With a job she would be out of the flat in the day, and the money would mean she could go out at night. She worked at the form like nothing she she had done in a long time. First she made a rough draft, then set about copying everything over. Between trying to remember her exact O-level grades and all the casual jobs she had done since here she graduated, it took a long time.
She heard a faint metallic scraping. Her whole body jerked. The pen scrawled across the form, ruining it. She stared down at it and could have cried. All that work, all those dreams, all for nothing.
The noise came again. She ran to the door. The curtain billowed out, as if there were a breeze behind it; or perhaps as if he were trying to push it aside with a stick.
It took all her courage, but she grabbed hold of it and pulled it aside. Nothing. Gingerly, she touched the letter-box. It was firmly shut. Just the wind, blowing through the cracks around the door. Just the wind, and maybe she never had seen him in the first place. I’m not crazy, she thought. I did see him. I did. She slammed her hand against the door, once and then again and again. There had been no one there. How dare there be no one there when she had been so afraid?
* * * *
The nights that followed were sleepless. She kept the hairspray on the bed beside her. She would lie in the dark, every muscle tense, not quite touching it, straining to hear: and if she heard something, she would fight against the urge to get up and go and stand by the door, or perhaps to touch the letter-box.
In the mornings, sometimes she would find he had been, sometimes not: it did not matter anymore, for just the act of passing the door on the way to the bathroom was enough to start her shaking.
She spent her days half-asleep. Sometimes she dreamed of him: moonlight on his eyes, on his bright knife (she was sure now that he carried a knife), blood on her T-shirt; and always, his mouth opening around a word: puh . . . puh . . . Not prostitute, she realized. Please. He was begging her. Begging her to give in to him, perhaps, or to stop him.
After that she started to take the spray with her whenever she had to go out. It was only small, and it fitted easily into the deep side pocket of her jacket. She kept her hand on it as she passed his flat; in fact she never let go of it until she was out on the street.
She knew she ought to phone the police when he came, if only she could be certain he was really there. But it seemed pointless, and she could not bring herself to do it, any more than she could make herself ring Paula, but instead she disconnected the phone so she could not be contacted. The weight of the other woman’s concern would drag her down, she was sure. It would make what was happening more real, and if it was real she would have to be afraid of it. There would be no living with that fear.
There came a day when she was asleep on the sofa, and she woke to find him there. He was sprawled half over her, but his weight was nothing at all. His breath, strained through those big white teeth of his, was hot on her face. His hand pinioned her wrist, gripped it so hard she was sure the bones would grate together. There was something wet on her breasts. She twisted her head and saw that her shirt was covered in blood. She stared at it, stared at him. He was drenched in it. It covered his chest and arms and, she realized now, his hands. The spray was in the bedroom, where it could do her no good at all.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak she began to scream. Her only chance was if she could scare him off. It didn’t work. She could still hear him. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please don’t.’ He held a knife in his free hand, and it was covered in gore. He brought it up in front of her face as if to show it off to her. His eyes were wide and staring, filled with anger. Or was that terror? He was a crazy, impossible to read. Maybe he was scared of women. That would fit the pattern. She shoved hard, flailed with her legs to get some purchase on the cushions. If she could kick him in the groin -
Her eyes flicked open. Someone was banging on the door. No blood. There was no blood. So she was awake now, and that other had been a dream. She looked at her wrist. There were no marks. The banging came again.
She pulled herself up and staggered to the door. ‘Who is it?’ she called. ‘Who is it?’ They would have to tell her their name. She wouldn’t open the door unless they did. She didn’t have to.
‘Jane? It’s me. Paula.’
Jane started to unchain the door, when suddenly she realized that she had no way of being certain it r
eally was Paula. Suppose it was him? Suppose he’d said, ‘It’s Paul,’ not ‘It’s Paula.’ Or he might have heard her call Paula by name. While he was watching her.
‘Jane, for Christ’s sake open the door.’
Jane did so, reluctantly. She peered out of the two inch slit the chain allowed her. Paula was standing there, arms folded, looking impatient. She opened her mouth to speak, but then her face twisted, became his. His lips stretching round the words she could not understand, his blue eyes hot with anger. Blood blossomed on his shirt. He fell forwards and slid down the door with his hand clawing out towards her . . . and then he had gone, and there was only Paula.
‘God, you look awful girl,’ Paula said. ‘Come on, let me in.’ Jane fumbled with the chain. She led Paula into the living room and sat down on the sofa.
‘When was the last time you ate properly?’ Paula stared down at Jane. She sounded angry. Jane didn’t think she had a right to be angry.
‘Couldn’t be bothered,’ she muttered.
‘You should have rung me -’
‘I couldn’t -’
‘You should have told me -’
‘You didn’t believe me.’ Jane rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. It didn’t help.
‘What?’ Paula sounded genuinely puzzled.
‘I tried to tell you. About my dream. That it’s him, over there.’
‘This is my fault,’ Paula said. ‘I should have seen this coming. I think maybe you should see someone. Someone who can help you -’
‘The police said -’
‘Not the police. A counsellor. Something like that. I could ask at the Citizen’s Advice Bureau. Would you let me do that, Jane?’
‘You think I’m nuts.’ Flat statement. What else was there to say. ‘But I’m not. It’s him. Lurking around. He won’t even leave me alone when I’m asleep, did you know that?’ It was too much. The horror of it broke over her, and her tears exploded outwards so that there was no holding them back.
Paula held her hands while she cried, and rubbed her back and whispered to her as if she were a child.
* * * *
Paula stayed that night. She slept on the sofa. It made no difference. Jane lay staring into darkness illuminated only by the LED display on her clock. She saw his face, but she no longer knew what was dream and what was imagination. Had she ever seen that mole high up on his cheekbone before? She didn’t know. In her dream, or vision, he tried to speak to her. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please don’t -’
‘Please don’t what?’ she thought, as she woke to daylight and the sound of Paula moving around in the living room. ‘Please don’t come near me and make me murder you.’ That made sense. She would be happy to oblige. She got up, shrugged herself into a T-shirt and jeans.
‘Place was a pig-sty,’ Paula said. ‘I’ve tidied up a bit. Made some soup for lunch. You are going to eat, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Paula could be so unreasonable.
‘Also, I made free with your phone. We’re meeting the others at the pub at seven, so dig out your gladrags, girl.’
‘No.’ That was too much.
‘Yes. No arguments. I’ll be with you on the way, and we’ll all walk you back.’
‘No, I said.’ She tried and failed to stare Paula down.
‘You were the one that wasn’t going to let this thing beat you.’ The words were as effective as a slap in the face. Jane went to find a fresh T-shirt. The night was cool enough that her jacket would not seem out of place; and Paula didn’t need to know that she had slipped the can of hairspray in her pocket.
At the pub, no one mentioned the man, not even Dave. Jane hardly spoke. She just sat sipping diet Coke. She wished it were whisky, but she knew if she started on alcohol she wouldn’t stop.
Half way through the evening he walked in. Jane noticed him immediately. She tracked him as he went up to the bar and ordered a pint. The barman obviously knew him. He picked up his bitter and turned to find a seat. Even in the dim pub lighting his eyes were clear blue; and yes, he had a mole on his cheek, just where she had dreamed it. He noticed her. Looking away was impossible.
‘Evening,’ he said, cool as you might like, and smiled. How could he smile at her, knowing what he knew? Then he disappeared off into the shadows around the pool table.
Jane sat, as if frozen. She wanted to tell them -to tell Paula - that he was there. But they would think she was being stupid. Besides, she might break down again, and that would be intolerable in public. But when it was time for the next round, she asked for a whisky, and got it. And a couple more after that, too.
They left the pub a little after last orders. She felt warm and cheerful, and though she knew it was the whisky, she didn’t care. It was a beautiful night, cool enough for comfort with a sickle moon riding high in a clear sky, and she was with her friends. Maybe there was a problem, but she could solve it. She said as much as they walked home, and was surprised when Kath shushed her, telling her it was late and people would be sleeping.
When they got to the flats Paula wanted to go upstairs with her, but that was just stupid. What could happen to her so close to home? Besides, they had left him behind at the pub. What did Paula think he was, a magician?
She shrugged Paula’s hand away from her arm and went inside. As she closed the double doors she could see them drifting slowly away down the road. They were probably waiting for her to start yelling for help. Damn them.
There was something odd about the inner stairs. Something about the moonlight. She heard the door bang outside. She paused. There were footsteps on the steps below. Instantly she was dead sober. An old statistic flashed through her mind: eighty per cent of all rape occurs close to the victims’ homes; she wondered what the rate for murder was and cursed herself for a fool all at the same time as her hand clutched the hairspray in her jacket pocket.
She started to run up the stairs, and as the footsteps came closer, began to take them two at a time.
‘Wait,’ a male voice called out. His voice. She would have known it anywhere.
She was out of breath. There were too many stairs. Maybe Paula was right, and she should have been eating better. She grabbed the bannister to try and haul herself up. He touched her. She thought he did.
She had to see. She turned, and he was right behind her, staring at her out of blue eyes made bright by moonlight. He stretched his hand towards her and said something. Then it was as if the world split in two. She was both herself, and a shadow-Jane. Shadow-Jane pulled a knife out of her pocket. Jane felt the textured plastic of the handle superimposed on the cold smoothness of the can of hairspray as she took it out of her pocket, felt her heart thunder in double time, shadow-heart and real-heart slightly syncopated. Two men stood before her now, both holding out her purse like a peace-offering, both plainly caught in that moment before understanding turns to terror. She saw her hand holding the can of hair-spray, and another, translucent as a ghost, holding the knife.
’Christ,’ she thought. ‘This is what was supposed to happen . . .’
But the man - the men - were speaking. ‘Please don’t -’
And Jane thought, He doesn’t want to hurt me. My dream - I’m supposed to kill him, not the other way around - She felt shadow-Jane lunge forward with the knife extended, felt her own finger press down on the button of the can, all in the same instant that she thought, I don’t have to do this -
She jerked the can up, away from the man’s eyes. Hairspray hissed harmlessly into the dark, leaving the air pungent behind it. But the shadow-knife slid into the man’s chest.
Blood spurted everywhere. Shadow blood. On her T-shirt, on her hands. She felt shadow-Jane bite back hysteria; staring down at his blue dying eyes with mingled terror and exultation -
But he’s dying Jane thought. No matter what he was going to do, that can’t please you.
- at what she had escaped. Jane felt her shadow think, You can’t hurt me now, felt the laughter that was beginning to bubble out of
her throat. She felt herself beginning to laugh too. I don’t have to, she thought desperately. I don’t want to be a murderer —
But she could have been. She felt that darkness within herself, and she knew it. The man - the real man - was coming towards her, hands holding out her purse, saying words she couldn’t understand.
‘Don’t come near me,’ she said in panic. If he came near her, she would hurt him. Hadn’t all the others said she should hurt him? She could do it. Shadow-Jane had. Shadow-Jane was laughing in delight about it. But Shadow-Jane wasn’t there any more, she had slipped away into the darkness; the shadow-man too, and all his blood. Only the laughter remained, coming out of Jane’s throat, harsh and echoing, squeezing out sanity, leaving no room for thought.
London Noir - [Anthology] Page 24