Maxim Jakubowski - London Noir

Determinedly, she set off down the corridor. Her footsteps rang around the hall as if it were an echo chamber. Bloody prison , she thought.

The dog in the flat opposite started to bark; by the sound of it, a Doberman or a Rottweiler, maybe even a pitbull. Jane was out in the stairwell before she realized just how used to that sound she had become in a short space of time. The damned dog barked every time anyone walked past. But when her visitor came, it had made no sound at all.

She tried not to think about it as she got outside, as she pushed past the two old men sharing a bottle of cider on the steps, as she crossed the road to avoid the knot of kids outside the chip shop.

The others were already in the pub. She got herself a half of bitter and a stool in that order.

‘Hi Paula. Kath… Dave.’ She never had liked him. She turned to talk to some of the others. She felt much more secure now she was surrounded by friends. ‘How you doing, Phil? Anita?’

‘Hi, Jane,’ Dave said from behind her. ‘How’s your midnight crawler, then?’

Sensitive as a brick wall, as always Jane thought. ‘You’d probably have more idea than I do,’ she said, wishing she could come up with a wittier put-down. ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe he lives in the block.’

‘Oh surely not.’ That was Kath. She always had been too innocent for her own good.

‘Well, the dog opposite didn’t bark, and I didn’t hear the stair doors slam, so -’

‘This dog, does it bark at everyone?’ It was Phil, being as reasonable as ever.’

‘I told you it does -’ Jane snapped.

‘What, the postman, the caretaker -’

‘Yes,’ she said irritably. She sipped her beer. He had a point, she decided after a moment. He usually did. ‘No,’ she conceded. ‘Actually, it doesn’t.’

‘So maybe it isn’t one of your neighbours. Maybe the dog only barks at you because it isn’t used to you yet… Get you another?’ He pointed at her drink.

She shook her head. Phil went up to the bar.

‘Still, this creep must have hung around for a while, if the dog’s used to him,’ Dave said as soon as Phil had gone. Jane scowled. ‘Sorry. Just trying to cover all the bases.’ He took a pull at his lager before he went on, ‘But he must be a genuine weirdo, I mean, what the hell’s he getting out of it? It isn’t like he’s watching your bedroom or anything…’

‘Thanks a million, Dave,’ Jane said. She turned away from him deliberately.

‘I reckon you ought to squirt an aerosol in the bastard’s face. That’d convince him to look for easier pickings,’ Anita said.

‘The police told me not to -’ Jane began, but her voice was drowned out by all the others chipping in.

‘Paint…’

‘I still think jabbing a knife at his eyes…’

‘Wire a battery up, give the so and so a good jolt.’

‘We could ambush him -’

‘But paint…’

‘- If there was somewhere to wait.’

‘You ought to tell the police.’

‘…Or indelible ink…’

In the end she just sat there and let it all roll over her. A spontaneous silence fell, in which she became aware that her hands were clenched round her glass, that she was frowning.

‘C’mon, Janie. Tell us what you’re going to do about the son of a bitch.’ It was Dave. It would be Dave.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to live my life. He’ll get bored and go away eventually, I’m sure.’ She looked hard at Dave. ‘And I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to panic. I’m not going to let him scare me away. And I’m not going to let you lot hype me into doing something stupid that would end up with me in trouble.’ She slammed her glass down. Beer slopped over her hand.

‘Jane, for God’s sake listen. We’re just worried about you -’ Paula put her hand out toward Jane.

‘No, you listen. Maybe you think I ought to be afraid, and maybe you’re right. But all I know is as long as there’s a solid door between him and me – and he runs off if I shout at him – I’m not as bothered as you all appear to want me to be. And that’s just tough.’ She stood up. ‘Night everyone. See you around.’

‘Jane -’ It was Paula. Jane ignored her. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking. Maybe you should ask your neighbours if they’ve seen anyone hanging around.’

‘No.’ The very thought appalled Jane, though she couldn’t have explained why. ‘Supposing he does live there? I wouldn’t want him to think he’s got me rattled. That would probably just turn him on.’

‘And if you do nothing, that’s playing into his hands too. But go ahead, be a victim. See if I care.’

She always has known how to press my buttons, Jane thought. ‘Be a victim? You just don’t ever listen, do you Paula? Letting him think I’m running scared – now that would be giving in to him, and that would be being a victim.’

‘But you can’t just let this go on. You have to do something -’

‘Cause if I don’t, you’re going to nag me to death?’

‘If I have to,’ Paula said. Her eyes glinted dangerously. Jane knew she wasn’t joking.

‘OK, mama. Anything for a quiet life.’ I can always plead self-defence , Jane thought.

‘Good. I’ll come with you, if you like.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Tomorrow,’ Jane said. She turned and walked away.

‘Don’t you want me to see you home?’ Paula called.

‘I’m all grown up. I’ll manage,’ Jane said over her shoulder, then immediately wished she hadn’t.

She stayed furious all the way home. Furious that they couldn’t see that she was doing everything she could; furious at herself for not being certain of herself.

As she climbed the stairs, it occurred to her that he might be there – that she might catch him in the act. The way the corridor was arranged she could be almost on top of him before he noticed her. But there was only the echoing silence, the rasp of her own breathing. She went on, slowly at first. She came out into the hallway and made sure the stair door banged loudly: she wanted to give him time to get away. The dog began to bark. She almost ran to her flat. The letter-box was firmly shut.

She got inside and checked the locks. The chain too. She made a pot of tea and took it into the front room, intending to meditate before bed. Perhaps then she wouldn’t dream. It seemed such a shame when getting the flat at all had been such a piece of luck. She stared at the bare windows. Curtains. In the circumstances maybe she ought to get some after all. Or perhaps blinds would be better…

A few moments later she came to with a start, realizing she had drifted off. Something was moving on the balcony. Shadows made by car headlights, she told herself firmly. That’s a very busy road out there. But no sound broke the silence. She did not move; realized she was scarcely breathing.

But something was out there. She was sure now: there was the outline of a head, an arm. A hand, surely holding something – a brick? – coming towards the pane of glass. A mouth, wide open to shout, indistinct through the glass. ‘Pah… seh…’ Prostitute? she wondered. Does he think I’m one? She had heard of serial killers who had fixated on them.

She heard herself scream, then launched herself towards the balcony door. There was nothing there except the weeds in the window box, swaying gently in the night.

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.