Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
GOOD AUGUST
AND HOW HIS DAY GOT EVEN WEIRDER
I’ve been sitting here staring at my laptop for a good three hours, oscillating between home camera systems that I can’t afford and the shop space I’ve been dreaming of for months.
Maybe I should be suspicious that it’s still available, but at this stage, I don’t care.
It’s becoming an obsession for me. I wonder if I could live in it.
Work there while I live there. There’s no kitchen, and it looks pretty run down, but I could survive on pot noodles for a while, sleep on the floor.
I lived off rice for three solid weeks one time when I was almost too broke to pay Mrs Huang’s rent.
And there it is. The reminder that I’m signed to a lease with her for another four months. I can’t leave her in the lurch. She’s alone, like me, and really, who else would want that place?
The tacky lace curtains are the least of its problems. It’s a dark, ground-level granny flat, paved with seventies linoleum floors designed to look like ugly yellow tiles, but scuffed and full of holes from decades of use.
The wallpaper is a grisly, furry ochre-brown.
The place is sparsely furnished with ancient furniture that her parents bought in the fifties when she was just a kid.
Oh, and then there’s the landlady herself.
Don’t get me wrong—she’s a wonderful person, and I adore her.
I don’t mind her dropping by at random times to collect the rent in person, cash in hand.
And I don’t mind when she tells me that I should get a proper job, or that I should find a nice girl to take care of me.
I’m very happy to have tea with her two mornings per week, and it’s nice to be invited to Mahjong on occasion.
But what if the person who takes my place doesn’t want to do any of that?
She’s ageing, losing her hearing, and I can’t leave her.
Yet I can’t help but scroll back to the shop listing, where all my meagre daydreams lie.
What I want is to open a karate school. I know how ridiculous that sounds.
No, it’s not a golden ticket, but it’s the one thing I can do.
And I love it. I’m teaching it part-time now, but those few hours each week aren’t enough.
I need to go full time, and I know I could make it great if I just got the chance.
But I’d need at least triple the money I have coming in right now to lease that place…
I close the lid on my laptop with a soul-heavy sigh, then slip it into my gym bag before pulling my hoodie back on. I should probably get out of here. I’m going to have to go back to the flat while it’s still daylight, just so there might be a witness to me being murdered.
I know. I teach karate. I should be able to handle one identity-stealing stalker. But that’s not how it works in real life.
Like I said before, rule number one in a fight—a rule that I always carefully instil in my students—is that if you can run, you should run. You only engage physically if you absolutely have to, and then you only do it long enough to be able to escape.
Taking a punch to the face isn’t like in romance novels. It really fucking hurts. It scrambles your thoughts and your movements, and you’ll be at your enemy’s mercy fast unless you can get control of yourself.
And if they’ve got a weapon? Forget about it. Fight them if it’s life or death, for sure, but know you’re going to get stabbed or slashed or shot. Being mentally prepared for that is half the battle.
I try to catch the barista’s eye on the way out. She doesn’t look up. I call out thanks, but either she doesn’t hear me or she ignores me.
Then I’m back out in the cold.
And it is bitterly cold. I pull my hoodie up and sling my gym bag across my chest. I wish I’d grabbed my coat this morning. But that was over by the door, too far from the window I crawled out of.
Then I remember I probably left that window open.
Then I think about how frigid the flat is going to be.
Then I think again about the heating bill I can’t afford.
That fucking prick! Why is he doing this to me?
Well, it’s time to find out.
Pissed off now, I set a direct line for home. It’s too cold to stick to the main streets, the wind howling along the wide promenades of St. John’s Wood, so I head down a series of labyrinthine backstreets and alleys that I know will get me there faster.
My pace picks up as my anger does, and I open and close my hands, trying to keep some feeling in them as they numb, but maybe also slightly because I’m daydreaming about finding this guy still at my place, getting the jump on him, and having it out with him once and for all.
Maybe that’s all it needs. A swift punch to the face to let him know we’re done.
But just as that wonderful image pops into my mind, I hear footsteps behind me.
The buildings are narrow here, tall and red brick, the unseeing backs of towering townhouses. The sound ricochets from the cobblestones up and all around.
I slow my walk, tread lighter, listen hard.
Definitely someone else’s footsteps, and faster than mine.
I can’t see anyone when I glance over my shoulder. And it could be that triple shot of coffee talking, but I have a bad feeling about this.
I’m in London, a city full of people. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone else to be coming this way. But it’s the insistent strike of those shoes that worries me. There’s intent behind it.
Maybe I’m not ready to start a fight with my stalker after all.
Jesus, what if he’s coming to stab me?
But what if this is my best chance of getting close to him?
Quickening my pace, I pull my phone out. I touch the camera on, turning it to face me, but I aim it past my shoulder as I’m walking. It’s jumping around everywhere with the movement, hard to make much out clearly, but then… there…
A human shape appears on the screen. Dark hair, everything black from head to toe, exactly like a murderous stalker might wear.
I can’t make his face out, but I’ve never seen him up close anyway. There’s no way to tell whether this man is actually my stalker unless he does something.
But if the police won’t deal with it, someone has to.
That’s me. Today.
It takes enormous effort, but I slow down. I’m going to need two hands to fight, and I don’t want him to see me watching him on the phone, so I slip it back into my pocket and step close to the wall.
He’s got plenty of room to pass now, if that’s his intention.
Rule two of street fighting: keep your back to a wall. Don’t let them get behind you and don’t drop, no matter what, or they’ll kick, which is absolutely worse than a punch.
Despite my slow strides, he’s not slowing. And he’s not even trying to hide the sound of his approach.
Maybe he will just go past.
My heart is beating so hard. It feels like everything is happening too fast.
Closer, closer.
He’s right behind me now.
I can feel him there.
Closer, closer.
My fist clenches in an automatic fight response, comes up strong, and smack! It collides directly with his chin.
“Fuck!” he cries out. “Fuck!”
He’s on the ground, and he hits it hard, splaying out on his back, hands flying up to cover his face.
God, I feel so guilty. Shit. What if it’s not him? What if I’ve just assaulted this poor guy? And what if it is him? Fuck, that looked like it hurt. Did he really deserve that?
Yes!
Maybe?
What is wrong with me?
I’m still standing here, stuck to the spot, pain ringing through my fist, but I’m ready to go again. If he attacks me, I’m…
That’s when he looks up.
And his face.
That’s my face.
That’s my exact face.
Why the fuck does this man have my face?
Breathing hard, he drags the mound of his palm across his split lip, briefly glances at the blood there, then spits on the ground.
His dark eyes meet mine, and like a knife straight in my gut, he says, “Hello, August. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”