She slumped against the door for a long while, knowing she was crying and hating herself for it.
Eventually she dragged herself to bed. She did not undress. She kept thinking she would wake up to find him standing over her, with his blue eyes illuminated by the moonlight. She dozed, fitfully; confused dreams of the man – in the alley, with his mouth open to shout, and his hand coming towards her – and of something moving on the balcony. The last dream was the worst, and she woke knowing she had smelled blood, that it had covered her face and hands and T-shirt.
On her way to the bathroom she touched the letter-box – just out of curiosity, of course. It was open. It’s nothing, she thought. Nothing the wind couldn’t have done. But it wasn’t the wind, and she knew it.
That evening Paula came round and they went knocking on doors. Jane hung back at first, but so few people answered that she stopped worrying.
As they got closer to her flat, she started to get nervous again. The Rottweiler started to bark. It didn’t help. There were six doors left; then four; then only the one opposite Jane’s, where the dog was.
‘Might as well get it over with,’ Paula said cheerfully as she went up to the door. Inside, they could hear the dog going wild. ‘Bet it bites my hand off.’
Jane realized Paula was watching her. To hell with her thinking I’m a wimp, Jane thought. She pushed past Paula and knocked on the last door herself.
Nothing happened for a moment. Then a harsh male voice shouted something. Claws scrabbled on a hard surface, and the barking died away. The door opened. The man that stood there was six feet plus. His sleeveless T-shirt did nothing to conceal his body-builder’s muscles.
Jane stared up at him, at the wild hank of greying hair and thick moustache; at the wide cheekbones. And he stared back out of blue, blue eyes.
With a jolt Jane realized he had spoken to her moments before. Paula answered, but it was as if she were in slow motion. The sounds were dragged out and unintelligible. The man replied. Jane saw his lips stretch out around the words. Then it was as if he split in two: the person she could see, and the figure from her dream, with blood splattered over him, and his mouth opening wide. ‘Prostitute,’ he called out. ‘Prostitute.’ The light glinted on his knife blade. She understood with sudden clarity that she was seeing the future: that she was bound to it, to the moment when he would come towards her, unavoidably come towards her with that knife, and that after that there would be no more future for her…
… but it wasn’t his knife, it was his belt buckle, and already the door was closing, hiding his eyes from her. She stepped back, realized she was going to fall and put her hand out to stop herself.
‘Well that’s that, I guess.’ Paula’s voice was shockingly normal. Jane couldn’t speak. She stared at Paula, who frowned. ‘What’s up? You look terrible.’
‘That was him.’ The wall was cool against Jane’s back. She let herself rest against it. Her mouth had gone dry, and she felt as if she were floating three feet above her own skull.
‘Don’t be daft. You’re letting this get to you.’
‘Inside,’ Jane said, suddenly realizing that he might be listening to every word they said. She pushed herself off from the wall, and by concentrating very hard, was able to get into her own flat without too much trouble.
Paula followed. ‘Tea,’ she said. It was a command, not a question, and without waiting for an answer she filled the kettle. Jane sat on the sofa with her head in her hands. She wondered if she was about to be sick; no doubt Paula would clean up very efficiently after her. Sometimes Paula was just too wonderful to be true.
‘I’m telling you, that was him,’ she said a little later. ‘I know.’
‘You said you never got a good look at him.’
‘Not when he looked through the letter-box, no.’
‘Well for God’s – if you saw him some other time, why didn’t you tell me? You’ll have to phone the police you know.’
‘I can’t,’ Jane said. She stared at Paula over her tea, then took a sip to steady herself. ‘I only saw him in a dream.’
‘A dream? Oh for pity’s sake. Next you’ll tell me your horoscope said to beware of a tall dark stranger -’
‘Don’t laugh at me. Don’t. He was in my dream. Not just anyone. Him. Waiting for me on the stairs. He had a knife and there was blood everywhere. He called me a prostitute. It’s going to happen, Paula. I know it. And there won’t be anything you or I can do to stop it.’
Paula put her hand on Jane’s. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can see you’re strung out. You should -’
Jane shrugged her hand away. ‘You can piss off if you’re going to be so condescending. Anyway, maybe I’ll go to the police tomorrow.’
‘Sorry,’ Paula repeated. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘I won’t mention my dream then. Satisfied?’
Jane woke next morning drenched in sweat and muggy from the echoes of fast fading dreams. She got up intending to go straight to the police station, but somehow the morning slipped by. It was only when she found herself sorting her books alphabetically that she admitted that she did not want to go out. Suppose he was watching out for her? Suppose he followed her?
Straight to the police station, you daft cow? she thought; and with that she put her coat on and left. There was no one around.
The police were politely dismissive. She would need more evidence, because it was such a serious charge, they said; phone them if anything happened. The duty officer had pale skin and spots. He looked about fifteen. Jane nodded at him, quite unable to speak. Then she turned and stumbled out of the claustrophobic reception, into the hazy sunshine.
Panic took her. She knew she couldn’t go home. Not yet, when he might be waiting for her. Instead she went to a burger bar and nursed a cup of tea through a full hour.
She was calmer after that. The thought of climbing the stairs to her flat no longer made her pulse race. She went home by way of Portobello Road, where she found some old velveteen curtains on one of the stalls. They were pricey but worth it. A stall selling kitchen equipment caught her eye next. They had knives there. Big knives, little knives, all very sharp and very cheap: so the stallholder told her. She stood in the middle of the road with her arms crossed over her body and her head down, trying to think.
A knife would be good protection, but carrying one about with her didn’t seem like a good idea. Perhaps she had been standing there too long, because suddenly the stallholder held a knife in a blister pack out to her. For a moment she thought of taking it; she could almost feel the extra confidence it would give her. But the moment passed quickly. Didn’t they say attackers often turned knives on their owners? Maybe that’s what would happen. Besides, there were probably laws against carrying a knife around in your pocket. She shook her head, ignoring the stallholder’s scowl.
She went instead to the chemist, where she bought a can of hairspray. You can’t get arrested for owning a can of hairspray.
She hung the curtains as soon as she got in. There was enough material to cover the front door as well as the windows. When she had finished, she went outside and looked through the letter-box. She could see nothing but a few square inches of lining material.
‘Let’s see you get your jollies now, you bastard,’ she said aloud, then looked around almost guiltily, convinced someone had heard.
When she went back inside she made sure she closed the flap again. That’s better, she thought, as she looked at it. She wondered if she would hear him at all through it. The thought of him wondering around outside without her knowing made her feel quite ill.