Stalked

by Lorraine Taylor

  That’s just it, I thought. There is no-one but me who can do anything about it. When I thought back on the killer’s words, I became suspicious and frightened. He had given me the exact location of the bar this woman was in and a physical description of her. It’s like he wanted me to know exactly where she was.

  And why would he want me to know that, I asked myself. It was obvious. He wanted me to go there. Why? To frame me? To set me up and kill me? To set me up and see me in prison?

  Feeling the dull thud of a bad headache coming on, I headed into the kitchen and grabbed some Neurofen, swallowing two down before the headache could get a stronger hold on me.

  I went back into the living room and sat down. There was only me who could help that woman tonight. Though she had a better chance of survival if the police were involved, I couldn’t risk bringing them in for my own sake. I formed the plan in my mind. I would go to the pub and watch for the woman. When she came out, I would follow her home and see she got there safe. Then, I would watch for the killer. If he made an appearance, I would call the police, report an attack in progress, then get the hell away from there.

  I nodded. That, I told myself, is just about the lamest plan I’ve ever heard of. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a better one.

  I spent the next 20 minutes or so tormenting myself with thoughts of what could go wrong, including my arrest or death, when I got up and retrieved a pad and black biro pen from the side unit. On a piece of paper, I wrote everything down. Starting from being in the bar and following Michael, I wrote upto the present. I finished with a brief paragraph about how my following strangers had started.

  It didn’t matter really how I worded it; they would brand me a stalker either way. I hoped that having the letter here in the event of my arrest or death, it may shed some light on what had been going on.

  I folded the letter up once I’d read through it and propped it up on my mantel.

  Looking at it, I wondered if I’d be the next person to see it, or whether the police would be the ones to read its contents after they’d broken into the place once they’d set me up in my cell.

  Nervous, scared and angry, I grabbed my keys to my van and left my flat.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I stayed as far away from the bar as I could. I needed to see who came and went so I could spot the killer’s victim, but I didn’t want the killer to see me. My parking spot just down the street gave me a perfect view of the pub’s entrance and was as far away as I could get without losing all visibility.

  I thought about the killer’s words over and over again. This woman drank heavily, did drugs and was a prostitute.

  Just like my mother.

  Was I trying to save a woman just like my mother? Even though I hadn’t seen this woman and had no idea what she looked like, I pictured her three children.

  Two boys and one girl. I pictured them filthy and neglected. I pictured them alone and crying right now as their mother partied it up. Did she hit them as my mother had hit me? Did she beat them with belts as their empty stomachs growled as loud as their screams?

  I was cast back to the night my own mother had been attacked by one of her clients. What if someone had intervened that night and saved my mother? Where would I have been then? My mother’s attack brought police, social services and long-lost family into my life. If I intervened, was I subjecting these children to the life I had been saved from?

  I didn’t know what to do. But, I was sure of one thing : I could not let a woman die without trying to save her. If after I saved her I found out her children were neglected and abused, I’d make an anonymous phonecall to social services and help the children that way.

  Who the hell do I think I am, I thought, when I save her. This woman will probably be dead by morning with me stretched out next to her or I’d be banged up in prison charged with her murder. I was not feeling good at that particular moment in time.

  I slouched down in my seat and stared at the bar’s entrance―and was reminded of the times I would hide under my stinking duvet when I was a child. I’d listen the horrible sounds my mother would make when there was a man with her. Of course I realise now they were having sex, but that’s not obvious to a child. To me then, it sounded like my mother was being hurt terribly. I would hide and hope that whoever was making my mother squeal that way wouldn’t come into my room and hurt me too. No man ever did hurt me though, my mother caused all my pain. I peered under my cap as a man exited the bar. He struck me as suspicious the way he stood still, looking left to right, right to left. A couple of times, I swore he looked straight at me.

  This is it. He’s the killer, and he’s seen me.

  A huge sigh of relief blasted from my tight lips as the man stumbled a couple of steps before staggering away from me. He weaved drunkenly to the side and walked into the wall before heading off again, as unsteady on his legs as a newborn foal. I kept my eyes on him as he stumbled away out of sight.

  He hadn’t been casing the area, as I thought. Obviously, he’d had one too many and was simply getting his bearings before he headed home.

  I’m not cut out for this hero stuff, I told myself.

  I was covered in sweat and I was shaking all over. What kind of a hero was I? The killer was not going to be happy if he saw me here. And if I did see the killer attack this woman, what was I going to do?

  I still had no idea.

  Of course, calling the police would seem like the obvious answer, but if the killer had the woman, was in fact killing her, then calling the police was not going to save her life. I would have to intervene, get him away from her. I’d always had little fantasies of rescuing a damsel in distress, playing the knight in shining armour. Well, the opportunity was here and suddenly it didn’t seem so cool anymore.

  I glanced around and slid lower in my seat, though why I bothered I don’t know. My large white van stuck out like a sore thumb on this street with only one other vehicle parked on it. This was not a nice part of town either, notorious for violent crime and drugs. Anyone seeing me sat here would immediately presume that I was preparing to burgle one of the modest homes lining the street.

  What the hell would I do if someone asked me what I was doing here?

  I wracked my brain, trying to think of a plausible explanation for my presence, when a worst thought popped into my mind ; what if a cop pulled over and asked me what I was doing?

  Any good cop worthy of his badge would question me the moment he spotted me sat here. The only explanation I could think of that would satisfy a nosy neighbour or inquisitive cop was that I was waiting for friend to leave the pub.

  Problem was, the cop would wonder why I was parked so far away from the pub. I couldn’t move closer in case the killer saw me. Chances were, if he watching and waiting for the woman to leave, he’d already spotted me. But I didn’t want to anger him by parking in plain sight of him―he may feel like I’m taunting him in some way.

  He could be staring at me right now.

  Goosebumps swarmed me and I checked I’d locked all my doors. Of course they were locked; it was the first action I’d taken as soon as I’d pulled up and turned my engine off. Still, I couldn’t stop the morbid mental image of a masked man with a knife climbing into the back of my van, me sitting unaware as he snuck closer and closer, sneaking up behind me with his knife poised ready to deliver the death blow. He waits patiently for the right moment to strike. Then, as I shift in my seat, straining to see over the dashboard, the knife swoops in an arch, slitting my throat and spraying my blood all over the steering wheel.

  The gory film played over and over again in my mind, causing me to pant in fear. The windows steamed up with my ragged breath and I sunk lower in my seat. Of course, now the thought was in my head, I couldn’t think of anything else. I tried to work up the courage to turn in my seat and look behind me. I couldn’t do it, sure if I did I’d find myself face to face with a killer, his eyes bloodshot and widened with glee as he rammed the knife into my face.

/>   Mentally scolding my love of horror movies and my wild imagination, I straightened up in my seat, knowing there was no-one behind me. Counting to three, I turned quickly―then cried out in fear as the figure loomed behind me. I’d scrambled backwards, awkwardly bumping myself against the steering wheel and twisting my back before realising it was my coat hanging from on hook that had scared me.

  I tried to laugh at myself, but all that came out was a relieved gasp.

  I’m gonna end up with white hair if I keep this up.

  I seriously considered giving up and going home.

  This guy was all over the news and wanted by the police who were putting everything they had into catching him. He’d brutally butchered two people, injured George and was now tormenting me. What the hell did I think I could to stop him? I was in way over my head, and I was nuts if I thought I could do anything to help this woman.

  I was about to turn the key in the ignition, fully prepared to drive home, go to bed and forget the whole thing, when I pictured three young children finding their mother dead in the morning. I wondered whether I’d be able to watch the story play out on the news without feeling any sort of guilt since I knew this was going to happen.

  No. I couldn’t. I would feel the burden of the children’s pain for the rest of my life.

  So, I stayed. I still didn’t know what I was going to do to help this woman, but I knew if I didn’t try, I would hate myself for the rest of my life.

  I sighed and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was 12.01 AM. I wished I could turn the heater on but I didn’t want the noise of my running engine to draw attention to me. I’d like to say it’s because I was worried about the police, but in truth it was because I wouldn’t be able to hear the killer sneaking alongside my van, or perhaps unlocking the door and sneaking in the back…

  I know you’re probably thinking that I’m a complete wuss, and you’re right. That’s one of the few times in my life that I’ve ever been that freaked out. A part of me couldn’t help but feel sorry for this poor woman: The only thing standing between her and a brutal death at the hands of a knife-wielding maniac, was me.

  She was doomed.

  Another glance at the clock told me it was now 12.23 AM ; I felt as though at least an hour had passed since I’d last checked. They say time flies when you’re having fun, well, it drags like a bitch when you’re waiting for a killer’s next victim to leave a pub.

  I was running the killer’s description of this woman through my mind: skin tight red tube-top, skinny blue jeans tucked into white boots and big bleached hair, when the woman suddenly stepped out of the pub in front of me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My heart skipped in my chest and I sat higher in my seat. Leaning forward for a better view, I became aware that the killer would be watching her too. The woman turned, laughing loudly with two women and a man who’d followed her outside. She hugged each, then began to walk―straight towards me.

  I’d been hoping to follow her from a safe distance, a safe distance from her and the killer watching her. My breath slowed as I realised I had about 30 seconds before she passed right by me.

  Cross over, cross over, I begged the woman in my mind. She didn’t cross over and continued straight towards me.

  I became completely still. I ached to sink lower into the seat but I was worried that any sudden movement would cause her to look in my direction. Her heels clicked closer on the pavement. Without moving, I watched her approach.

  She walked with an unsteady gait; the result of too much alcohol and too-high heels. Just as she was about to pass me, she abruptly stopped and began to rummage in her bag. I sat as still as a statue. If she happened to notice me right now, I was in deep trouble. She was likely to be terrified; I mean, wouldn’t you be? Thankfully, her senses were dulled by alcohol and she didn’t so much glance in my direction as she continued her search of the enormous handbag.

  “Gotcha! Ha!”

  Her sudden happy outcry caused me to jerk in my seat and my breath blasted out. She raised a mobile phone into the air as if it were a sword she had just pulled from a stone, waved it around a couple of times then giggled. She stumbled forward and stepped out of view. I watched her stumble away in my rearview mirror before she disappeared from sight.

  In spite of the chilly night air, I began to sweat. The killer most likely would not attack her on the street. No, he loved violence. He’d probably break into her house so he could enjoy the kill without being forced to rush.

  The way I saw it I had three options: follow her on foot, follow her in my van, or go home. The fact that she was walking implied she lived fairly close or she’d have called a taxi. I wound my window down and peered out. She hadn’t made much progress, in fact, she was leaning against a lamppost as she held her mobile phone up in the air the way people do when they can’t get a signal.

  Following her in my van seemed like a bad idea, but following her on foot seemed worse. She was walking far to slow for me to stay behind her without drawing attention to myself. Plus, if anything hairy happened I could drive away quickly in my van; I’d be stranded on foot.

  I started the engine and slowly drove forward before executing a three-point-turn. The woman now in front of me, I stopped my van and watched her. Still leaning against the lamppost, she held her mobile so close to her face I wondered if she was cross-eyed. She swayed unsteadily then began to walk forward. She shook the mobile violently, as if she could shake some signal into it and I slowly eased my van forward. Too interested in her phone, she didn’t notice the big white van creeping up behind her.

  I willed her to stop messing with the damn thing and hurry the hell up. Feeling more and more anxious, I eased my van to a stop, having caught up to her as close as I dared get.

  I made the decision to stay put until she’d gained good ground, when she suddenly whirled around. Stumbling a little, the woman moved towards me as she tapped away on her phone’s screen.

  I froze in fear. She was facing me, able to see me straight on if she forgot about her phone for a second. It was then I noticed how attractive she was.

  I know what you’re thinking: that I would notice how good-looking the woman was at that particular time kind of makes the moment seem less tense. But I didn’t notice for the reasons you think. My mother looks like the walking dead; she’s looked that way for as long as I can remember. When the killer described a woman with three children, a drug user and a prostitute, I kind of had a mental image of someone who would look as wasted as my mother.

  The way the killer had described her looks: the tight clothes, the bleached hair, I thought of mutton dressed as lamb. Though, in my opinion, the woman didn’t dress like a mother to three children, she looked good in what she wore. She’d obviously looked after her body, and now she stood under the streetlight, I could see she had a tanned attractive face. She looked to be fairly young, too. Drugs seemed to suck the life out of their user; their skin is pale, their eyes sunken with black rings and they look gaunt and exhausted all the time.

  I was no expert, but this woman did not appear to be a heavy drug user to me.

  Her mobile now to her ear, having apparently found the elusive signal, the woman turned away from me and began to walk. I could hear her start to talk, so I wound my window down to hear what she was saying.

  “Babies go down okay?” I heard clearly through my window.

  The woman’s children had not been left alone, not tonight. If she made sure someone sat with them tonight, wouldn’t she do so every time she left?

  “I’m on my way home now,” the woman continued. “Yes, it’s so nice to see her happy.” A husky laugh rang out and the woman added: “I’m 36 years old, mum. I’ve got plenty of time for that nonsense.” Another laugh. “Yes, I’ll ring you from the house phone when I get in.” Her tone when she said that implied this was something she had to do, had done before and was not open for negotiation. Obviously her mother insisted on hearing from her daughter on night’
s out so she knew she’d arrived home safely.

  “Give me about five minuets,” the woman said. She laughed again and said: “Okay. Love you too. Bye.” The woman halted as she dropped her mobile back into her handbag before walking again. She seemed to be hurrying now, the click-clack of her heels loud on the quiet street.

  Something had gone wrong here. The killer was after this woman for reasons that didn’t seem to apply: Her children were not alone; she seemed to have a brilliant relationship with her mother; she didn’t appear to be into drugs and this was fairly early for an alcoholic to be heading home from the pub. Plus, though the woman was clearly intoxicated by the way she weaved her way forward, she wasn’t so drunk that I’d think she had a problem knowing when to stop. And she had called to check on her children. I think, for me, that was the most telling.

  I doubt my mother would have noticed if I’d never come back home―ever. In fact, in the years that Mrs Richards looked after me, my mother never asked where I was or whom I was with, though she had to wonder how my clothes looked so clean.

  She quite simply was not interested. This woman was the day to my mother’s night.

  Fear shot through me as I realised that I couldn’t let this woman get hurt, no matter what. In order to protect her, I was going to have to intersect her killer. I’d never thought of myself as a hero; in fact, I’d always thought of myself as the exact opposite. I followed strangers to avoid my own troubles for God’s sake, not exactly hero material. I knew there was a very good chance that I’d end up hurt, maybe killed tonight.

  But I was ready to face it. I bet you’re thinking how brave I am. Well picture this: A large man, broad and standing at just over six foot, shaking and sweating in fear as his breath comes out in high-pitched wheezes. That’s what I looked like as I followed the attractive blond to her house.

  Pathetic, right?