Page 26 of The Friend Request

I turn left past the chemist.

The lane narrows after the estate agent, the buildings pressing in on both sides, and the street lights thin out to one every forty metres or so, leaving patches of shadow between them that I wouldn’t normally notice but notice now because my nerves are already shredded and because the lane is empty, the pub noise has faded behind me, and the only sound is my boots on the pavement.

And another sound. Behind me.

Footsteps.

I don’t turn around. Not immediately. I keep moving at the same pace, my bag against my hip, my keys in my pocket, and I listen. The footsteps are steady. A man’s stride – longer than mine, heavier, the hard knock of a shoe sole on tarmac – keeping a consistent distance, maybe twenty metres back.

Someone heading home. That’s all. Someone who left the pub after me and happens to be going in the same direction. In a minute he’ll turn off down a side street or cross the road or stop at a front door, and I’ll feel stupid for letting my heart rate spike.

I reach the next street light, and the lane opens up slightly. The church hall is on my left, its windows dark, and the old post office is on my right, boarded up since last year, and my car is parked fifty metres ahead, tucked beside the kerb behind a white van.

The footsteps are still there.

I walk faster. Not running, not yet, just lengthening my stride, closing the gap between me and the car. My keys are in my pocket. I wrap my fingers around them, press the fob, and feel the little click of the button under my thumb, ready to unlock the doors the moment I’m close enough.

Behind me, the footsteps quicken.

My mouth goes dry.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Coincidence. A stranger in a hurry, adjusting his pace because the cold is biting, and he wants to get home. There’s no reason to think it’s anything more than that. No reason to think the person behind me is doing anything other than walking down a public lane on a Saturday evening.

But my body doesn’t believe me. My body has been running on adrenaline and dread for over a week, and it has decided that the man behind me is a threat and is preparing to run.

I risk a glance over my shoulder.

A silhouette. Thirty metres back, maybe less, moving through the shadow between two street lights. Tall, lean, hands at his sides, face hidden by the darkness. He’s striding fast, faster than he was a minute ago, and the gap between us is shrinking.

I turn back and go faster. My heels are loud on the pavement, my breath is coming in short, sharp bursts, and the blood swooshes in my ears. The keys are digging into my palm where I’m gripping them too tight.

Twenty metres to the car.

The footsteps behind me break into a jog.

I run.

I don’t decide to. My legs just go, propelled by something older and deeper than thought, and I’m sprinting down the lane in my boots and my coat with my bag bouncing on my hip and the car getting closer, the Volvo’s dark shape growing larger with every step, and I press the fob and the indicators flash once, twice, and I grab the door handle and yank it open and throw myself into the driver’s seat.

I slam the door.

My fingers find the central locking button. I press it, and there’s the clunk of every door sealing shut, and I sit there with my chest heaving and my vision blurred with panic.

A face appears at the window.

Ross.

He’s standing right outside the driver’s door, close enough that I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the damp at his temples, the way his breath fogs the glass. He’s wearing a dark coat, the collar turned up. His face is pale under the street light, and his eyes are fixed on mine through the window with an expression I can’t read – urgent, desperate, something that in different circumstances might pass for concern but right now looks like nothing except threat.

He tries the handle.

The door is locked. The handle lifts and catches and drops back, and the sound of it – that small, mechanical click – goes through me like a slap.

He tries it again.

‘Kim.’ It’s muffled by the glass, but I can hear every syllable. ‘Kim, please. I just need to talk to you.’

I shake my head. My hands are on the steering wheel, but they’re shaking so badly I can’t grip it. I fumble the key into the ignition and turn it. The engine starts, the dashboard lights up, and the radio comes on, something bright and terrible that I stab off with my fist.