Page 78 of Glasshouses

“There’s a coffee shop on the second floor. I’m going to get a table and sit there. At least no one can drag me away.” She sounded despondent, as if resigned to her fate. “Maybe I should’ve died - ”

I didn’t have time for her to be maudlin. I wasn’t a therapist. “What does the man look like who’s been following you?”

“Maybe not quite six foot. He’s broad shouldered and has brown hair. He’s wearing blue jeans and a black jacket, which I thought was weird because it’s a warm day.” She was calm now.

“Any distinguishing features?” I was out of the car and halfway down Angel Street already.

“No. He looks normal. I didn’t notice what he had on his feet so they couldn’t have been anything special.”

I heard the sound of a coffee machine in the background, so I guessed she was already in the café.

“I’m a couple of minutes away. Stay where you are – are you in the coffee shop still?”

I was talking to a dead line.

I ran, dodging Manchester’s finest like I was playing space invaders, ignoring the tuts and shakes of head from a few of the passersby, ignoring that I was too hot or that these weren’t the right shoes for running in.

Like most teenagers who’d been a student in Manchester, I’d spent time in Afflecks, a huge early Victorian building from the 1860s, formerly the Harrods of the north. Since the early eighties, it had been a hub of independent and alternative shops on short term leases, offering artwork and piercings, joss sticks and candles, an emporium of eclecticism. I hadn’t been in there for years, avoiding town unless I was in work, and spending as little time there as possible, but I remembered where the café was.

I tried phoning Lily back, the call going straight through to voicemail. I pushed through the doors, finding one of the staircases, this one empty with unlabelled doors. The place was a maze with different entrances and exits, staircases through doorways and dead ends. Every time I’d been in there as a student, I’d discovered a different shop, and sometimes I’d felt as if I’d discovered a new floor.

There were two coffee shops in the building and Lily wasn’t at the first one I got to. Her fair hair, almost white, made her stand out usually, and at first glance I couldn’t see her. I stopped by a teenager with more holes in his face than a piece of Swiss cheese.

“Have you seen a woman with really blonde hair?” I extended the description, noticing his blank expression. He smelled cleaner than he looked.

“Can’t help you, mate.” He looked away from me, not wanting to be bothered.

I stepped away from him and tried Lily again. The same, voicemail. Either her phone was switched off or she didn’t have signal.

The next coffee shop was on the third floor. I walked quickly, peering into each shop to see if Lily had headed into one of them. No sign, no sign of her on the stairs, or in the first few stores on the next floor. Had she been dragged into a quiet nook somewhere? There were quieter places in Afflecks and unused sections, plenty of crannies where no one would notice.

The second café was empty apart from a couple of people in their twenties with multicoloured hair, like they’d shared the same dye. A rather weary looking waitress sat by the counter, checking her phone and not looking up once.

No sign of Lily. I tried her phone again. Nothing. “Excuse me,” I approached the waitress. She looked up, still bored.

“Is there a place in this building where the phone signal’s non-existent?”

She nodded. “The toilets on this side. Some days you can get a signal for some reason, but most of the time it’s dead. A couple of networks might work.”

“Thank you. Have you seen a woman with really white blonde hair?”

She shook her head. “No, not today. It’s been really quiet.”

“Thank you – are the toilets down here?” I pointed to another door, new and unvarnished.

“Yep, through there. Not sure if they’re working. I use the ones on the floor below.” She went back to her phone, duty done.

I took off through the unvarnished door, finding a narrow stairwell, colder than outside with peeling paint on the walls. There was an acrid smell, sour and off, maybe urine mixed with vomit, and it wasn’t fresh. Another door was opposite me, across a small mezzanine, and this opened into a lobby with two more doors, one labelled for men and the other had handwritten in Sharpie, Female Identifiers. I pushed that one open, seeing two stalls, one closed shut and the other open.

I banged on the closed door, calling Lily’s name, hearing only my own voice echoing back. The room was empty, I could tell. There was no sign of life in here other than the spider near the sink. I pushed at the closed door, needing to check if my instincts were correct.

Locked.

I didn’t hesitate to kick it open. It swung back with the force of it, the lock pinging straight off. A toilet that was practically overflowing was exposed, no Lily, no sign of anyone, at least not for a few days. I didn’t linger, running out of the toilets, briefly checking the men’s and finding them empty, then headed down the next flight of stairs. If she’d been in the café below, the bathrooms below were more likely.

These were slightly less damp, graffiti smeared across the walls telling the reader that Anthony was a cunt and Jenni shagged whoever for a fiver, along with a number that may or may not be hers.

Both cubicles were empty, the bathroom deserted. I tried to pull the door handle, the next plan to try the other bathrooms, only the door was stuck.