‘Jacob, you were thirteen. Too young to smoke dope.’
‘I’m sixteen now.’
Chapter Seven
Mel
It was almost nine p.m. when she set off for East Finchley station, the sky a deep cobalt blue fading to faint charcoal in the west. She had slung on a fleece but quickly realised she was under-dressed for the cool spring evening. There was no one at the bus stop so it was likely she had just missed a bus. Rather than wait in the cold for twenty minutes, she continued on foot, enjoying the soft bounce of her trainers, the ease of walking with only a light handbag. Exercise was the answer. She should try to get to the gym. If it had been earlier, she would have taken the old railway path that cut down between straggly trees and bushes from Alexandra Palace to the tube station. But she was not looking to buy or sell either drugs or sex, so it seemed wiser to use the pavement.
Unlike many of her acquaintances she had no fear of walking in the London streets at night. She faced directly ahead, strode fast and with purpose and had never had any trouble. She would get to the car park by nine forty, jump in the car and be back by ten. Then a long bath, a book or a TV drama on the iPlayer. She would skip the news. It was too depressing.
A few pedestrians passed her, workers trudging home, a mother and baby in a pram, a group of youths. A couple of kids about Jacob’s age swerved around the corner on bikes without lights. A stray dog crossed her path to snuffle in the gutter. An urban fox stood silhouetted by a street lamp against a dustbin.
It was as she was walking underneath the old railway bridge that she sensed the presence behind her, footsteps echoing along the Victorian brickwork. She increased her pace. Soon she would get to where there were shops, restaurants, bright lights and people. She avoided the temptation to look back. It would be a perfectly innocent Londoner going about his or her business just as she was. There was no reason to fear. She must keep walking as fast as she could without breaking into a run. The footsteps were speeding up. She was coming to one of the entrances to the railway path, a small metal gate and steps rising from the road to the rough vegetation that fringed the cutting. On one side of the steps there were overgrown bushes, on the other, a small patch of guerrilla garden. Whoever had been behind her was still there.
The arm around her neck was firm, determined. When she tried to scream there was the sensation of rough wool, a large gloved hand on her mouth. She could smell hot, sour breath and thick sweat. She tried to bite through the wool till her teeth hit something firm that must have been flesh.
‘Fucking bitch,’ squealed a young male voice and the hand dropped away. She kicked out and her trainer made contact with a leg. She was about to shout but before the sound came out there was pressure on her back and she was propelled through the gateway to the wooden steps that led up to the cutting. Someone pushed her to the ground. It was soft from last night’s rain but there were scratching stones, the weeds were coarse, and nettles stung her face. Despite her fear, part of her wanted to laugh. It was ridiculous, like something from a film. She heard a car go by, voices from the street. She was less than twenty-five yards from the nearest house. But she was pinned to the ground and could hardly breathe, let alone shout. When she tried to lift her face a hand behind her clamped her down. She felt for her bag. It was gone. They had ripped it off. She tried once more to raise her face but again the hand pushed her down, though she managed to twist her neck to one side to gasp air.
‘Keep quiet, you bitch,’ said the voice.
She could see no one, but she was conscious of two, maybe three of them behind her, holding her down. Boys, men, she didn’t know, didn’t care; it made no difference. A fourteen-year-old, younger than Jacob, was as likely to stick a knife in, rape her, as a thirty-year-old.
‘Stop it,’ she shouted, realising she was echoing her mother whose strident upper-middle-class tones always sprang up inside her in moments of tension. It sounded weak and stupid, as useless as the efforts of a junior teacher in a room full of adolescents. The hand pushed her face down again and she was choking on earth and stone.
‘I said, keep fucking quiet.’
The hold was loosened, and she was silent. She felt the hand again, gloveless now, under her shirt, round the top of her jeans.
‘Leave her, GJ,’ a different voice now, deeper, calmer. ‘She’s older than your mum.’ And the barrister in her, not quite extinguished, made a mental note, GJ.
The pressure eased, and the hand fell away. She continued to hear their murmured voices though not what was said. For a few moments it was as if she were as far away, watching the actions play out in a film: the woman on the ground, the ruffians holding her down, mumbling among themselves. Then she saw something flash in the half-light, what looked like a small kitchen knife. She shifted her head to look at the face above her, just visible beneath his hoodie. He was about seventeen or eighteen, neither black nor white but somewhere in between, with regular, gentle – almost feminine – features.
And she wanted to say, ‘Why? Why you? Why me?’ But he continued to hold the knife and she dared not say it and the question remained unanswered.
‘Cunt,’ he spat. It was his parting shot. He turned, and with his faceless companion, disappeared, two long dark figures running up the steps to the path.
She remained in the dirt, unable to move. She was not badly hurt, scratched a little and probably bruised, but she had been felled, trashed, hurled to the ground like a piece of rubbish. The terror which she had kept at bay now struck and she was trembling, cold, immobilised. But she was here, she was alive, she was unharmed.
She tried to stand but her strength failed her, so she lay and waited. It was cold and dark, and she could hear the cars and then a bus. People talking on the streets. She could have called out, but something stopped her. She pulled herself up to all fours and crawled towards the wooden steps, letting herself down backwards until she reached the railings where she managed to haul herself upright.
Dazed, she attempted to focus. She was free and unharmed, but she felt invaded by the brutality of the contact, seeing stars as if she had been concussed. At first, she clutched the railings for support but when her legs would no longer hold her, she half slid, half eased herself down to the pavement. Instinctively she felt for her bag although she knew it was gone. Her old friend, her ancient cheap handbag, gone, together with her phone, her wallet, her Oyster, her cards, her keys.
Tools of her life. At least they would have no way of knowing where the car was. She reminded herself how much worse it could have been. They had snatched a bag. It happened every day on London streets. She had been lucky. Nothing was broken. In a minute she would stand and walk home. But she was conscious of rising anger and a battering inside her head.
Among the random thoughts there rose the image of a middle-aged woman with tired grey eyes and wispy hair and Mel heard a sad voice chanting, ‘Breathe in, breathe out’. Mechanically, she started to do just that: in and out. Her whirling thoughts subsided, and she was out on the ocean, an unmoored vessel with neither motor nor sails. Navigation aids, oars, they too had been stolen. She was ten minutes from home, but the horizon was a thousand miles around her. She sat on the cold pavement and waited.
When the man came up to her, she had no apprehension. She couldn’t make out his features in the dark, but his voice was gentle, accented and sincere.