Gone

72

A man, quite a large man, crouched unnoticed in the lee of an old olive-green telephone switching box on a residential street in Southville and stared intently at a front garden on the other side of the road. He wore jeans, a sweatshirt and a nylon jogging jacket. Nothing remarkable, really, but from his back pocket hung a length of coloured rubber. A face, sloppy and limp. The grinning mouth of a rubber Santa Claus mask – the sort of thing that could be picked up from any novelty shop for a few pounds. His dark-blue Peugeot was parked a few hundred yards away. Since the woman in Frome had seen him outside her house he’d learned to keep his distance better.

A woman came out of the front door, dressed in a bright-red coat and carrying two bags and a blue and yellow baby seat. She loaded up the car: baby seat first, safely strapped to the back seat, blanket all tucked in neatly. Then handbag on the front seat, nappy bag in the footwell. She got an ice-scraper from the glove compartment and leaned across the bonnet to get to the windscreen. Her back was turned to the man for a moment and he took the opportunity to creep from the shadow of the switching box. He walked calmly across the street, back straight, checking all around him as he did. He ducked into a neighbour’s front driveway and crossed the frosted lawn. He stopped in the line of shrubs that divided the two houses and watched as the woman walked around the back of the car, lifted the rear wiper to scrape the glass. The woman gave the windows one last brush and went to the front. Paused to wipe the wing mirrors and got into the driver’s seat, blowing on her cold hands, fumbling with the key.

The man pulled on the Santa Claus mask, stepped over the low stone wall – a wolf taking its time – and walked calmly to her side of the car. Opened the door.

‘Get out.’

The woman’s response was to throw her hands into the air. It was an instinctive thing, to protect her face, and it succeeded only in clearing the way for him to reach over and unfasten her seatbelt. By the time she realized her mistake it was too late. He was already pulling her out of the car.

‘Get out, bitch.’

‘No! No! No!’

But he was strong. He took her by the hair and dragged her out, her hands scrabbling at her scalp, legs kicking, frantically trying to find purchase. She got a knee wedged up under the steering-wheel and her left hand into the sill above the door, but she couldn’t hold it. With one wrench she was out, staggering, dropping once, cutting her knee through the tights. She got her fingers into his gloved hands, tried to get him to release her hair, but he dragged her backwards, ignoring her nails in his hands. She bounced her feet off the ground, kicked and screamed. He could feel little pieces of hair popping out all over her scalp as he flung her up against the front door of the house.

‘Fuck off.’ She pushed him away with all her might. ‘Get away from me.’

He gave her a shove, sent her staggering across the porch. Her arms went up, pinwheeled, slammed into the brick pillar, scraping the skin on her hands. Her left leg shot out, almost stopped the forward momentum, failed. She stumbled, went down, landing on her right shoulder. She rolled on to her side in time to see the man jump into the driver’s seat and start the engine. The radio came to life, pumping ‘When A Child Is Born’ into the cold air. The engine revved, a cloud of fumes shot out of the exhaust, the handbrake came off and he twisted in his seat to reverse the car rapidly out of the driveway.

The car stopped in the middle of the road just long enough for Prody to change gear, then screamed away. It was only then, with the almighty squeal of brakes rocking round the street, that any of Skye Stephenson’s neighbours realized what was happening. One or two came running out of their doors, down their paths, but it was too late. The cherry-red four-by-four had turned the corner at the end of the road and disappeared from sight.