Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

She put on the long brown cardigan – her makeshift dressing gown – stepped into her slippers and padded to the bathroom. Katherine’s stuff was piled on top of the large mirrored cabinet. On the shelf beside it, a mess of ointments, lotions, tablets, tonics, hair products, skin products and depilatory creams. She wondered if Jeremy minded.

Leaving the toilet unflushed, she went downstairs to get a banana. On her return she picked up one of Katherine’s books that she’d started reading a few days ago. A romance about a divorced woman who meets the man of her dreams in an online chatroom. Kat had planted it, no doubt.

Struggling to reach the end of the chapter, she put it down again. She couldn’t concentrate on anything with this storm raging outside. Why hadn’t Laura phoned her back after getting her message? Or had she been out somewhere for the evening and not had a chance to play it? She hadn’t answered her mobile either, though that was hardly unusual. If she’d gone to the police station she’d be back by now, wouldn’t she?

Another gust of wind creaked the branches, jolting the window. Suzanne checked the clock again: 1.05am. Finally, she fell back into a fitful sleep, broken from time to time by the sound of the wind and rain.

The shiver flitted across her shoulders, along with an insane leaping of her heart, the urge to empty her bladder. The footsteps were back.

They had come and gone several times during the seemingly endless time she’d been sitting here. Was her father waiting for her, just out of sight, ready to… what? Could he really be angry and scared enough to hurt her? He must know he couldn’t stop her from going to the police indefinitely, unless he killed her – which was crazy, wasn’t it?

Get a grip, girl. Come on, get your act together.

Again, a doglike pant mingled with the slap of feet on wet paving stones. Was the sound even real? Or was it a tape replaying in her head, her mind playing tricks on her?

The footsteps changed in texture, as if meeting another surface, then stopped. She closed her eyes. A squirt of hot urine soaked into her underwear. She held her breath, squeezing in her fear, biting hard on her lip to stop herself from screaming.

Don’t let him find me. Please, don’t let him find me.

Minutes passed. No more footsteps. Nothing now but the whoosh of rain, slowly rising in intensity, and the deafening pump of her heart. Was he still there, waiting for her to come out of her hiding place?

Her body was going numb with cold and her shoulder ached badly where it had been wrenched. There was an odd tapping noise too. Where was it coming from? She realised it was her teeth tapping together. A surge of relief, followed by anger at herself – what was she going to do, sit here in the dark all night?

But what if her father was sitting in his car on the street just a few yards away, waiting for her to emerge? He would be livid after what she’d done to him. His eye would be hurting like hell, if not permanently damaged.

No. This is ridiculous.

Careful not to wince, or nudge the row of bins in front of her, she forced herself up into a crouching position and peeked around the edge of the outermost bin. A section of the street was visible.

The rain was less heavy now. She took a step towards the pavement, part of her still unwilling to leave the refuge of the bins, then another.

He’s not there.

She walked slowly along the edge of the wall until she had a clear view of the road. The pavement was empty. No car with its engine idling. None of the parked cars were lit inside, nor, as far as she could see, did they have anyone inside. She walked along the pavement in the same direction as before, scanning the cars, glancing over her shoulder a couple of times.

He’s not here , she told herself, picking up speed. He’s gone home .

But whose home? Her heart fluttered in panic. He might be waiting for her now, outside her flat. That would be the obvious thing to do. She couldn’t go home.

She checked her wrist and remembered she wasn’t wearing a watch. Had the last Tube gone?

A tear rolled down her face, then another. She wiped her eyes with her hand so she could see the pavement. Houses gazed down, pitiless.

She stopped. The sound of voices, laughter. Ahead, two women carrying umbrellas, trying their best to hold them in the windy squall. They were on their way home from the pub, she guessed. Their voices unguarded, over-loud.

‘Please, could you help me?’

They appraised her suspiciously, not stopping. She tagged along beside them.

‘There was a man following me. He’s gone now but I’m scared he might come back.’ She could hear the madness in her voice. Rain-soaked and straggly-haired, she must look a bit mad. ‘Would you let me use your phone please, so I can call the police? There’s no battery left on mine.’

She looked at each woman in turn. Both had the same anxious-hostile expression, as if at any second she might lean over and bite one of them.

‘Sorry, it’s late,’ one said. ‘I’ve got to get home, I’ve a childminder waiting.’

‘It doesn’t look like there’s anyone following you now, love,’ the other added. ‘Why don’t you get on home?’

Laura ran down the street in the other direction, towards the main road and buses. There was only one place she needed to get to, and she’d walk there, if necessary.

After she’d been walking for about ten minutes, a night bus loomed in the distance. She ran to the next stop, turning to put out her arm. The bus pulled up just beyond the stop. Grateful, she climbed in.

‘I only have one pound twenty on me,’ she told the driver. ‘Is that enough?’

He gestured for her to get on board. The lower deck was empty except for two youths on the back seat. She sat next to the exit doors and tried to make herself presentable by combing through her hair with her fingers. The recorded announcement informed them of the next stop and where the bus was headed. Soon, the bus slowed. Three teenage boys got on. She sighed, her impatience rising, and hoped the bus would not stop again.

At the police station, the male officer behind the counter looked surprised to see her.

‘I want to report a crime,’ she began. ‘My father abused me when I was a child. Also, I understand that a month ago, he had sex with a girl I know. A twelve-year-old girl.’

The officer’s eyebrows raised and he jotted something down. He said he would set up an interview as soon as possible.

‘I need to use the toilet, if you don’t mind, and you wouldn’t have a jumper lying around, would you? I’m really, really cold.’

She was shown to the toilet then taken to a well-lit, sparsely furnished room, where she was given two blankets and a mug of scalding tea. She had no anxiety anymore, just a wonderful sense of relief. She’d made it.

After a while another officer appeared, not in uniform. He took her to a smaller room with a table, a tape-recorder and two chairs, and asked her to tell him what had happened.

‘It started about ten years ago,’ she began, and she didn’t stop until she’d told him everything.

Paul went to the kitchen and poured a tumbler of whisky. Some spilled over the edge of the glass. The pain was more bearable now, less like a spike was being driven through his eye. But his vision on that side was still blurred and patchy, darker than it should be, as if he were trying to see underwater. Christ, he was in a state. How the fuck had he made it home without having an accident?