Heather presented me with my coffee in a takeaway cup. I paid and thanked her and headed to the door just as the TV crew and cast were beginning to spill back out into the mews. I pulled my cap down over my eyes and walked outside. In the street, the mews was buzzing with bodies. Some of the pavement had been cordoned off, and people were flocking to grab a glimpse of what they were shooting today.
I jolted aside as a young lad on a scooter sped past me. The wheel of his scooter clipped my heel. Suddenly my heart was drumming against my chest. I breathed in for three and out for six; just a short, sharp reset as my therapist had taught me, as I leant into the wall, hoping I could morph into it and that no one could see how small, seemingly inconsequential incidents could throw me off track.
I pushed myself off the wall and went to walk on, but, from the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a dark jacket and a black baseball cap partially covering a face I thought I recognised. There was a shift in the atmosphere around me, like a surge of an electric current that was urging me to run. I felt my blood run cold and my hands became clammy. The short, breathless episode a moment ago was a mere prelude to the terror that began to tear through my body.
I began to walk at a pace. Three smartly dressed women blocked my way on the corner, their synchronised laughs sounded demonic in my ear as I skimmed past them. Their words morphed into the words I had heard him say so often: you can’t run away.
I looked across the road again, but the man was nowhere to be seen. His words were evaporating and becoming the breeze around me once more.
I slipped into the grocery shop where I could take a moment to breathe and shake the image of the man out of my head. It couldn’t have been him. I was safe here.
I slowly sipped my coffee whilst I perused the neatly stacked aisles. A jar of pickles was slightly out of line so I nudged it back in with its suitors; the order restored a small amount of calm within me.
I found my way to the next lane; non-perishables, toilet rolls, sanitary products and the likes. I was just nudging some wet wipes back in line on the shelf when the sound of a raspy, raised voice alerted my attention to the till. I walked to the end of the aisle and saw a woman dressed in a dark overcoat, with her back to me.
‘You don’t understand – I will return later, but I need this now.’
‘I’m sorry. If I did this for you, then I would have to do it for all my customers. Please come back later when you have enough money.’ The cashier, a man in his twenties with a disproportionately long neck, was leaning forward and speaking quietly to the woman.
I edged my way closer to the till, my hand already in my pocket, ready to be of assistance. I moved closer still so that I was right behind the woman, her clipped Eastern European accent was punctuating through the cashier’s protests.
‘I’m really sorry.’ The cashier said again. I was so close behind the woman I could smell her perfume, it smelt like Parma violets. Tufts of peroxide-blonde hair were poking from under her black bobble hat.
The cashier’s eyes met mine. The woman, who sensed his attention, wavered and turned abruptly. Her green eyes bore into me, urgent and accusing. She scowled, then turned and headed for the door, rushing through it and back out into the street.
I approached the counter and saw what she had been trying to buy. It was a bottle of liquid paracetamol, the stuff you usually bought for kids. Just looking at it brought back a tsunami of memories of little hot heads and feverish nightmares, small bodies tossing and turning between the covers in the dead of night. Bodies that no longer existed in my world, yet I would never be free of their memories.
I shook the images from my head and looked at the cashier.
‘How much?’
As I stepped out of the shop, I scanned the area, desperately trying to see the woman. I spotted her, her head hunched, hands in her pockets, heading away from the mews. I increased my pace to a light jog, weaving in and out of people who seemed to be coming at me in waves, until I was next to her.
‘Excuse me,’ I said as I arrived at her side.
She jumped as though I had given her an electric shock, then she turned to me with that same scowl. I handed her the bottle of paracetamol.
‘Please, take it – it’s on me.’
She went to walk away and I touched her arm, instantly regretting the sort of action that would make me recoil. She stopped in her tracks. I edged my
