Marion’s killer, I wanted to ask him: why? Why did you savagely take the life of a completely innocent woman? Look me in the eye and explain it to me. I need to understand.
‘Well?’ said Clive.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Have you ever actually seen someone eating a Milky Way? You know, on the tube, or the bus?’
I was racking my brains when the disembodied fuzz of the radio buzzed in. It was a T call to a house on Salcott Road. A suspected intruder. I realised right away – Salcott was just a stone’s throw from Sangora. Maybe Fintan was right. What if there was a maniac on the loose?
‘Fuck, it’s him,’ I said.
‘You what?’
‘Marion’s killer. I bet that’s him.’
‘Don’t be soft. Probably some kids …’
‘We’re three streets away.’
Clive sagged petulantly, so I took off. But I kept it to a jog: I’d need some puff left if I was going to disarm any deranged psycho.
Images of Marion flashed through my mind: the shock in her cold, dead eyes, her partially ripped-off fingernail.
As I turned into Salcott I checked back. Good old Clive was trundling along fifty feet behind, his head bowed, nodding like a knackered pit pony.
I looked for number 16 and clenched my fists, ready for anything. I gave the brass knocker three manly raps, shouted: ‘Police, open the door.’
A voice from the other side said: ‘Oh, thank God.’
The bright yellow door opened quickly to a pair of big, scared, brown eyes.
‘Oh thank you, thank you,’ she panted, as I stepped into the hallway.
‘Are you okay?’
She nodded.
‘Winona Ryder,’ I gasped. The resemblance was uncanny.
‘Pardon?’ she said.
‘Where is he, er, right now?’ I blurted, hoping she’d assume that’s what I’d said the first time.
‘He was looking through my patio door. Now he’s in the alley behind the garden, looking through a gap,’ she explained, shutting the door behind me.
‘Oh God, he’s never done anything like this before.’
‘You know him?’
She nodded rapidly, scared. Just then, the knocker went again. She jumped.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. When I opened it, Clive nearly tumbled inside.
‘I’ve called for back-up,’ he panted.
I turned and strode through the house until I got to the patio door. I slid it open and stepped into the garden, totally calm. I’d waited three years for this.
‘I’m coming, Eve,’ I thought to myself, ‘this time, I’m coming.’
I strode to the back of the garden, focusing on the only gap in the six-foot fence.
‘Wait for back-up,’ protested Clive from the patio.
Why give him the chance to escape? I thought to myself, deciding there and then to leap the fence, confront the fucker head on. I took out my standard-issue wooden truncheon, ran three strides, mounted, threw one leg over and braced myself.
I looked left, right. Nothing.
I didn’t need to throw my second leg over: this narrow alleyway had no hiding places. He was gone.
I jumped back into the garden and sensed Clive’s shaking head.
As I walked back to the house he grabbed my upper arm, hard.
‘Get one thing straight, pal, I don’t want to be a hero. If I say wait for back-up, I’m waiting for back-up, whether you wait or not. I’m not risking my neck for you or anyone else.’
‘Gotcha,’ I said, yanking my arm from his surprisingly firm grip.
I marched on into the house.
Winona had backed up against a neutral sitting room wall to keep an eye on all doors. I realised she was half-expecting her tormentor to outfox us and come through the front. That’s what real terror does: it bestows superpowers upon the aggressor. I loathed bullies, especially men picking on women. I’d spent years watching Dad chip away at Mum until she became what he loathed most: a timid, meek, frightened wreck.
Winona’s big brown eyes seemed so embarrassed, yet grateful.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said, her soft voice oozing exhausted relief.
‘I’m PC Lynch by the way, that’s PC Hunt. And your name is?’
‘Gabby. Look, I hate calling you but he was trying to open the patio door. I’m really scared he’ll do something stupid.’
‘You know him?’ Clive harrumphed.
She took a deep breath, clearly summoning the energy to go through it all, yet again.
‘He’s my ex. We split up just after Easter, and he won’t accept that it’s over.’
‘He’s still bothering you after, what, four months?’ I said.
‘It’s getting worse.’
‘Has he physically …’
‘No,’ she said quickly.
‘Damaged any property?’ added Clive.
She shook her head again: ‘But this is the first time he’s come into my place.’
Clive threw me a look, one that said, ‘Why do we bother?’
‘How many times have you called us about this?’ he said.
‘This is the third time. Look, I feel terrible dialling 999 but sometimes it’s the only way I can be certain something bad won’t happen. And it’s the only way I can get him to leave.’
‘The trouble is, love,’ patronised Clive, ‘unless he’s committed an actual offence, there’s nothing we can do.’
She nodded, biting her lip.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
I could tell, right away, what she hated most about all of this: the fact that she had to ask for help at all. I’d seen it in Marion’s family that morning: these dignified, fiercely independent, proud people were the ones who paid their taxes so that we could exist, but they never wanted to need us.
Cringingly,
