A strong breeze tugs at her, pushing her collar down. A strand of auburn hair tumbles over her face. She tucks it back into her coat and shoves her hand into her pockets, her head dipped down against the roaring wind.
She should get everything sorted, just in case the police come calling. She has no idea whether or not they would find her straightaway, or if they would even link her to this scene but she’s not taking any chances. Her fingerprints will be everywhere. The sooner she gets moving, the better.
She hurries along the path and gently pushes her way through the crowds until she is over the swing bridge and heading towards the flat. Dipping her hand into the bag, she retrieves the key and scurries along the road with it at the ready. She only needs to collect a few things and she’ll be on her way.
Letting herself in, she scrambles upstairs, her legs suddenly weak with exhaustion. She wanders around the bedroom scooping up whatever she can find; jewellery, money, a handful of letters stuffed behind a vase. They all get pushed into her backpack. She has almost everything she needs in the bag anyway; her purse, ID, credit cards. Everything is there. All her worldly goods.
She takes a look around the room and sighs. She has no idea where she is heading to. Not that it matters. She has nobody left. They’re all gone.
She heads back outside, locks up and posts the key through the letterbox, listening as it lands with a thin metallic clank on the other side of the door. Her bag rustles as she breaks into a slight trot and heads for the train station further along the road.
Only as she emerges from the crowd does her plan nearly come undone. She hears them coming after her, calling her, their voices stilling her blood. She begins to move faster, ignoring them, pretending she is focused on something else. She is busy, too busy to stop. She has to keep going. Why are they so keen to speak to her anyway? What’s wrong with them? She is nobody to them and yet they pursue her relentlessly. They are mistaken anyway. She isn’t who they think she is. They are chasing the wrong person.
She feels a hand reach out and grab at her arm, stopping her. Her head buzzes and irritation rips through her as she spins around to see two young women staring at her, their faces puckered with uncertainty.
‘Celia? Wow, you are one fast walker! We’ve been calling you again. Did you not hear us?’
She stares at them and narrows her eyes, her voice hoarse and detached. ‘I’m sorry? Do I know you?’
The girl colours up, her face flushing deep crimson at the abrupt response. The other one steps in, her eyes wide, confusion evident in her startled expression. ‘Celia, it’s us; Tyler and Lizzie. From the train, remember?’
She continues to stare at them, rummaging in her bag to prove she isn’t who they think she is. With a flourish, she produces a purse and slides a card out of it, brandishing it in front of their timid, shocked faces.
It’s a driving licence. There is a picture on it of a woman with long red hair. She points at the name and taps at it with a certain amount of vehemence.
‘Really sorry, ladies. I don’t know who this Celia is that you’re going on about but I’m not her. You must be mistaken.’
She slips the card back in its place and drops it into the bag.
‘Eva?’ One of the girls gasps. ‘Isn’t that the name of your friend? You told us your friend was called Eva!’
She walks away, her feet picking up pace with each consecutive step. She needs to leave these two behind. She has no idea who they think she is, but she definitely isn’t this Celia person they speak of.
Her name is Eva. She is Eva, always has been and always will be.
She hears them shouting her back but ignores them. They mean nothing to her. She has never met them before in her life. They must be mistaken.
Her feet hurry along the pavement, her eyes lowered in concentration. She is Eva Tweedie. All the documentation in her bag says so. She has everything to prove it. She simply refuses to listen to anybody who says otherwise.
She pushes through the crowds, a purpose to her walk. Up ahead she sees a familiar sight, a young man with a swarthy complexion and a crop of dark hair who stands head and shoulders above the rest of the people. He turns to one side to stare in a shop window. She stays behind at a safe distance, her heart pumping wildly, her body buzzing with excitement. She waits while he stares at the goods on display inside and then smiles as he moves on once more. She follows, mirroring his route, stepping on the ground he has walked on, the concrete feeling soft under her feet as near hysteria takes hold.
He turns into a side street, his footsteps echoing throughout the narrow road.
She smiles. It’s devoid of people, everyone else taking the wider route, following the flow of tourists keen to visit the local shops and arcades.
They are all alone.
She opens her mouth and shouts to him, the sound of his name feeling erotic and tantalising as it rolls around her tongue. ‘Gareth!’
She moistens her lips and smiles as the figure turns to look. A breath catches in her chest at the sight of him, at his bewildered expression. He looks different somehow.
‘Sorry?’ the figure says as he stops and stares at her. The distance between them closes as she moves forward.
‘Gareth,’ she says, ‘it’s me. Remember me?’
He shakes his head and takes a step back away from her. ‘Sorry. I’m not Gareth. I think you must be getting me mixed up with somebody else.’
She stares at him. More tricks. That’s all this is. More tricks to confuse her. She examines his face, watching as he widens his eyes and smiles.
‘I’m definitely not Gareth. That’s my wife down there on the beach with my young son. I’m Malcolm, Mac to my friends. Sorry to disappoint you.’
She shakes her head and takes another step closer to him. It’s Gareth. It has to be. Why does everybody lie to her? They think she’s an idiot. She isn’t. This man is Gareth. She knows it. He is lying. They are all fucking liars.
He turns away from her and she listens to the smooth click of his heels on the concrete as the distance between them grows. Celia creeps up behind him, excitement and pent up energy driving her on, her body alight with it.
She steps in his shadow, so near to him, so fucking close she can almost smell him. Slipping her hand into her pocket she coils her fingers around the cold smooth handle of the knife. She grasps it tightly before pulling it out, her hands hot with excitement. The blade shimmers in the dim light of the narrow street as she lifts it up to stare at the blade; so beautifully formed and exquisitely sharp it takes her breath away. She brings it up above her head, steps forward and lets out an ear splitting, unearthly scream.
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