Hazel
Eight days ago
Is it you again? Are you following me, you dipstick? I’ve had this prickle under my scalp ever since I came out of Harrods. Is that your reflection in the shop window, your shadow blocking the light, your manky breath on my shoulder, just like yesterday?
I skirt around a woman selling The Big Issue, nearly tripping over the wheels of a child’s buggy. I stare into the open doorway of a mobile phone shop and wonder about rushing in and making a fuss about you. But, you’ll keep out of sight and everyone will stare at me as though I’m a nutter. I’ll feel even more of a dufus. Then you’ll be there waiting for me when I come out.
I hate you for making me feel like this, you creep. Whoever you are.
I hurry along the pavement, keeping my head down, glancing up only to cross the road. I’d rather not know which lamp post you’re leaning against, which display of designer sportswear you’re pretending to be interested in. Nevertheless, a single figure wearing an army-style jacket stands out from all the rest, in spite of me training my eyes on the traffic. Is it you? Have you come past me, somehow? I can’t keep track.
You must be up to something because unlike everyone else you’re not on the move, you keep stopping, watching. Are you waiting to see which way I’ll go?
I think about waiting for a bus or a lorry to come by, so it will block the view and I can double back, but I’m already late for the photographer. I must get the shots done today; the competition closes tomorrow and I know I’m in with a good chance. It’s not every day you get through to the final round in a top modelling contest.
I break into a run and I’m almost at the tube entrance. I can no longer tell if you’re there; too many other things are going on – cars jumping the lights, a man handing out free newspapers, the screech of a bus.
The pedestrian light is green outside Harvey Nics, so instead of going straight down to the tube, I cross over the road to the more recent entrance on the far side. It might throw you.
It’s crowded in the foyer. Even so, I wish it were busier so I could blend in. I hurry towards the barriers and glance up before I take out my travel pass. Sweat coats the back of my neck. I can’t see you, but that means nothing. You could creep up on me any second; there are so many corners and corridors.
I join the shortest queue at the barrier, but I feel someone right behind me, way too close. I daren’t turn round. Once through the other side, you step beside me. Your hood’s up so I can’t see your face. But, I’m really freaking out now, because it looks like you’ve got something tucked inside your jacket.
Everyone’s pushing past and no one’s seeing what I can see. The glint of metal. Jeez – is that what I think it is?
I join the escalator up ahead, squashing behind an overweight woman. You slip out of my line of sight. Should I call out? Am I being paranoid?
In a sudden movement, I dart to the side and join the flurry of commuters passing those who are standing. I make it to the steps down to the platform, my boots clattering on the stone like cascading skittles. I can hear the train rocketing through the tunnel and feel the suck of air as it approaches.
I need to be on this friggin’ train. I need to get inside and hide before you catch up with me. The wheels grind to a halt and I don’t care that I’m rude, shoving people aside, using my elbows and the edge of my bag to break through the cracks. Instead of using the nearest door, I race further up the platform. I want you to think I’ve doubled back, to faff about and miss your chance.
A woman carrying a small child gives me a dirty look. But I’ve made it. I hurtle through the last set of doors and they swoosh behind me, sealing me inside. I can breathe again. There are no spare seats, it’s a hot and stuffy crush, but I don’t care. I’m on the train – and right now that’s all that matters.
As we pull away, I catch sight of your khaki jacket out there on the platform. You’re speaking to a woman with a toddler and I start to wonder if I’ve got it all wrong.
Sam
The Present – Thursday, 10 January
It should have come as no surprise to find the lift was out of order on the one day I was running late. It wasn’t a great start to my final day of training. Not after my brolly had blown inside out on the way over and I’d got my heel caught in a drain cover, sending me straight into a puddle.
Not only did I have one sopping wet foot, but my thighs were burning when I reached the seventh floor. I was gasping for breath. Mid-thirties and I felt ancient. Too much sitting down since I’d started this course at Guy’s Hospital; thank goodness it was nearly over.
From the following day, everything was going to change. No more Kit Kats with morning coffee. No more sitting at the back of the lecture theatre with a bag of crisps stashed away for those yawn-inducing moments. Once I’d got my certificate, my daily commute back to work would have to be on my bike again.
Professor Landy must have spent the initial five minutes trying to set up the PowerPoint because the lecture theatre was still buzzing with chit-chat when I peeled open the door. By the time the first slide came up, I’d found a seat.
I was glad I hadn’t missed anything, because the final day of lectures turned out to be the best yet. As soon as the professor mentioned the forensic applications of ‘delusions of grandeur’, I felt my spine snap up straight.
‘Such delusions are a common trait in serial killers,’ she said. ‘They drive individuals to believe they have special powers or are being given secret instructions to kill.’ I shuddered at those last two words. I’d worked with several delusional patients in my own practice, but none where their behaviour had ended in murder. At least, not as far as I was aware.
During the break, I wandered over to join the queue for coffee. I had half an eye on a plate of chocolate digestives on the table, but as I pulled out my mobile, my appetite absconded. A missed call. A hot wave of nausea rolled over me when I saw who it was from. Someone I hadn’t expected to hear from ever again: Detective Chief Superintendent Elsa Claussen from the Metropolitan Police.
What did she want? Keen to get it over with, I stepped out of the queue and called her straight back.
After a few pleasantries, DCS Claussen weaved her way to the point. ‘So tell me, Dr Willerby – how did you feel after the Aiden Blake case?’
Claussen’s familiar brisk tone brought her into my mind in full colour. The speckled grey short-back-and-sides haircut, the ample bosom kept at bay under a formal shift dress – invariably buttoned-up to the chin. Not forgetting the black ‘hospital ward’ lace-ups, as if she’d come straight from breaking in new army recruits on an assault course.
How did I feel?
‘Well, it was very – how can I put it – challenging,’ I said, my body recoiling as I relived a flashback to the ordeal last summer. ‘As it turned out, I was also within an inch of losing my life… but…’ My words fizzled out. Why was she asking me this now – six months down the line?
‘Your expertise as a therapist saved the day, did it not?’
‘That’s… I–’
My mind whirred.
The last time I had a call out of the blue from the Met I lost my annual leave. I was forced to trade in a long-awaited trip to Greece for drifting up and down the Regent’s Canal on a narrowboat. On reflection, it was a poignant, life-affirming case to work on, but it still ruined my holiday.