that was when I’d move in, running up to catch him. In an ideal situation, Charlie wouldn’t know anything about it; I’d take him down before he reached her, and she’d carry on, none the wiser.
How likely was this ideal situation? Let’s say I didn’t exactly have my hopes up. But I didn’t think he would have waited on the road and followed her in, like I did, because he wouldn’t have known where she was coming from, and so waiting in the woods was probably a good bet. Another possibility was that he’d come the opposite way, and then turn around and go after her, but I didn’t think that was likely either. He had his fantasy to think about, after all: whenever we cybered, he didn’t like Amy17 to see him until he was chasing her. I was figuring that would hold here, too.
I moved as quietly and quickly as I dared, trying to recreate the pace I’d seen Charlie moving at. A quick walk, keeping my breathing in check so I could listen as carefully as possible. For a twig snapping, or a shoe scuffing the dirt up ahead. Worst case scenario: a scream. And all the time keeping an eye out on the woods to the left: looking for colour, for movement, for anything.
I’d been walking for about ten minutes when I heard the scream.
I started running immediately, twitched into motion by the sound. The woods around me seemed intensely real; I took in every shade of green, brown and yellow as I ran, hurdling over looping roots, tapping trees as I passed them, partly to propel and partly to steady myself. Too busy to notice the adrenalin. The path twisted around to the right. Too busy, until the last moment, to realise that the scream I’d just heard had come from a man. That fact occurred to me as I rounded the corner and saw them, a few metres ahead.
They were almost in a rugby scrum, forming a bridge, with Charlie holding on to the shoulders of a much bigger man and yelling in anger as she launched kicks into his flabby stomach. The man was panting uncontrollably: although he was much taller and heavier than she was, he seemed to have been bent double by the force of her attack and was now hanging on for dear life. As I started to move forwards, she stamped down hard on his shin, and he screamed and stepped back, letting go of her and covering his face just in time as she launched a series of punches at him. Quick, snappy left jab; hard right cross that smacked the back of his hand and must have broken something, and then a solid left hook that knocked him a step sideways. From nowhere, her foot was suddenly in his stomach again – she’d spun around on her heel and launched a blistering kick that seemed to go a full metre through him.
Kareem disappeared backwards into the wood. I watched him tumble down the embankment, with little punches of dust and cries of pain following him on his way.
‘Holy shit,’ I said.
‘Jason?’
Charlie was flushed.
I ran over. Kareem had come to a halt in an ungainly heap about thirty metres down from us. He seemed to be deciding whether to attempt to get to his feet or not.
‘What the hell just happened?’
Charlie said, ‘Son of a bitch jumped out at me.’
We both looked down at the son of a bitch in question: a mildly overweight man in blue jeans and a checked shirt. He was struggling upright, with the aid of the tree beside him, and seemed as stunned as I was. He looked up at us. He was shaking, and I saw an average face, filled with a kind of stupid, awful terror. Then, he turned around and began to flounder off in the direction of the Beck.
‘Wait here.’
I started down after him.
Kareem glanced back, saw that I was coming after him and found a higher gear. His shirt came untucked as he ran deeper into the woods. His arms were pistoning. In fact, he could move pretty quickly when he wasn’t having his ass kicked by a girl.
I was exhilarated, but also feeling like I was a worm that had been let off the hook and had then jumped right back on again.
But I was still running in the wrong direction, regardless.
Straight after him, slapping past trees as I went. He veered right, heading deeper still. I could hear the stream and knew we must be getting close. He’d need to level out soon: just head straight right and hope he could outpace me to the ring road. But that was five minutes’ run, or more, and he must have known he wouldn’t make it.
I could hear his frantic breaths.
This feeling was the same feeling I’d had waiting at the station for the train to Schio on the day I’d gone to meet Claire. It was the shaking, stupid anxiety of a man who knew he was about to do the wrong thing; that he was going to disregard all the pleading, desperate advice that his mind was throwing at him, and go on and do the wrong thing regardless.
I put on a last jolt of speed as I reached him, punching into him from the side and driving him over towards the beck. Kareem went down; I heard a splash as my leg smashed into the water. Then grunting as I got my arm to the side of his head and pushed him.
He wasn’t a serious contender. I punched him again – hard – as we were getting to our feet. His nose shattered, and suddenly he was flat on his ass again, with blood spattered onto his shirt. He brought up his hands to hold his face together.
‘Shit,’ he said simply.
I wandered back up the bank and checked out the woods. There was no sign of Charlie, so I figured that she’d stayed up on the footpath out of the way. Either that or she was wandering, unsure where we’d ended up. I backed down to the edge of the stream. Over on the other side, there were just green fields: empty and desolate. The grass was long overgrown and untended.
It was still possible to walk away. I really did know this.
Instead, feeling sick, I pulled the stanley knife out of my jacket pocket, clicked the blade out three notches and turned back to where he was lying.
‘Hey Kareem,’ I said.
He stopped massaging his face and looked up at me. Confused.
And then with a little more understanding.
I’d well and truly boarded the train now.
I grabbed him by his hair and put the blade to his face. It was a weird thing. Like something out of a movie: not at all like I’d expected it to feel. It was too sunny, for a start.
‘We’ve got some talking to do,’ I said.
‘Please don’t hurt me.’
His voice was this stuttering, fragile thing. He couldn’t even think about fighting back; couldn’t think about anything right now apart from how he was suddenly all past, no future.
‘Amy Foster,’ I told him, tightening my grip on his hair. He winced a little. ‘You tell me about her, and you get away from here today alive.’
The words came out in a gush.
‘Who? I don’t know any Amy Foster. I swear I don’t-’
And so I cut his cheek. I’d never cut anyone before and I wasn’t really sure how to do it. It was meant to be a warning cut – a taster – but it didn’t turn out that way. The blade went through his cheek like paper, and with about the same sound. Blood spilled out of the side of his mouth.
He started crying.
My hand was shaking, but I told him:
‘You know who she is. You met her in the Melanie Room about four months ago. And then you met her in real life. She took a train to come see you.’
