She ran, tearing down the little gully that separated her street from the next one in the development, screaming 'HELP ME!' at the top of her lungs. Until she realized that gave the man chasing her something to aim for. She concentrated on putting as much distance between them as possible instead. Mobile phone. She had a mobile phone in her handbag. She had to call the police. The Flesher crashed through the undergrowth behind her. Vicky took a sudden dive to the left, into the grass, scurrying behind a huge whin bush. Holding her breath. Praying. She could see him: a faint silhouette against the orange-grey clouds. Phone. Where was her phone? Where was her sodding, bloody, fucking phone? Vicky tipped her handbag out into the wet grass and felt her way through the contents: compact, tampons, purse, brush, credit card wallet, bits of paper, more bits of paper, more BITS OF BLOODY PAPER. Comb. Lipstick. PHONE! She flipped it open and the screen sent out a little bloom of light. She slapped her hand over the thing, trying to hide the glow. Praying he wasn't looking this way. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus ... Nine. Nine. Nine. Come on, come on ... '
52
One woman screaming would have been bad enough, but two of them going at it like blue-rinse foghorns was doing PC McInnis's head in. Kingswells was meant to be a sleepy little commuter town, not a septuagenarian war zone: the battle line drawn through a dying leylandii hedge. Both sides were squaring off outside a pair of identical yellow-brick boxes, ignoring the misty drizzle that drifted down from the cold November sky as they screamed at each other. McInnis had another go:'Look, can we all please calm down. We--' 'This was a nice place to live before you moved in!' 'Oh why don't you go shove a cactus up your--'
