Aurelia Rowl - Popping The Cherry

It had to be worth a shot, and I didn’t exactly have any other bright ideas.

The voice of my old track coach roared in my head, yelling at me to get my hands out of my pockets and swing my arms like a pendulum; telling me I’d need to create extra momentum and to use my arms to drive my legs, that and be thankful my favourite Schuhs had only a small heel, which shouldn’t compromise my balance and stride length too much.

A flicker of hope sparked to life when I saw bright lights three hundred metres or so away—I was right—but then I noticed that the footsteps behind me were getting louder, closing down the distance with each stride. It was as if they knew they were running out of time. An attack of nerves brought bile to the back of my throat, but I swallowed it down. It was now or never.

Go!

Another spike of adrenaline hit and I launched myself into a full-on sprint, trying to stay in control and not run like a maniac, waving my arms in the air like a pathetic damsel in distress. I gained only a second or two’s advantage before they started running as well, but it could be enough. My hair flew out behind me as the wind bit at my face, clawing at my lungs from the inside, but my years of training kicked in and I pumped my arms as hard and fast as I could, forcing my legs to match. I opened out my stride pattern, trying to trick my body into thinking it was just another session on the track.

Less than a hundred metres to go, and the lights were getting brighter, but the goons had reached full speed now, too. It was going to be close, too close to call. I was running the race of my life and I couldn’t afford to lose.

Twenty metres … the muscles in my arms and legs were on fire.

Ten metres … the fire spread to my lungs, ready to give up.

Five metres … a hand grabbed my shoulder but I shrugged it off and dodged its grip.

One metre … I ran full pelt towards the door to the takeaway and prayed that it opened.

Both of my feet were off the ground when my outstretched palms hit the glazed door. It burst open with such force, I half expected it to smash, or come off in my hands, wrenched away from its hinges. A loud shriek met my sudden arrival and the lady behind the counter leaped to her feet with a look of pure shock over her face. I carried on sailing through the air, my body in flight, as the floor got alarmingly close.

Then it all got really weird, as though I’d hit a switch to turn everything into slow motion, with my senses on high alert, taking in every sight and sound. I swore I heard laughter from outside, and the sound of a car pulling up, but then the door slammed shut behind me, creating a draught strong enough to scatter paper flyers and menus all over the floor. What a pity there weren’t enough of them to cushion my fall.

My heels connected first, and pain shot up through my ankle and into my shin. For all the traction my footwear gave me, I might as well have stood on a bar of soap. Annoyingly, I’d toyed with the idea of wearing my Converse but decided to go with fashion over comfort in the end. Never again. Out of control, my momentum sent me careening into the counter; my knee took the brunt of the impact, but then I was tumbling backwards.

Instinctively, I reached my hands out behind me to break my fall.

Bright idea, Lena—not!

They landed on the menus and slid backwards and away from me in opposite directions. Spread-eagled and shoulders jarred, I howled in agony. With no way to stop myself, my backside hit the ground first.

Closely followed by the back of my head.

I think I blacked out.

When I opened my eyes there were two people standing over me, making me feel tiny, staring back at the two giants. The lady from behind the counter, and a man who had appeared as if from nowhere, were both looking at me with concerned expressions.

‘Are you OK?’ the lady asked. ‘Can you move?’

Good question.

Can I?

Nothing immediately screamed ‘I am broken’, so I gingerly wiggled the toes on my right foot. Then my left. So far, so good. I tried my fingers. Everything seemed to be working as it should, so I tried turning my head a little to the left—no flashing lights, no attack of the woozies—then back to the right. It would be a miracle if I wasn’t black and blue by morning, but I didn’t think I’d done any serious damage.

Wow!

‘I …’ My throat felt as if I’d swallowed the razors the band had been using and my voice cracked. I coughed to clear the blockage, trying not to wince and jar anything else. ‘I think so.’

‘What the devil were you doing, barging in here like that?’ the man asked, raising his hands into the air and leaving them up there.

‘Chased … two men,’ I blurted, incapable of stringing more than a couple of words together. ‘Had to … get away.’

‘What? Chased?’ The man’s legs disappeared from view, heading in the same direction I’d just launched myself from, and the bell above the door tinkled.

A blast of cold air rolled over my prone body—he’d opened the door—and here I was, lying down and feeling incredibly vulnerable. Everything hurt, but I ignored the throbbing pain and dragged myself up to a sitting position, then turned around, resting my back against the counter. If this was some crazy old Tom and Jerry episode, there would be birds or stars spinning around my head, rather than the entire room whirling in front of my eyes. Motion sickness kicked in big time, despite the fact that I’d barely moved, and I wasn’t going to try again any time soon, given that there was no way I could stand until the room stopped pitching and rotating.

All attention centred on the wide-open doorway, including mine.

A slow prickle of terror crept down my spine and traced a path to my stomach. Had I not already wanted to be sick, my nerves would have done the job, no problem. I really didn’t want to think about what could have happened had the goons caught me: I’d have far bigger issues than a few bruises and bout of nausea to contend with, that was for sure. But what if I’d been wrong about the car picking them up again? What if the men were still out there, waiting for me?

‘Gone,’ the man said from outside. He stepped back inside and closed the door behind him, looking at me intently. ‘Are you sure?’

Yeah right, like I’d make it up just so I could come crashing through their door and nigh on kill myself for no reason. It was how I got my kicks on a Friday night, obviously, who didn’t? I bit down on my tongue and nodded, not trusting myself to speak. What was one more pain when everything else hurt, anyway?

‘They must have carried on running, then,’ he said. ‘There’s nobody out there now.’

Thank goodness for that!

‘You should not be out walking alone this late at night, miss,’ the lady said. She squatted down beside me, her tone half reprimand and half concern, reminding me of my mum.

‘N-no. Didn’t mean to. S-s-stranded,’ I stuttered. Crap, I’d only bitten my tongue, and not even that hard, so what was going on with the rest of my mouth? ‘C-could I b-borrow your phone p-p-please?’

The lady nodded. Her knees cracked as she returned to standing and she passed through the open section of counter right beside me, then returned with a cordless phone in her outstretched arm, holding it at my eye level. Heat scorched my shoulder as I reached up to take it. I held onto it tightly, as if it were my only lifeline, and I stared at it, my mind alarmingly blank.

One of the downsides of having a mobile phone was that I’d got lazy, no longer bothering to memorise phone numbers any more. They were just there, stored in my contacts. To be fair, I can’t remember the last time I had to physically dial a number—even the phone at home had a built-in phone book. Speaking of which, even my own home number was foggy, and I wasn’t usually that stupid, but it wouldn’t be any good to me anyway: Mum and Dad would still be at the Wheatsheaf, and they rarely got home before two o’clock in the morning on quiz night.