Overhead, a low guttural thunder rumbled. He looked up. Seriously, tonight he could do without rain.
He crossed the street to the park entrance. Pausing between the two tall gate pillars, he relit the blunt. Fucking things were always going out on him. As the flame licked, he was inhaling deeply when he spotted the dark patch in the fog across the tarmac.
Everything suddenly felt too calm. There were some real weirdoes around here. Whoever was watching him never moved, just stood there.
Holliday took another drag and turned his back. Weed was making him paranoid. No one would be stupid enough to be out in this weather, least of all any self-respecting smackhead, and there weren’t many of those.
Flicking the roach into the nearest drain and hitching up his ill-fitting jeans, he tried to disregard the silhouette and headed into the dark tangle of trees.
He hated this park. It was a breeding ground for cottagers, muggers, dealers. He didn’t belong here; he was not a predator, not anymore. Since his release from Frankland he had adopted a different lifestyle. The Board had deemed him fit for society but there was no way to turn off the urges. It wasn’t a bloody tap. All those fucking suits thought they knew the score. Truth was they didn’t have the first fucking idea. His current solution was working well. He had developed a strict “look but don’t touch” policy, which was all good, but it didn’t tick all the boxes. He still needed to purchase new material a couple of times a month, and for that he needed his trader.
He considered sparking another blunt. The extra buzz would help pass the minutes. Last time the bloody arsehole had kept him waiting for over an hour.
Unexpectedly his discomfort returned. As the first few drops of rain began falling, as he headed deeper into the bowels of the mist, as he searched in vain for the clearing, he realised he was lost.
He steadied himself and tried to pick a direction, but stopped dead, heart bouncing double-step. Standing ten yards away was a motionless figure, thin grey tentacles of mist swirling like vapour around him.
Panic spread slowly through Derek like syrup. Backing stealthily away from the apparition, he could feel his fists clenching, his arsehole too. In one fluid motion he turned his back on the figure. And ran.
*
The smell out the back of the club was horrendous, but Janine Bluestock needed a minute to herself. She pushed away from the wall, distancing herself from the wheelie bins. They reeked of stale beer and pee.
Pulling down her little dress against the evening damp, she fished in her purse for a cigarette and sparked one up, savouring the first drag. It helped calm her.
She was so angry with Andrew. He just didn’t get it. They’d only been seeing each other for a year and already he was suggesting things like moving in together and engagement. Was he crazy? She was only twenty-three, he a year older, and they both had their whole lives ahead of them. They hadn’t even completed their Masters' yet. It was way too early to consider committing to anything that drastic.
Wasn’t it?
Tonight they were out with Jay and Charley. It was supposed to be a double date of sorts, but Andrew had pulled her aside after only a couple of drinks and told her he loved her. They’d said it to each other before, no biggie. This time, though, she hadn’t said it back. Janine was old school. Her mother had always taught her that to say those three words when you didn’t mean them was sacrilege, unforgivable. The problem was, she didn’t know if she could say them to Andrew with conviction anymore. In the last couple of months that spark seemed to have extinguished. She’d asked herself if it had just been infatuation, mere animal lust. Anything was possible.
In the early days, she’d been mildly obsessed with Andrew, his puppy dog eyes, his big shoulders. But although the sex was still good, she wouldn’t call it “making love”, not in a classic sense. To her it had always been “fucking”.
Listening to the dull whumping beat coming from inside, she took one final drag on the cigarette and flicked it to the ground. She didn’t feel like going back in but the thought of a couple of tequila slammers sounded good – anything to wash away the nostalgia.
A slow rumble of thunder rolled across the London sky. She shivered, hugged herself. Rain was coming.
The beat growing louder, the door swung open. Andrew stood in the doorframe eying the surroundings in disgust. ‘There you are, babe. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
Suddenly she needed another cigarette. ‘I wanted some air.’
‘You’ve gone for the fresh variety, I noticed.’
‘Better than in there. What are you doing out here, Andrew?’
Pushing the fire door closed, he stepped into the small courtyard. ‘Just wondered where you were. I lost you after you hit the dance floor.’
She didn’t respond. Instead she plunged back into her purse in search of another cigarette.
Andrew moved closer and placed his hands on her hips. ‘Babe, what’s going on? You haven’t seemed yourself all night.’
She cursed as her search for nicotine became futile. In the name of cutting down she’d only brought a couple out. When they were gone they were gone. And they were gone.
‘Janine?’ he pressed, his voice almost pleading. ‘You’re freaking me out here.’
‘Nothing’s wrong. I just need a cigarette and I’m out. Quitting's overrated.’
Andrew took a step back.
She didn’t know what to tell him. Instead she tried to compose herself, looked him up and down. He was wearing the grey sweater she’d bought him a couple of months ago. Right at that moment she hated the very sight of it. She
