He peered along the side street to his left, a hundred yards further along, seeing a turning to the right. Oliver moved quickly, past the expensive semi-detached pads with their fancy front gardens and lavish cars parked out the front. He could smell an open fire, smoke billowing from the rooftop across the street. It had turned cold. He saw his breath forming in the air like a cloud of smoke as he panted, wanting to be at home now, stretched out on the sofa, warm and secure in his temporary apartment.
There was no sign of Meagan. He stopped, quickly glancing behind, crossing over the side road. A middle-aged lady dressed in a nightgown came out from a house, dumping a rubbish bag in a bin out the front. She watched Oliver as he gazed behind him, stopping and then walking along the pavement. He crossed back over the road, and she quickly went inside, shutting the front door. He realised how suspicious his behaviour must seem.
Oliver reached a side road to the right, about to give up, cold and in need of a warm shower. He spotted Meagan, around fifty yards along the secluded street, walking alone, bag in hand, unaware she was being followed.
Oliver kept well back; he couldn’t risk being seen. Meagan would most certainly view it as weird behaviour, jeopardising his chances of getting to know her better.
She continued walking for another five or six minutes, with Oliver behind, keeping as hidden as possible.
He watched as Meagan stopped outside an apartment block. A guy dressed in a smart suit approached her. She looked startled. Oliver assumed it was her partner; it looked like he’d been waiting, watching her move along the street. The guy in the suit raised his voice. Oliver moved closer, hiding behind a parked car, ten or so yards from where Meagan and the guy were standing.
He asked her why she was late, shouting, getting in her face, calling her names.
She stepped back, pleading with the guy to calm down, not to make a scene on the street, then he lashed out, punching her on the temple with his right fist. Oliver watched her lying on the floor as the guy stepped back, peering along the street, watching to see if anyone was looking, then he kicked her in the stomach and calmly walked back across the street.
Oliver froze, unable to digest what had unfolded in front of him. He wanted to go over, help her, tell her everything would be okay. But would it? What could he do? This guy was a brute, nothing less; the scars she bore were due to this evil bastard. He was the reason she was so unhappy, a nervous wreck, deflated, demoralised, and her spirit destroyed.
He was about to walk across the street towards her when Meagan got to her feet and went inside the apartment block.
Meagan reached the stairs. She held onto the railing, clawing her way towards apartment six.
Her husband was pissed off. He had accused her of getting home late, assaulted her and humiliated her in public, not caring who watched. She wanted to call the police and let them know what was happening. They’d give him a warning, maybe a telling off. What then? What would happen when he returned? She dreaded to think about it, what he’d do when he came back.
She reached her apartment and opened the door. The lights were off inside, the place silent.
Meagan held her ribs, wincing with the pain. She was pretty sure they were broken.
In the kitchen she took a packet of painkillers from the drawer, popped a couple into her mouth and swallowed them with a glass of water. She kept the light off, moving slowly in the darkness. Meagan wanted to leave, fill a small bag with clothes, then get out of here and never return.
But Rob told her on numerous occasions while standing over her that if she ever left, he’d hunt her down. He’d told her that if she involved people he’d deny everything. He’d find her and bring her back.
Meagan had to be patient. She knew if she stayed long enough with Rob, she’d achieve her aim of a divorce settlement.
She climbed the stairs, supporting her weight with her right hand, gripping the rail to steady herself. Meagan winced, the pain unbearable.
Once she reached her bedroom, she lay on the bed unable to muster the strength to remove her clothes.
Oliver stood outside on the path for a few moments. He’d watched Meagan’s partner crossing the street to a black Jaguar, pulling out a set of keys. A car alarm beeped, the lights flashed once, then he opened the driver’s door and got inside.
Oliver kept low, ducking behind another vehicle further down the road. He watched the guy take out a phone, laugh to himself, then pull off down the street.
Oliver contemplated going over, getting into the building, finding out where Meagan lived and getting her some help. He crossed over the road, trying to gain control of himself, feeling like his mind had been taken over, possessed. Oliver knew the consequences; he knew what would happen if the bastard returned. He’d probably get the hiding of his life, but he couldn’t stop himself.
He eyed a list of apartment numbers on a frame to the left-hand side, then pressed the bottom one for a couple of seconds.
He waited, debating whether to go again and try the same one. This is such a stupid thing to do. What do I say when they answer? Oh, hi, it’s me. Yeah, me, you know. Open the door; I’m getting soaked out here.
Oliver pressed the second and third buzzers, stabbing the buttons for a few seconds, waiting and repeating the process. He was about to move his finger further up the line when he heard a voice.
‘Can I help you?’
Oliver crouched apprehensively, moving his mouth to the box, suddenly realising the voice was coming from behind where he stood. He spun round, facing a menacing-looking guy who was gripping a bunch of keys. He was tall, at least six-two, dressed in jeans and a white shirt with a smart dark jacket. He had short grey hair styled forward like a crew cut. Oliver could smell his expensive aftershave. The guy bounced his keys, throwing them up and whipping them from the air, impatiently waiting for an answer. He paused menacingly, waiting for a reply.
Oliver was dumbstruck, struggling to communicate, to think of something, anything to come back with. I have a parcel; visiting a friend in the block; I’m a plumber, and there’s been a report of a leak on the top floor.
‘I asked you a fucking question. What are you doing outside the building?’ The man moved closer to Oliver, staring through him. Oliver watched the guy’s breath in the cold night, like steam coming from an old train. He wore black gloves on his clenched fists. He was looking around, stepping closer.
Oliver’s heart raced, pumping adrenaline through his body. The two men were suddenly distracted by the sound of heels tapping along the ground, moving towards them. Oliver glanced past the guy with the gloves, watching a woman dressed in a long brown coat, balancing a mobile phone between her shoulder and neck, searching for her keys in a small beige handbag.
‘Hey. Bloody cold isn’t it?’ Her declaration was aimed at both men.
As gloved-guy turned to answer, Oliver raced past them both, heading for the street and disappeared down the road.
After a few minutes, Oliver stopped to catch his breath. He bent forward, panting heavily, his cheeks burning, his hair damp. He gazed back up the street to make sure gloved-man hadn’t followed.
Oliver disliked confrontation, and felt aggravated with what had happened. What the hell was his problem? The dickhead looked like he was ready to attack me. For what? Standing outside an apartment block? What was he so concerned about?