I keep a reasonable distance. Ten metres or so. I’d like to be closer, but can’t risk it. I’m sure she can feel my presence, even at this distance. It’s important to me that she can. The Chinese swear that dog meat tastes all the sweeter if the dog is terrified before being butchered. I would have to agree.
I try and anticipate when she’ll look behind her and if so, which shoulder she’ll look over. It gives me the best chance of avoiding her field of vision. But she doesn’t turn her head. We’re still walking along Bush Green and there are lots of people about, which makes her feel safe.
She turns left into a side road. Rockley Road. On either side the road is lined with four- and five-storey terraced houses, Georgian or maybe Victorian. London’s demand for housing and cheap hotels has turned the street into a mess of dirty-looking flats and fleapit boarding houses.
She turns left into a side street. Minford Gardens. This is where she lives. It’s an altogether more pleasant street. Smaller houses with trees lining the pavement, but the houses are still scruffy and split into flats. It’s much, much quieter.
I begin to walk faster. The excitement is rising to a point of explosion. I want to rage over this woman. I want to tear her to pieces. Rip her open with my nails and teeth. But I won’t. I will show my strength. My control. I’m not like others. I’ve learnt to control the power I have.
I close the distance between us. Walking ever faster, but so silently the sound of the breeze drowns out any noise. There’s no sun in the road any more. The houses have blocked its fading light. I’m so close. The street lamps begin to flicker.
I’m close enough to touch her now. I see the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. She feels me. She spins on her heels and looks into the eyes of my mask. Soon she will meet the real me.
Linda Kotler was thirty-two years old and single. She’d been in a relationship for eight years, but when she pushed for marriage he, unbelievably, got cold feet and ran away. Christ, they’d been living together for six and a half years, but apparently the mere mention of the word ‘marriage’ suddenly made him feel ‘trapped’. Perhaps it was just the excuse he’d been waiting for.
She was rapidly learning what it was to be single when all your friends are couples. Eight years is a long time with someone. Her friends were his and his hers. They thought of them as a single entity. One personality. When he left her they had been so nice, to the point of being irritating. Her married girlfriends didn’t look compassionate any more, they looked smug. And suddenly she was single. That made her a threat to their own fragile relationships. True, she’d been guilty of a little flirting with her friends’ men, but she needed to feel desired. Now more than ever. Rejection hurts.
She’d been working late again tonight. Maybe she’d secretly been hoping someone at the office would invite her for a drink. It was a lovely evening for it, but no invitation came. Time to go home to her much-loved prison.
She checked herself in the mirror of her compact. Her hair was short enough not to have to worry about it. Her skin was as excellent as ever. Years of living with him hadn’t changed that. She was proud of her skin. She dabbed moisturizer on her fingertips and massaged it into her face. A little lipstick was all she needed. You never know who you might meet on the Tube.
Holborn station wasn’t too busy. She’d long missed the main rush hour. The platform was only sparsely populated compared to the scene two or three hours before. Rush-hour platforms scared her. She’d been brought up in a small town in Devon and the size and speed of London still intimidated her. How could those people stand so close to the edge as the trains flashed past? Was getting home a few minutes earlier really so important? They must have more to go home to than she did.
She saw him almost as soon as she slid the heavy briefcase off her shoulder. He was standing a couple of metres to her right and slightly behind her. She noticed him because she’d seen him before, about a week ago, maybe less. It happened more than people think. When you travel the same route day in, day out, eventually you start seeing the same people.
She had thought he was rather attractive. A little older than she usually went for, probably the wrong side of forty, although only just, but he clearly took care of himself. He dressed well, too. She tried to catch a whiff of his cologne, but she didn’t think he was wearing any.
He didn’t look at her, but she somehow could feel he had noticed her. She couldn’t see properly, but she was pretty certain he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, just a nice wristwatch. An Omega, she thought. So he had money too. That always helped.
The train came and they ended up in the same carriage. She read the adverts adorning the carriage and sneaked glances at him. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he sneaked the odd look back. Most of the time he read his paper. The Guardian. So he had liberal views on the world, like her.
She wondered where he would get off the train. She guessed Notting Hill − no, Holland Park suited him better. But he didn’t.
The train approached Shepherd’s Bush. She sneaked one last glance at the man and moved to the exit. She wasn’t one of those confident types who would sit and wait for the train to stop before staking their claim at the exit. She was always afraid the doors would close too quickly and she’d miss her stop. Worse, she’d be left on the train feeling foolish. Uncomfortable stares would rest on her.
He’d stepped off the train right behind her, but she couldn’t feel him close any more; it was as if he’d somehow faded away. He must have gone down another corridor, heading for another exit.
She wanted to be subtle. If he was somehow still behind her, she didn’t want him to see her looking for him. She took the chance to glance back as she travelled up the escalator. She couldn’t see him. If he had been heading her way he should have been within view. He must have gone another way. The butterflies in her stomach left her. They were replaced with an empty, disappointed feeling. She preferred the fluttering wings.
By the time she’d exited the station she’d forgotten he had ever existed. Ground level brought its own reality and he wasn’t part of it. She hurried along Bush Green. The heavy bag slowed her, the straps cutting into her shoulder, drawing attention to her. She must learn to travel lighter. She saw a group of young black men standing outside the betting shop and pulled her briefcase closer, tightening the grip on her handbag, head down and walking past them as quickly as she could. She felt their stares as surely as if they were beating her. She felt like a racist and it made her feel guilty.
She entered the small shop. It smelled like most newsagents or off-licences in London, spicy and sweet. She liked the smell. She liked the different cultures of London. Mostly, anyway.
It took her less than a minute to buy the pack of Silk Cut Mild. She’d tried to smoke Marlboro Lights or Camel Lights, like everyone else in London. They tasted funny to her. They didn’t smell like the cigarettes adults had smoked around her when she was growing up in Devon.
As she left the shop she wasn’t looking where she was going. She almost bumped straight into him, the man from the Tube. It made her stop in her tracks. He swerved around her and kept going. If he’d wanted to talk to her he’d had the perfect opportunity. He hadn’t taken it. Maybe she had just imagined that he’d noticed her earlier? Being alone in London was beginning to get to her. She was craving the attention of strangers.
He walked in front of her now. Still along Bush Green. He stopped at a bus stop. He didn’t seem the type to be getting a bus in Shepherd’s Bush. She tried to imagine where he could possibly be going. Putney, or perhaps Barnes. If so, it was a strange route.
She passed the bus stop and kept heading west. She turned left into Rockley Road. The noise of Shepherd’s Bush Green seemed to die away instantly. Immediately she felt more relaxed. Her pace slowed, almost as if she were enjoying an evening stroll. The pain of the bag strap cutting into her shoulder reminded her she wasn’t. She considered stopping to light a cigarette, but decided to wait until she got home. Maybe she would have a glass of wine too. She was pretty sure she had an unspoilt bottle in the fridge.