warned Jamie. ‘Like a middle-sized poppy. ‘
‘Mmmm.’ She didn’t want her head cut off. Lily felt the studio was no longer special. Glass on two sides had been great at first… she could sign to Jamie and feel part of a working team. Or glance at her reflection, just to check how professional, Lily the presenter, looked. But the red ON-AIR sign warning visitors to keep quiet was no protection against intruders. Her mind was being harassed, not her voice. Those panic waves were swamping again. And she was freaking out. Sort of! Cool it Lily, she told herself.
‘You could be a subject for my thesis,’ suggested Jamie. ‘I’m looking for a topic, and I’ve got to get to my Adv. Behav. tute now. Stalking might be an okay topic.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks. Choose another flower. My name’s Lily, not Poppy.’
Sometimes Jamie went over the top. You know how someone acts casual, pretends something doesn’t matter and then drops words in, so you won’t forget their real job. He was studying ‘Behavioural Modification,’ and was a bit up himself about that. Jamie even listened to the song lyrics on air and commented whether the motives were believable.
‘Motivation is the key,’ said Jamie, getting up from the table.
‘Forget it.’ Lily didn’t want to be a case- study or a police case or a patient who was a doctor‘s case. When she was a kid, she imagined a doctor packing up a patient inside a brown suitcase and carrying it to hospital. Kids had weird ideas. But they weren’t the only ones. Kids’ ideas were sort of clean weird. This seemed dirty weird. No wonder Jamie was intrigued by her stalker’s mind.
‘You mean why he’s doing this? The reason?’ Lily dumped her cup on the trolley labelled DON’T ACT LIKE A PIG, CLEAN UP THE SWILL’.
Trays banged, cutlery crashed and students heading for lectures pushed their way out of the crowded cafe. As Jamie dumped his cup, he said reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry Lily. I’ll read up on Stalkers and let you know what he might do next. Stats wise, they follow a pattern.’
‘Thanks a lot Jamie, but don’t bother. I’ll find out for myself.’ Lily was determined to do something, but she wasn’t sure what.
Fans often left gifts at the station. The Stalker had left her a gift all right: the gift of fear. Like last Friday, at her flat. When the ordinary stuff started going wrong.
***********************************************************
She’ll be leaving the studio soon.I know she’s there I heard her on air. I can switch her on. Or switch her off. I know where she is but she doesn’t know where I am or where I was. That’s the thrill. Her voice floats through the air…. She does the midnight shift. All those lonely ones ring her.…interviews with people not worthy of her attention. How dare they answer her in that way! If she were interviewing me, I’d give much more intelligent answers. Maybe she’ll interview me on air, one day, about my campaign, my strategies. But not yet. And of course, only if I decide to do it.
I know what time she’ll finish. So I wait slumped down in the driver’s seat, parked on the roadside of the highway she’ll pass. I watch in the rear vision mirror.I don’t want her to see me. No, that would spoil the feeling… that I know her whereabouts her life is open to me, but she doesn’t even know I am here. I’m like a golden circle around her life.
I switch on. Sometimes I get lucky. The station plays a promo and I hear a snatch of her voice. ‘Hi, this is Lily’ has become so familiar. She says it just for me. I tape and replay, often. I’ve worn out the first tape.
When I wake up in the morning, I think about the snatch of her voice. I replay it in my mind. Ahead, the day seems grey unless I have planned to connect with Lily in some way. Long hours until she is on air again. Will I see her earlier? Waiting near her house is cheating. There has to be a risk. A gamble. Action soothes me. That’s why I went through the car-wash four times today. My car needs to be clean inside and out. It always is. Even the smell must be clean.
Adjusting the rear-vision mirror, I can just see the driveway beside the studio. A car noses out. Is it hers? No. Shit! The mirror gives a reverse picture. I’m checking the wrong place. There’s a 7-11 place alongside. That’s a worry. Too many cars coming out of there. Not her. Why not?
I drive and drive. Every time I see a yellow car, I feel her in my gut. Right model. Right colour. Wrong number plate. If I just see her today, I won’t do anything else. That will be enough. Just to know that she is nearby. The sense of her doing ordinary things and not knowing that my watching makes all her actions special. Maybe she’ll even wear that perfume I smelled in her bathroom.
She’s easy to track. I know when she’s on at the studio or at uni. That’s when her home can be visited, like last Friday.
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