Chapter 2
Jared
Instead of heading straight home I veer right out of the office building in the direction of my gym.
I’d already been planning to go after work, a change of clothes ready and waiting in my rucksack.
It’s how I’ve spent most evenings since the incident.
My life can clearly be separated into before The Raven and after.
Before I had no interest in learning how to throw a punch.
After I was attacked learning how to defend myself became my top priority.
I’d always been more of a runner but as soon as my body was recovered enough I booked an appointment with one of the personal trainers at the gym who specialised in boxing.
I wouldn’t call Paul a friend, but the small talk around our training sessions provides me with some social interaction away from the circling vultures at the office.
We don’t have a session scheduled today but I spot him at the front desk when I walk in and nod hello, grateful he’s not the kind of guy to try and stop me for a chat.
My thunderous expression and white-knuckle grip on my box of shame might have something to do with it too.
In the changing room I shove the notebooks from the stupid cardboard box into a locker then dump the box in a corner out of the way, uncaring if it’s still here when I’m done working out my frustrations.
Tearing open the zip on my rucksack I pull out shorts, a vest top, and trainers, then angrily ball up my discarded office wear and shove it inside the bag.
Headphones in, I stride over to the treadmills to warm up.
It takes some effort to force myself to start at a walk and work up to a run.
After ten minutes I move over to the punching bags and go through the motions of the warm up stretches Paul taught me that have become as familiar as breathing.
I wrap my hands then begin working through a few basic combinations.
Eventually I lose myself to the familiar rhythm, no longer imagining the faces of The Ledger staff each time my fists connect with the bag.
As time goes by sweat pours down my body and my breaths saw in and out with the exertion.
I keep going. If I stop I’ll have to think about what the hell I’m supposed to do next and I can’t do that right now.
If I let myself think about the year yawning out ahead of me like an uncrossable chasm I’m going to lose it.
This is better. The familiar burn in my muscles keeps me grounded.
Stops me thinking about him. About what happened to me.
My fists fly faster. My lungs burn. I press on.
“Hush, don’t try to speak.” The words slither down my spine and I scrunch my eyes closed and push myself to hit harder, like that will block out the memory that accompanies those words, his words.
I’m cold. I’m lying on something hard, a table maybe.
My eyes won’t open, and I realise there’s something on my face.
A blindfold. Panic seeps into my bloodstream and I try to lift my hand to uncover my eyes but I can’t move.
Why can’t I move? A distressed noise escapes my chapped lips before I can stop it. That’s when he speaks. The Raven.
“Fuck,” I gasp, snapping back to the present only to realise I’ve hit the bag so hard the bracket attaching it to the ceiling has come loose leaving it hanging at an uneven angle.
My hands tug at my blonde hair as I fight the urge to drop to the ground and curl in on myself.
Ragged breaths saw in and out of my lungs as I fight to get myself back under control.
Leaning forward with my fingers digging into my thighs, I eventually feel my heart-rate slow.
Checking my surroundings I notice Paul watching me from across the gym.
Great. Not the first time I’ve lost it like this in front of him—but that doesn’t make me feel any better.
The panic attacks happened a lot in the months following my encounter with one of England’s most prolific serial killers, but I haven’t slipped into a memory like that for at least two months.
I blame Corbin for bringing up ‘my ordeal’ and bringing the whole mess to the forefront of my mind.
Not that it’s ever far from my mind, but still.
I can already feel the exhaustion that always follows a panic attack weighing me down. Time to get myself home before I crash completely.
“Sorry about the bag. Send me a bill for the repairs,” I tell Paul as I pass by the reception desk on my way to the changing room.
He nods and once again I’m grateful Paul’s not the sort the make a fuss.
He knows if I wanted to talk about it, I would.
But that’s the last thing I want so I walk away without another word.
Not trusting my shaky limbs to make it through a shower here as well as the journey home, I grab my rucksack and the stupid cardboard box that, sadly, hasn’t been tossed out.
“Here.” Paul stops me by the exit, holding out an energy bar.
“Um, can you?” I nod at the box in my hands and he drops the bar inside. “Thanks.”
He nods. “Look after yourself.”
“I always do.”
He scoffs at that but lets me leave.
Luckily it’s still early enough in the afternoon that I’m on the tube home before rush hour starts.
Living and working in London I’ve not had any choice, but since the incident I’ve had a lot more trouble coping with crowds.
When I first started back at The Ledger four months ago, every time a stranger bumped into me my heart would leap into my throat, even now I still tense up.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be OK with someone coming up behind me and touching me when I’m not expecting it.
There’s more truth than I’d like to admit to what Corbin said about me being different now.
But I still don’t agree that taking away work, my one escape, is the right course of action.
I went back to The Ledger just two months after I was taken because I didn’t want any more time off, I just wanted to feel normal again.
But, as I take a seat on the tube near the doors, automatically cataloguing my surroundings, I have to admit the normal from before is long gone.
The Raven may not have taken my life, but he shattered my sense of safety, and I’m not sure I’ll ever manage to piece it back together.
By the time I make it back to my tiny one bedroom flat, I’m exhausted.
After double checking the door’s locked and the chain’s in place, I abandon my box of stuff from the office in the corner of the living room to deal with later.
Heading through to the bathroom, I strip off my sweaty gym clothes, and get in the shower.
The warm water soothes my overworked muscles, and going through the familiar motions of getting clean helps settle my nerves.
Afterwards, I change into my comfiest pair of grey joggers and my softest t-shirt.
The temptation to crawl into bed is strong, but I know I’ll feel like shit if I don’t eat something before letting myself sleep, so I drag myself through to the kitchen and make a sandwich instead.
Grimacing at the slightly stale bread, I choke down the sad ham and mustard sandwich, reminded I’d intended to pick up some fresh bread on my way home today.
Of course, that was before Corbin forced me out.
It’s not surprising I forgot the errand given this day’s gone to absolute shit.
Now I’m clean with a full stomach I feel more human, and the boiling rage I left the office with has lowered to a simmer.
While it still pisses me off that Corbin made this decision for me, it occurs to me this enforced time off could be an opportunity in disguise.
He might be able to stop me reporting for The Ledger for the next year, but he can’t prevent me from going elsewhere or doing my own investigations.
I clean up my plate and set the kettle to boil while I think, staring at the peeling linoleum my landlord chose for the kitchen floor instead of tiles.
Thanks to The Raven I’m too notorious to get a job at a different paper in London, hell in most of the country’s big cities.
Even if I wasn’t turned down for my reputation as a reporter who became the story, I’d need to list Corbin as a reference and I know he won’t give me one right now.
That means I need to do something else, but what?
Magazines would leave me facing the same issues as applying for a position at a different paper, and I shudder at the idea of working for a tabloid—no doubt they’d only try to exploit my experience with the country’s most notorious serial killer in recent years.
I could continue my own investigation into The Raven but I’ve kept my ear to the ground since my attack and there have been no new leads.
Two and a half years of the infamous serial killer dropping a body every month and now…
nothing, not one new victim in the last six months.
Not since I survived. While I’m glad nobody else has been hurt, I can’t help feeling like The Raven’s reign of terror isn’t over yet.
I think he’s watching, waiting for something—I just don’t know what.