***
Fifteen minutes later, in jogging bottoms and trainers, Lenina left the boutique with Ramona. As she walked, she tucked her mobile phone into the pocket of her sports armband.
‘Sure you don’t want a lift?’ Ramona popped the boot of her scruffy 1960s Mini and shoved her own purple dress into it along with a pair of shoes. ‘It’s no trouble. Verni isn’t home yet so I don’t have to rush back.’
‘No, no. I want the exercise.’
Ramona plucked a curl of ginger hair from her eyes and tucked it beneath her hat. ‘Why? You heard the woman; don’t lose any more weight.’
‘I won’t. But . . . I need the run. To clear my head, you know?’
‘You’re something else. Will I at least see you for lunch tomorrow?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it. You need to help me finalise the goodie bags.’
‘Only if you promise to eat something.’
Lenina rolled her eyes. ‘Fine. But no cake.’
‘Deal.’ Ramona climbed into her car and drove away, tooting the horn as she left the car park.
The car rumbled past a figure in grey, with a dirty denim jacket and a torn woollen hat. He turned to watch the car leave then looked straight at her.
She shivered.
His gaze stroked her body; a lurid, ethereal caress that made her stomach clench. His features were hidden by distance, but Lenina knew it was a man. No woman would look at her in such a way.
‘I don’t have anything, okay?’ she called, wincing as the wind stole her words. ‘Go bother someone else.’
He smiled, or seemed to, then walked towards her.
With a squeak, she turned and ran, forgetting her usual steady pace in favour of a full sprint. She left the line of shops that housed the boutique and bolted through the centre of town, fighting back the threat of tears.
Her route struck through the centre of town, taking her past bars, clubs and a few themed pubs with clusters of people gathered near the doors to enjoy their cigarettes.
Outside a pub she stopped long enough to draw several shuddering breaths. Her knees trembled and a fine sheen of sweat coated her forehead.
‘You okay?’ The voice came from her left. It belonged to a man wearing narrow black glasses and a concerned frown. The woman at his side tugged his arm, trying to turn him back to their conversation.
‘Someone’s following me,’ cried Lenina.
‘I can’t see anybody. Do you need help?’
Lenina looked back over her shoulder. ‘I— oh.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘I don’t know.’ She winced. ‘I mean, he’s gone now.’
The man raked a hand back through his hair, long dreadlocks each as thick as a finger. They curled over his face like ropes until he tugged them back. ‘Do you want to stop for a second? I’ll happily call someone. I don’t mind.’
A chuckle bubbled from her lips. ‘He’s not there. Probably wasn’t following me at all. I feel so silly.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘No . . . I’m an idiot. Just highly strung I suppose. I’m so sorry.’ She patted her braids, tried to neaten the rough ponytail that held them back. Lifting her shoulders a little higher, she smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to bother you.’
‘It’s no bother. It’s my job. Are you sure you don’t need help?’
‘She’s fine,’ his companion snapped. ‘Didn’t she just say?’ The woman, all red hair, glossy lipstick and tight clothing, gave Lenina a glare hot enough to melt steel. ‘You’re not even on duty tonight.’
Lenina backed off, hands raised. ‘She’s right. Sorry. I’ll just go.’
She left before either of them could say more, careful not to look back as she jogged along the High Street. A safe distance away, she paused to tuck in her earphones and activate the media player on her phone. Though she often glanced over her shoulder, nothing followed her but the occasional scatter of leaves, chased by an empty crisp packet. Soon the lively voices and bright lights of the pedestrianized High Street chased away the fear, leaving behind the remnants of embarrassment.
As she left the outskirts of the city centre and began the winding path along backstreets she felt the wind snap more violently at her bare arms. She stepped up the pace again, regretting her decision to decline the warm interior of Ramona’s car.
Her mobile rang.
‘Heita, babe. All done at the boutique?’ Nick’s voice radiated excitement and reined-in curiosity, all laced with a faint South African twang.
‘Yeah.’ In that moment she forgot all about Homeless Bob. ‘They think I’m fat.’
‘What?’
‘She says I have big hips.’
‘You do. That doesn’t mean you’re fat. Where are you?’
‘Nearly home, about to cut through Grick Park.’
He tsked; a soft, angry sound. ‘Why didn’t Ramona give you a lift?’
‘I wanted a run. And before you start, I’m fine.’
‘Babe, I’ve warned you about going through there alone. You heard what happened last week, didn’t you? Some six-foot semi-pro wrestler got murdered on his way home.’
‘Yeah, in London. This is Leicester.’
‘It’s still dangerous.’
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘But there’s no one else here.’
‘Exactly.’ He muttered something unintelligible in Afrikaans. ‘Damn it . . . I’m coming to meet you.’
‘You’re not my dad, you know. I think I can make it home in one piece.’
‘Keep to the path and go around the grass. I’ll find you at the near end by the gate. Hurry up.’ The phone buzzed then fell silent.
Lenina groaned, reactivated her music and turned off the path, on to the grass.
A line of trees surrounded the park and a gap directly opposite marked her destination. It led through a narrow alley and back on to the main road on the far side of the housing estate.
Her feet squelched on the damp grass. Twice, she narrowly avoided tripping on raised lumps and disguised holes forming the entrances to rabbit warrens. To guide the way, she followed the white paint marking the edges of the three football pitches, lined up side by side.
Halfway across she shivered, aware of the growing chill in the air. She paused the music and listened to the crushing silence of the park. Even the sound of passing cars couldn’t reach this far.
A glance over her shoulder confirmed there was little point in backtracking, so she ducked her head, resumed her run, and fixed her gaze on the line of trees.
An especially savage gust whipped hair round into her eyes, temporarily blinding her. With the wind came a voice, low and soft. A whisper she felt more than heard.
Her shoulders tightened. Prickling, like the legs of invisible insects, crawling over her skin.
She reached the line of trees still staring over her shoulder, then slipped on a slick of brown leaf mulch. Skidding on her stomach, she came to a stop on the gnarled protrusions of a nearby tree root. The rough bark scraped her palms. Her phone sailed away through the darkness.
Panting, Lenina flipped on to her back.
‘Hello?’ Her voice quivered.
More whispering. This time mixed with laughter. She peered into the gloomy gaps between the trees. Swallowed hard. Held her breath. There’s nothing there, she thought, just the wind. Cold moisture seeped through her joggers as she reached her knees.
‘Damn it.’ Lenina brushed the worst of it away and wiped her hands on her thighs.
‘Don’t fuss on my account, love. The baggy workout gear is gorgeous and so are you.’ The low voice, with an East London drawl, spoke from the shadows. As it did, the whispering stopped.
Lenina scrambled to her feet, one hand fisted in her sports vest. ‘Who’s there?’
The tubby ginger tramp stepped out from behind a tree a couple of metres away. His hands curled around the trunk, filthy fingernails scraping the bark. He grinned, showing off crooked teeth.
‘Bob?’ She ba
cked away. ‘Homeless Bob from the High Street? The one who likes pastries?’
‘My name ain’t Bob.’ His voice prickled down her spine like dabbling fingers.
Though her mouth opened no words came out. A quick shake of the head and another step back, wobbling on the uneven earth.
‘Don’t you talk?’ He followed, hands sliding teasingly over the tree’s trunk. One of them held a dagger with a savage looking blade, sharp with a double curved edge.
‘Yes.’ She swallowed and tried again. ‘Of course I do. And . . . my boyfriend’s coming.’ She added that last part with a haughty toss of her head. ‘He’ll be here any second.’
He laughed, a sound like grinding metal. ‘Good. I’m counting on it.’
Lenina pressed her shaking hands to her sides and glanced over her shoulder. The line of lights marking the path seemed a million miles away. Brighter lamps from the road beyond the tree line may well have been on the other side of the earth for the comfort they gave.
‘You’ll make a good starter.’ The stranger smiled.
‘Don’t touch me. I’ll scream.’
He glanced left and right. Broadened his smile. A trick of the light made his teeth long and sharp. ‘Go ahead.’
Lenina ran. Her feet pounded the wet earth, each stride made awkward by damp, slippery grass. Her breath stuck in her throat, choking until she let it go in a rasping gasp. Muscles across her stomach and chest tightened. Her lungs ached.
Halfway back across the grass, she risked looking back.
A whimper broke free.
‘Where . . . ?’ Her stride slowed. Gaze darted left and right.
The park was empty. She faced forward and released a shriek when she saw the grubby stranger directly in front of her. Helpless to stop, she bounced off his chest, stumbled back, and hit the ground on her backside. More damp seeped through her clothes.
‘Please don’t hurt me!’
The man reached down, his chipped fingernails catching on her hair. He stroked her face with the flat of his dagger. The sharp point scratched her skin hard enough to break it. She felt its bite and bit her lip to keep from screaming. The smell of cigarettes, vodka and something older, meatier, assaulted her nostrils. She gagged.
It seemed a year and more since speaking to Nick, belittling his orders to stick to the path. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes.
Please, she thought, please come.
The stranger knelt in the grass, tilting the edge of his weapon beneath her chin. With the other hand he gripped her face. ‘Look at me,’ he whispered. When she hesitated, he tilted her face to meet his. ‘I said, look.’
The order beat Lenina’s common sense like a ram. Her resistance splintered beneath it.
First she saw his lips. Thin. Pale. Surrounded by the shadow of short, coarse hairs. Nose: bulbous and red. A set of scars on his right cheek; four thin slashes like cat claws. Then, as the moon slipped from a scudding bank of cloud, she saw his eyes clearly for the first time . . . and gasped. Grey, like stormy seas. Or smoky diamonds. Gorgeous eyes framed by long, thick lashes which brushed his cheeks like delicate strands of lace. The man was beautiful and in that moment she wanted nothing more than to slide her arms around his neck and offer him everything.
Chapter Two