Stalked―A psychological thriller.
Copyright Lorraine Taylor.
First published 2013.
Lorraine Taylor grew up in England with her parents, sister, dogs, cats, birds, fishes, and house-plants. When she was 16, she read her first adult horror fiction-Richard Laymon’s ‘Endless Night.’ Once the night terrors and obsessive checking-of-locks-phase was over, Lorraine knew she wanted to be a writer.
She currently lives with her husband, two children, two cats,a Newfoundland dog called KimmyBear, and a vivid imagination.
You can connect with her via her website www.lorrainetaylorwrites.com
Her blog www.lorrainetaylorwrites/blog.com
You can friend Lorraine on facebook here ― www.facebook.com/lorrainetales or via her social media profiles.
Stalked.
Prologue
Choices. They can affect the next minute, hour, year of your life. They affect where you go, what you do and whom you meet.
Choices.
The decision we make in a split second can even affect the rest of our life.
I made one such choice one evening as I sat in a bar. I was feeling rather sorry for myself and couldn’t wrap my head around my particular problem. (Yes it was a female problem―how did you guess?)
A combination of self-pity, self-loathing, worthlessness and a desire to indulge in these emotions whilst drinking lots of beer as my given right of a man used by the female of the species, I allowed the feeling to take over me.
I followed Michael from the bar that night, just to see where he was going without his beautiful fiancée
They say curiosity killed the cat.
They never warned it could kill the Dannys.
Chapter One
The night before…
I groaned as the rowdy group in the corner launched into another chorus of ‘New York, New York’, accompanied by a drunken tuneless daa daa da da da da daa daa daaaa!
It was a Thursday evening and usually the local pub was quiet, but this group had wandered in soon after I’d ordered my pint and taken a seat at the bar.
I supposed I could have gone to another pub; it wasn’t as if there was a shortage of them, but for the mood I was in, I preferred this pub.
The bartender was a sourly man who never engaged in small talk and never bought a round. Many bartenders I know seem to think that serving alcohol automatically qualifies them as trained psychologists. As soon as the cheeks of your ass hit the stool they would start asking questions: How was your day, what are your plans for the evening, what do you think of the weather, what colour underwear are you wearing.
Okay, not the underwear but you get my point.
Well, I was busy feeling sorry for myself and had come to have a few drinks, wallow in self-pity for a few hours then head home. I did not want to unload my personal problems on someone who didn’t actually give a damn in the first place, but mainly because I didn’t want to have to endure the smug, pitying smile that would surely follow when he learnt that the cause of my misery was a female .
Now these noisy idiots were intruding on my wallowing.
Just when I thought their singing couldn’t possibly get any worse, they launched into a rambled mega-drunk-mix of songs from the hit movie Grease. If I hadn’t felt so down, I might have found the group rather funny.
At that moment, I was far from amused.
I was concentrating on blocking them out, instead thinking of the reason of my misery―Becky―when another rowdy cheer rang out from the group, a chorus of ‘here they are’ and ‘the happy couple’ and a round of whistles.
I turned and saw a couple approaching the bar. Standing beside me, the young woman waved shyly at the group while the young man pumped his fist in the air then bowed deeply.
The couple appeared to be the same age as me, around their mid 20s. The woman was beautiful. Her long dark hair cascaded in shiny waves down her back and the tight dress she wore clung to her curves perfectly, making her look elegant and classy.
She had the kind of body that, as my brother Ricky would put it, a man could eat a three course meal off of and deliberately spill so he’d have to lick up after himself.
Her perfume encircled me and I actually imagined a scene from a cartoon, you know where the scent turns into a hand and beckons to the male to follow.
I’m not a pervert, I just notice attractive women.
Her male companion beckoned to the bartender. Equally as attractive as his lady friend, they were quite the golden couple.
I’m staring.
I studied my pint as the couple ordered their drinks: A pint of beer for him and a glass of white wine for her.
From the corner of my eye I saw the girl’s small, delicate hand close around the wine glass. Her left hand, I realised, as the large diamond glittered and shimmered in the light as it rested on her ring finger.
That’s what all the cheering is about, I thought, they’ve just got engaged.
A pang of jealousy hit me hard.
My God is this how low I’ve sunk, I’m jealous over complete strangers now?
It isn’t their fault I can’t hold a relationship down.
Without realising what I was doing, I turned my head and openly stared at the woman.
She really was stunning.
I remembered her shy smile and wave as her fiancee pumped his fist and bowed. Many women as attractive as she were complete shits. They acted like their beauty gave them the right to dump on everyone around them.
I liked the girls shyness and apparent dislike of being the centre of attention. There was a modesty about her that I found charming.
Suddenly, the girl turned and smiled at me. Her lips tight and her eyes troubled, it was not a friendly smile.
Embarrassed, I focused on my pint. In spite of my mortification, it confirmed in my mind that she wasn’t the I-love-me type. Those girls liked being stared at, indeed, they thought of themselves as the most beautiful creatures on God’s earth, why wouldn’t you stare?
The lucky bastard, I thought as the man slipped his arm around the girl’s slim waist and led her to the crowded table. A new chorus of cheers and congratulations rang out and I sighed.
At least someone is happy tonight.
I noticed the man immediately became the centre of attention. The girl had taken a seat and was smiling warmly and drinking her wine as the man stood, talking loudly and answering the many questions thrown his way.
I soon learnt his name: Michael.
What must it feel like to be so popular? To walk into a room and have everyone’s attention on you?
Suddenly The Feeling assaulted me, so powerful it took my breath away.
No!
No, no, no, no, no!
Not again, I’m better now. I don’t do this anymore!
I turned to watch the couple again and gritted my teeth.
I tried to force the feeling back down, watching the man and telling myself over and over again that he was a cocky, self-assured young man, no need to wonder about him, no need to get the feeling about him.
It wasn’t working.
I gritted my teeth so tightly my head began to ache.
No need for this, I’m happy and I don’t need to do this!
“Is there a problem?”
The sudden voice startled me from my thoughts. The sour-faced bartender stood staring at me, a frown of concern on his droopy face.
“No, of course not,” I replied as sweat popped from my brow and tickled its way down into my eyes.
The bartender looked over at the group then back to me. “You don’t get startin’ nothin’ in here, you hear me?” He tapped the back of my hand and grunted.
I looked down and realised my hands were so tightly fisted that my knuckles had tu
rned white.
“I’m warning ya,” the barman continued, “you start anythin’ in here and I’ll have the police here like that.” He clicked his fingers loudly in my face, nodded sternly then wandered to the far end of the bar.
For easily the 100th time, I cursed my looks, my size.
I’m tall; nearly six foot and very broad. My body is natural having never worked out a day in my life. No-one would ever think of me as a gym worshipper; I’m too thick around the middle, but the size of my arms and back would give some the idea that I may lift a few weights. I have a pleasant face with bright blue, though some say troubled eyes and a nice smile, but these features mean nothing when people insist on judging me based on my size alone.
If I was skinny and small would he have bothered me then?
I glanced at the man named Michael again then faced forward, feeling ever more sorry for myself. The unpleasant exchange with the barman, whom I now realised reminded me of a Basset Hound, had momentarily distracted me from my problem.
I need to go home, just leave now before this gets any worse.
I sighed heavily. I decided to think about Becky, although she didn’t exactly fill me with joy. She was the reason I was there that night, her and her selfish, strange behaviour that I just could not figure out.
We hadn’t been together long, just shy of two months, but we went back a long time to primary school. We had been good friends throughout high school, but had lost touch when we graduated, as often happens. A night out had reunited us and we’d started a fresh friendship for a few weeks until our relationship had become romantic.
I had been happy at first, happy to have a woman in my life whom I had known for years.
Unable to bring myself to trust many people, relationships, especially building new ones, had always been a problem for me. Relationships meant trust, sharing and a deep understanding of each other. I had no desire to share my past with anyone. As far as I was concerned, my life started at the age of nine when my aunt and uncle had taken me in. But if I were unwilling to share my past with a woman, how was she then to understand my moods, my scars, both the emotional and physical ones I carried. How was she to understand the nightmares that still tormented me through the dark nights. Even if she did accept my past, it wouldn’t help her, or anyone else for that matter, understand why I had sought out my mother just over 7 months ago and still saw her today.
Dark memories tried to surface, struggling through the fog in my mind as the swamp monster frantically claws to the surface to feed on hapless victims.
I shook my head,
I’m going home. Now.
I remained seated however, and forced my mind back to Becky.
I knew she had a two year old son from a previous relationship and often used the single mother line to make excuses. I still didn’t think her behaviour made sense.
In the two months we had been dating, we hadn’t gone out for a meal, hadn’t gone out for drinks or a night out together. We hadn’t stayed over at a hotel or visited with each others families.
She wouldn’t even go shopping with me.
She claimed she wanted to protect her son; she didn’t want him meeting a string of men to end up hurt and disappointed if the relationship failed. She wanted to see what was there, she told me. She wanted to know that we were going somewhere long-term and our relationship wasn’t based on a long friendship that would fizzle out once the lust phase had ended.
Becky had made it clear numerous times that I was not meeting her son until our relationship had deepened, and I more than understood, I respected that. I, more than she knew, loved that she was a dedicated mother to her son, that she saw strings of men as damaging to his emotional well being and would sacrifice her love relationships for the child.
But, if Becky wanted to build a relationship with me, wouldn’t that mean spending time together?
If I was lucky, I saw her once a week. Usually a Saturday night, she would turn up late, we’d have sex then go to sleep, she’d wake early then leave. I’d try calling and texting her for the next few days, sometimes she would answer, most often she wouldn’t.
She lived with her parents, had done since the split from her child’s father, and claimed they would not accept her dating someone new while she lived under their roof. She claimed this as the reason she couldn’t go out with me in public and the few times I had driven her home she had requested I drop her off at the end of the road so her parents wouldn’t see me.
I thought I understood, but I was confused.
Whenever I brought the situation up with Becky, she always managed to make me feel guilty and selfish. She made me feel as though I was putting pressure on her, although she hadn’t said anything of that nature. I always decided to let the relationship progress at its own pace and felt a sense of contentment and resolving the issue in my own mind.
But when the next few days passed without any word from her or any answers to my calls and texts, I’d begin to feel down and frustrated. Then, she would turn up on Friday or Saturday and I’d be happy for a few days before I would start to feel frustrated again.
I was sick of the merry-go-round.
I supposed a lot of men would be happy with the set-up, but I wasn’t most men. I wanted, needed, stability in my life. Someone who was 100% there for me no matter what and I was ready and willing to give 100% back.
It was now Thursday evening, I’d last seen Becky early Sunday morning as she was leaving my flat and I hadn’t heard from her since.
It was time to face the facts: I wasn’t going to get what I wanted from Becky anytime in the near future, and it was maybe time to end it with her once and for all.
A dull ache in my chest accompanied the thought and I sighed.
The feeling still lingered under my thoughts and I squeezed my eyes closed. She had no idea, but it was her fault that I was here, desperately battling the urge to do it again.
I wondered whether there was a professional name for my problem, like if I were to see a psychiatrist and explain my curious addition, they would merely shrug and say “Oh yes, that’s a common problem and the name for it is…”
Or, would they immediately contact the local police, patient confidentiality laws out of the window and give their expert opinion that I was a menace to society, a danger and a threat that needed to be locked up straight away.
I’d hate to ever find out.
A chorus of goodbyes’ suddenly pulled me from my thoughts and I turned. Michael was standing, shaking hands with the men of the group and grinning.
He was obviously leaving.
His fiancee however, remained seated, her wine glass still half full. Michael leaned in, kissed her on the lips then waved goodbye once more.
Where could he possibly be going without her?
I knew as soon as the question popped into my mind that I had lost the battle. The feeling smothered me like a forceful wave smothers the beach. I quickly downed the rest of my pint as Michael headed out of the pub’s front doors.
I stood, clutched the front of my jeans to ensure my van keys were there, then followed Michael the stranger from the pub.
Chapter Two
My strange problem began when I was nine years old. Well, technically, my problems had started when I was born to the woman who would become my mother, but my strange habit had started when I was nine.
I’d been sat on a bench alone watching a large group of boys playing football. None of the boys had asked me to play.
They never did.
Their mothers had warned them to stay away from me when they were little, pulling them away and scolding them loudly, loud enough for me to hear. “I told you stay away from that boy! Didn’t I tell you to stay away from that boy?”
I couldn’t even remember when the name calling and bullying had started, it seemed that it had always been going on and I’d grown used to it from a very early age.
The bullying hadn’t been too bad though, not until I reached the age
of seven.
That was when Mrs Richards had passed away.
For years she had cared for me. A neighbour of my mothers, she, like all the people living on our street, avoided my mother like the plague. But her gentle, caring nature had not allowed her to ignore the neglected boy of a person she hated with all her might.
She fed me regular meals, ensured I wore clean clothes and bathed regularly.
She did this with all her own money, and much to the distress of her grown-up son.
“You never heard the expression ‘don’t feed it and it’ll go away’ ?” He’d once said to Mrs Richards, who had then fiercely defended me.
Cancer had taken her life when I was seven years old and to this day I mourn for the late Mrs Richards.
That was when my life had become much worse.
I had no-one to cook for me or clean my clothes. I had nowhere else to stay and had no choice but to go back to my mother’s house at night to sleep.
I’d never been a popular child due to my mother’s reputation, but now I was bullied for other reasons. I smelled terrible due to my dirty clothes, I lost weight, eating what I could scavenge from the kitchen at home. My mother’s main diet consisted of alcohol and she bought little food. I had hoped at first that the many men coming and going all day, the one’s who visited with my mother in her bedroom, would maybe step in and be a father to me. But none of them ever stayed around long enough to hardly notice me at all.
I was a pathetic, pitiful creature, shunned and made fun of by children. The adults looked at me with sympathy and sometimes guilt, but no-one ever intervened.
So, I sat there watching the football game when I was nine years old, daydreaming and wishing that any moment now, one of the boys would call my name: “Hey Danny come on! We need an extra player for our team!”
I tried to ignore the group of girls who pointed and whispered behind their hands, turning to look at me before laughing out loud.
Suddenly, a wide kick had sent the ball sailing towards me. I jumped up and chased the ball before scooping it up and offering it to the slightly older red-faced boy who jogged towards me.
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