She had plenty to do. There was the bathroom to paint and some boxes of books that needed unpacking; and she still hadn’t filled out the application form for the library job. Nevertheless, she found herself mooching around, trying to read, failing to do the crossword, staring out of the window. And listening. All the time listening.
He’s won, she thought. I can’t live my life like this. Determinedly she picked up the application form. With a job she would be out of the flat in the day, and the money would mean she could go out at night. She worked at the form like nothing she she had done in a long time. First she made a rough draft, then set about copying everything over. Between trying to remember her exact O-level grades and all the casual jobs she had done since here she graduated, it took a long time.
She heard a faint metallic scraping. Her whole body jerked. The pen scrawled across the form, ruining it. She stared down at it and could have cried. All that work, all those dreams, all for nothing.
The noise came again. She ran to the door. The curtain billowed out, as if there were a breeze behind it; or perhaps as if he were trying to push it aside with a stick.
It took all her courage, but she grabbed hold of it and pulled it aside. Nothing. Gingerly, she touched the letter-box. It was firmly shut. Just the wind, blowing through the cracks around the door. Just the wind, and maybe she never had seen him in the first place. I’m not crazy, she thought. I did see him. I did. She slammed her hand against the door, once and then again and again. There had been no one there. How dare there be no one there when she had been so afraid?
The nights that followed were sleepless. She kept the hairspray on the bed beside her. She would lie in the dark, every muscle tense, not quite touching it, straining to hear: and if she heard something, she would fight against the urge to get up and go and stand by the door, or perhaps to touch the letter-box.
In the mornings, sometimes she would find he had been, sometimes not: it did not matter anymore, for just the act of passing the door on the way to the bathroom was enough to start her shaking.
She spent her days half-asleep. Sometimes she dreamed of him: moonlight on his eyes, on his bright knife (she was sure now that he carried a knife), blood on her T-shirt; and always, his mouth opening around a word: puh… puh… Not prostitute, she realized. Please. He was begging her. Begging her to give in to him, perhaps, or to stop him.
After that she started to take the spray with her whenever she had to go out. It was only small, and it fitted easily into the deep side pocket of her jacket. She kept her hand on it as she passed his flat; in fact she never let go of it until she was out on the street.
She knew she ought to phone the police when he came, if only she could be certain he was really there. But it seemed pointless, and she could not bring herself to do it, any more than she could make herself ring Paula, but instead she disconnected the phone so she could not be contacted. The weight of the other woman’s concern would drag her down, she was sure. It would make what was happening more real, and if it was real she would have to be afraid of it. There would be no living with that fear.
There came a day when she was asleep on the sofa, and she woke to find him there. He was sprawled half over her, but his weight was nothing at all. His breath, strained through those big white teeth of his, was hot on her face. His hand pinioned her wrist, gripped it so hard she was sure the bones would grate together. There was something wet on her breasts. She twisted her head and saw that her shirt was covered in blood. She stared at it, stared at him. He was drenched in it. It covered his chest and arms and, she realized now, his hands. The spray was in the bedroom, where it could do her no good at all.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak she began to scream. Her only chance was if she could scare him off. It didn’t work. She could still hear him. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please don’t.’ He held a knife in his free hand, and it was covered in gore. He brought it up in front of her face as if to show it off to her. His eyes were wide and staring, filled with anger. Or was that terror? He was a crazy, impossible to read. Maybe he was scared of women. That would fit the pattern. She shoved hard, flailed with her legs to get some purchase on the cushions. If she could kick him in the groin -
Her eyes flicked open. Someone was banging on the door. No blood. There was no blood. So she was awake now, and that other had been a dream. She looked at her wrist. There were no marks. The banging came again.
She pulled herself up and staggered to the door. ‘Who is it?’ she called. ‘Who is it?’ They would have to tell her their name. She wouldn’t open the door unless they did. She didn’t have to.
‘Jane? It’s me. Paula.’
Jane started to unchain the door, when suddenly she realized that she had no way of being certain it really was Paula. Suppose it was him? Suppose he’d said, ‘It’s Paul,’ not ‘It’s Paula.’ Or he might have heard her call Paula by name. While he was watching her.
‘Jane, for Christ’s sake open the door.’
Jane did so, reluctantly. She peered out of the two inch slit the chain allowed her. Paula was standing there, arms folded, looking impatient. She opened her mouth to speak, but then her face twisted, became his. His lips stretching round the words she could not understand, his blue eyes hot with anger. Blood blossomed on his shirt. He fell forwards and slid down the door with his hand clawing out towards her… and then he had gone, and there was only Paula.
‘God, you look awful girl,’ Paula said. ‘Come on, let me in.’ Jane fumbled with the chain. She led Paula into the living room and sat down on the sofa.
‘When was the last time you ate properly?’ Paula stared down at Jane. She sounded angry. Jane didn’t think she had a right to be angry.
‘Couldn’t be bothered,’ she muttered.
‘You should have rung me -’
‘I couldn’t -’
‘You should have told me -’
‘You didn’t believe me.’ Jane rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. It didn’t help.
‘What?’ Paula sounded genuinely puzzled.
‘I tried to tell you. About my dream. That it’s him, over there.’
‘This is my fault,’ Paula said. ‘I should have seen this coming. I think maybe you should see someone. Someone who can help you -’
‘The police said -’
‘Not the police. A counsellor. Something like that. I could ask at the Citizen’s Advice Bureau. Would you let me do that, Jane?’
‘You think I’m nuts.’ Flat statement. What else was there to say. ‘But I’m not. It’s him. Lurking around. He won’t even leave me alone when I’m asleep, did you know that?’ It was too much. The horror of it broke over her, and her tears exploded outwards so that there was no holding them back.
Paula held her hands while she cried, and rubbed her back and whispered to her as if she were a child.
Paula stayed that night. She slept on the sofa. It made no difference. Jane lay staring into darkness illuminated only by the LED display on her clock. She saw his face, but she no longer knew what was dream and what was imagination. Had she ever seen that mole high up on his cheekbone before? She didn’t know. In her dream, or vision, he tried to speak to her. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please don’t -’
‘Please don’t what?’ she thought, as she woke to daylight and the sound of Paula moving around in the living room. ‘Please don’t come near me and make me murder you.’ That made sense. She would be happy to oblige. She got up, shrugged herself into a T-shirt and jeans.