London Noir

AND SHE LAUGHED by LIZ HOLLIDAY

I reckon it took all the luck in the world to get me this flat,’ Jane Martin said. ‘Probably means I’ll never get another job, or win the pools, or anything.’

She was sitting in the darkness in the hall, with the telephone receiver cradled on her shoulder. She took a piece of meat from the kebab open on the floor in front of her. ‘I mean,’ she went on, ‘how many other single people do you know who have council flats to themselves, Paula?’

Her friend’s voice crackled down the line at her, saying something congratulatory, but Jane’s attention was on the cans of paint she had bought that morning: painting the whole flat white wasn’t really cheap, just cheaper than any other idea she had been able to come up with.

‘I’ll see you about noon then?’ Paula said. ‘You provide the lunch and I’ll provide the labour.’

‘Greater love hath no woman than that she paint her best friend’s new flat,’ Jane said. By the time she put the phone down, they were both giggling. She picked a chilli out of the kebab and munched on it. Something made her turn towards the door.

A pair of blue eyes was staring at her through the letter-box.

Her heart thumped once. She shouted, ‘What are you doing, you bastard?’

The letter-box swung silently shut. She thought she heard a single footstep. Then there was silence. Her whole body was rigid, and her breath was unsteady. She stared into the darkness with her hand on the phone. After a few moments, when she was calmer, she thought: I should phone the police. But it was too late. By the time they arrived, he would be gone.

She stood near to the door, listening, but heard nothing. Curious, she touched the letter-box. It was slightly open, but shut easily beneath her fingers. If she hadn’t known better she might have thought the wind had opened it. But she did know better. She imagined him standing on the other side. He was probably laughing at her, laughing at her fear.

She went into the living room. The room was almost empty, but moonlight illuminated the floor cushions and the sofa, her one decent piece of furniture. She went and looked out of the bare windows. I ought to get some curtains, she thought; but she didn’t really want to. She loved the way the spring sunlight flooded into the room, and the sense the openness gave her of being part of a living community. What’s the point of living near Portobello Road if you’re going to shut yourself away? That was what she had said to Paula, when they had been making a list of essentials. Sometimes Paula was just too practical for her own good.

A car door slammed somewhere. Jane’s head jerked round. She realized she had been listening for… something the whole time.

Before she went to bed that night she jammed a chair up against the front door, but as she lay sleepless in her bed she was still listening, listening.

‘You should have shoved a knife in the guy’s face.’ Paula stabbed at the door with a brushful of white gloss.

‘And get done for manslaughter, knowing my luck? Yeah, right.’ Jane pulled the roller down the wall with more vigour than was strictly necessary. Paint splattered everywhere. ‘He was probably just looking for a flat to squat. Now he knows someone’s here, he won’t be back.’

‘Well at least call the police. What do you think they’re there for?’

‘Oh sure. He ran off the second I shouted at him. He could have been at Marble Arch by the time they arrived.’

‘For God’s sake… you have to stop thinking like a victim.’ Paula started to fill in around the doorhandle.

‘Great. Now it’s my fault.’

‘I’m not saying that. I’m just saying you have to do something. Don’t let the bastard win, you know?’ She laid the brush across the top of the can. ‘Hell with this. I’m going to make a cup of tea.’

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.’

‘You said you never got a good look at him.’

‘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.’

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 really 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.

Yet she thought, I could have done it I could I could I could. There was no way to deny it. She was still laughing as he came over to her. She looked at him, but it was the shadow-man’s blue, dying eyes that she saw. She knew that she would be seeing those eyes forever. And she laughed.