CHAPTER 7
Stalker
The coffee shop is busy, so I am left with the only vacant space, a single stool at the counter.
It’s so cramped that the queue has to turn in on itself, leaving people to sidestep between tables just to give the door room to swing open.
The large window that overlooks the park steams up from the bottom and a small girl traces little doodles with her fingers while her mum chats from the table.
Everyone is so distracted here, including you.
I walk past you to find a place to sit and you don’t even look up.
I’m wearing the usual garb to stay hidden: a low dark cap and a long coat.
The day is bright so the streets are busy, making it easy to blend in. Even in broad daylight.
I look over at you. You’re next to Rufus, your heads close together as you talk. He tucks a strand of your curls behind your ear. Does he does that out of affection or for the optics?
My phone vibrates and I read the message with a sigh.
I type back a quick reply and shove it away, opting for a book over a phone.
If you sit with a phone in your hand it opens you up, people ask questions or engage with you.
But if you have a book or a newspaper, you seem to fall from their line of sight.
As though the presence of paper and a simpler way of thinking leaves you undesirable.
You’re not connected to the world so you’re not worthy.
I let the book fall open to a random page and settle myself in, lifting it enough to allow my eyes to linger on you.
You lace your fingers together and nod your head, an intense look on your face as you chew your lip.
Rufus gets up, moving across the café to the back corridor.
I could stand up and stride across to you, confront you now.
Ask you if you ever plan to tell the truth.
But we both know the answer, don’t we? Instead, I follow him.
You can learn a lot from the people someone spends their time with.
I expect him to head into the toilet, it’s the only thing that’s down this narrow corridor with its framed stock photos and plastic plants.
But he doesn’t. I hover by the cake stand, turned enough to see the outline of his figure.
He pulls out his phone and types quickly.
Who is he typing to in the shadows of a café toilet that he can’t near you?
He waits and taps his foot to the background music.
I can’t see his face, but I can imagine it.
Hopeful and in love, he’s texting someone he shouldn’t be. I can use that.
I return to my seat, grabbing a glass of free tap water from the jug as I go. So, what’s my next move here? I wasn’t planning to use Rufus, he’s an insignificant part of the process, but he makes you happy. So maybe I need to do something about him?
“Is everything OK here?” A light voice breaks the spell you have on me.
I look up to see a blonde young woman, hair in a low bun and eyes darkened with layers of makeup.
It’s hard to tell the natural colour of her skin, but it’s currently an off shade of burnt orange that stops under her chin.
She looks down at me with heavy-lidded eyes.
When did girls change so much? Or maybe it’s me that’s changed.
“It’s fine.” I give her the barest of glances.
“Do you want a coffee?” she says, her voice growing in volume. My leg jitters under the table. If she’s not careful, she’ll draw attention to us. A lone figure sitting in a busy café needs to look busy but content.
“A large black coffee,” I snap, taking a sip of my water.
She retreats when I don’t give her another glance.
I wonder if she wants more from me, a compliment or thanks.
Sometimes people are so hard to read. But not you.
You’re deliciously easy. Take, for example, your relationship with Rufus.
From the moment I met him, I knew he wasn’t the one for you.
But you look at him just right. Have you been practising it? You don’t love him.
You slump over the table and press your left hand to your temple, moving it in small rotations as you work the tension away.
You’ve not shed a tear, not wobbled in shock.
You’ve stayed very still, very quiet. It’s enough to make me doubt if I’m taking the right course of action.
People are a sequence of events that can be used either to bolster or destroy them.
Get it right, and you can take someone down in one single punch. I’m trying to work out what yours is.
“Coffee.” The voice is back; a cup is placed unceremoniously onto the shiny wooden table, the dark liquid sloshing over the far side and into the saucer.
“Sugar is there, and if you need milk then let me know,” the girl says again. I nod thanks and offer up a smile. She’s desperate for my attention, the poor thing.
I can see that I’m getting to you. That’s a good thing, Ella; you don’t know it yet but it’s a good thing. My father always used to say, if I cried because I was hungry or if my feet ached from standing in the cold for too long, that pain was a good thing.
I know what you’re thinking, I’ve thought it myself often enough, that’s not how you raise kids.
I’m not deluded; I need you to know that.
I know that my childhood wasn’t normal. That my father thought things that weren’t “healthy”.
But I ask you now, the people out there who do bad things, what do they learn from sitting away in a cell for a few years?
You ask the same on your podcast. You and I believe in the same thing: that it’s our duty to shine a light on the crimes that deserve punishment.
You preach it so vividly on your podcast, no?
We simply go about it in different ways.
Rufus slides back into his seat and kisses you.
The passion he offers up to you is meant for someone else.
We sit and have coffee for a while, you, me and Rufus.
He talks a lot, and you seem to nod along but you’re somewhere else entirely.
The booth next to yours empties and I take my chance, sliding in with my near-empty cup.
My mouth is sour with the bitter taste of poorly brewed coffee and my fingers are dry from turning pages I’ll never read.
We sit back-to-back. If I tip my head, we’ll be touching.
I run my hand over the edge of the book, its paper scratching me.
“It’s just a safety measure,” you say, tone sharp but quiet.
“Cameras are a big measure,” Rufus replies.
I train my eyes on my cup, in the hope that the focus helps me hear better. You’re both deep in pleasant conversation with smiles across your faces, I’m sure.
Interesting. Appearances matter to you both, then.
“I understand that, but I think we need it,” you snap.
“Tell me why,” he says, not as a question but a demand. You sigh, and there’s a clink of a cup before you speak again.
“It’s something from the podcast. Lots of people are seeing bouts of break-ins, and I worry that with people knowing my face, I could be next.” There’s a shake at the end of your sentence that sounds forced.
Rufus lets out a scoff. “You’re not famous.”
Those words must sting you. You started the podcast less than a year ago, and you’ve done well. Without it, I wouldn’t have known that you were such a good liar.
As someone who has suffered at the hands of crime, I know how hard it is to find retribution, to find peace, to find compassion. Your podcast is that space. Yet, it also balances self-pity and narcissism perfectly.
“I know that.” You’re softening your voice; I imagine you running your hand over his chin, leaning in to offer him a full view of your face. “But it is picking up traction and true crime spaces are dangerous.”
Well played.
“Have you had people contacting you?” Rufus asks.
There’s a pause.
“Nothing more than you’d expect, but I want us to be safe, remain anonymous and be careful.”
The idea that your podcast is anonymous is laughable, it’s your name on the description and your face on the accounts. But you’re not the centre of it, merely a vehicle for other true crime sufferers to share their stories. And you gain off their pain.
You and Rufus sit in silence, the cafe moving around you. My neck tenses with the clawing desperation to turn around and watch you both up close. But I don’t.
“Fine, one extra set of cameras. But don’t make a big show of it. These are only to keep the house safe,” Rufus whispers back, so low that I have to tilt back to hear him.
The house is safe, not you.
You don’t thank him, but rather a silence falls where I can hear the gentle clink of your cup. Then you both stand.
I duck my head quickly, leaning down into my seat as though to find something on the floor.
Two sets of shoes walk past my table and then you’re by the door.
The kiss you share is beautiful, a perfect balance of tenderness and passion.
He cups your face, and you hold his arm.
A young woman two seats away watches with wide eyes.
It’s all a show; people here know who you are, they know your parties and your wealth, so they must also have things to envy you for.
You make your way to the street, Rufus turning one way and you the other.
I wait a moment before slipping a note under my coffee cup and rising to leave.
We walk the street together, you a few paces ahead.
It’s a busy afternoon full of people with nowhere to go and plenty of time to weave their way in and out of shops.
I pick a flower from a stand as I pass, moving its stem between my fingers and twirling it.
I love the way people move around, so desperate to get to their destination that they won’t even pay attention to what’s around them. And what are you desperate for?
As you turn to enter the park, you pivot on your heel, your eyes scanning fast. I duck into the hedgerow, pushing my body flat as it resists me, the branches scratching at my ankles.
A woman turns to look at me, her dog scuttling along ahead of her.
Let her! I won’t be caught like this. I should have known you’d be wary.
Are you going to the park for a reason or because of me?
I wait, letting people fill my space on the pavement before I step clear of the bush and dust at the invisible debris.
I hate to say it but I’ve gotten better at hiding in the wilderness.
Fewer scratches. I step into the park and spot you as the path curves around to the right.
You’re sat alone on the bench, piece of paper in hand.
My letter.
I watch as your face contorts, a selection of emotions play out under your rouged cheeks and bronzed lips. Are you scared? Have my words scared you already?
I do this only to help you, Ella, and I know that those words alone can be terrifying. But trust me, they will make sense soon enough. They may even save you.
I watch as you pull out your phone. You type fast, who are you texting?
Is there someone else involved that I need to worry about?
I want to step forward and lean close to you, watch over your shoulder as you scroll through the phone, but I don’t.
I walk around the other edge of the park.
It’s not big, a small green with a little patch of flowers in the middle.
It’s hardly worthy of the status of “park”, but then a lot of things have the status they don’t deserve.
There were other options before this one, kinder and more gentle options.
Ways my ma and father would call courteous, which is ironic because neither of my parents were the kind type.
I did try those ways. Well, somewhat. I tried to be gracious and give you a chance to do better.
Do you remember what you did with those chances?
You glance up as I find myself level with you across the green. Our eyes meet. You frown, pushing your brows together.
Shit.
I turn my head, dipping it low. I move fast, weaving between a dog walker and a small child who barely seems stable on their feet. Did you recognise me?
Standing so close to you in broad daylight is a risk, and at this time of day.
Shit.
I chance a look back, a glance towards your seat and find it’s empty.
My hand trembles at the thought of you catching me.
Running up to me in your flat, sensible shoes, your shirt rustling in the breeze.
And then what would you do? Grab my arm, pull off my cap, stare into my face?
There’s a warmth in my groin. You do that to me, Ella, you excite me in ways that make my skin crawl.
I want you to catch me, I want you to rage at me and blame me for all the things that have gone wrong in your life.
I want you to punch your fists at me and fall against my chest while I hold you.
But I want you to learn, and change, and be better. Be better with me.
God, I hate what you do to me. I keep walking, though, away from where you might be. My eyes trained on the ground, and I don’t turn my head to see if you’re following me. If you are, then so be it.
But I have to admit, this is a lot harder than I thought it would be. Perhaps I can’t be the one to offer out punishment. All I want is to help you, to give you a chance to have the life you need. But I’m getting sloppy and we’ve barely even started.
My phone vibrates the moment I step out of the park. Is it you somehow?
I put it to my ear, barely looking.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me,” the voice on the other end of the line says, and I sigh.
“Yes,” I say.
“Oh, well… I’m in,” he says.
Jesus, what does he want, a medal?
“Right, that’s a start. Have you placed the box in the bureau?” The same instructions I left him with.
“Oh, no, I mean, I did that,” he says, the sound of an engine running in the background. “I left the gift there, although that’s a weird place to put a present.”
I smile. Simple minds, eh?
“Thank you, great work. It’ll be a nice surprise for when she gets home,” I say, and dial off. And with any luck, if you ever go to the police with it, my fingerprints won’t be all over it.
This is going to be good, Ella. If you let it. But how this ends and what happens next is on you. Remember, the best things come through pain, and I’m going to make sure this hurts like hell.