A short story with a twist in the tail
Paranoia or prejudice? You decide
Night Attack by:
Damaris West
Gemma slipped slim fingers into black leather gloves, passed a pin through
her designer hat into her hair and gathered the skirts of her expensive camel
coat around her. It was always as well to be prepared for getting off the bus at
this time of night: that way, if anyone was planning to follow her she would get
a head start on the quarter-mile walk to her flat.
It was the same every time she had to come back from work this late. At the
beginning of the bus journey there would be a selection of fellow-passengers
most of whom she would have been perfectly happy to be near in any situation -
elderly ladies with baskets of shopping from the late-night market, teenagers
absorbed in the music from their Walkmen - and then as they progressed from stop
to stop all these harmless people would disembark to leave behind the one person
who made her feel uncomfortable.
Tonight was no exception. Across the aisle from her was a seedy,
unhealthy-looking man with greasy hair. She turned her head to look at him. He
was staring out of the window but his reflection met her eye. He reminded her of
the boy who used to bring round the tea. She’d had him sacked last week because
he upset a scalding cup of sweetened coffee (when she’d specifically said
unsweetened) all over her stocking-clad knees.
Gemma’s was the last stop before the bus returned to the depot so the young man
would certainly get off where she did. With her handy organiser slung over her
shoulder, she slid from her seat so that she was standing beside the driver as
the bus swung into the pull-in.
“Good night,” she said as her gloved hand released the pole and she stepped out
into the darkness.
“Good night, darling,” he returned. Bus drivers often used daring endearments
like that when they addressed her.
As she set off along the pavement she was aware of someone behind her. She
allowed herself a quick glimpse behind and sure enough it was the man from the
bus. He seemed to be hurrying towards her. Normally she allowed herself to light
a cigarette to aid the winding down process, but tonight she didn’t want the
delay. She quickened her pace and heard the footsteps behind her quicken also.
On moonlit nights and when she was feeling particularly bold, she took a short
cut across the corner of the park thus saving about five minutes. She knew it
was stupid, particularly since one of her friends at work had been stalked and
another had been accosted by a flasher in a multi-storey car park in the lunch
hour. Tonight she would go the long way round so as to stay under the street
lights. The man took the same route. At last she could bear it no longer and
swung round to look at him. He waved an arm in the air as if brandishing
something so, with her heart in her mouth, she turned on her heel and walked on
even faster than before. If it hadn’t been for her high heels she would have
broken into a run.
The man was still behind her. He seemed to have gained on her slightly and she
was sure she could hear him panting. Perhaps heavy breathing was his thing.
On the corner of the park there was a classy little wine bar which she sometimes
frequented. A group of yuppies was emerging from it, spilling out into the night
with their ties and their tongues loosened. She peered at them and recognised
among them someone she’d once considered going out with. He’d been rather
persistent and she’d been put off, but he still had a bit of a crush on her so
she felt confident he would help.
“George,” she said. “Do me a favour. There’s somebody tailing me. Can you sort
him out?”
George was drunk but not so drunk that he couldn’t immediately stiffen in
response to the challenge.
“Where is he?” he asked. “What does he look like?”
“He’s got greasy black hair and he’s a few yards behind me,” Gemma answered.
She didn’t look back but her ears were strained to make sure that the pursuing
footsteps didn’t start again. In fact, having rounded a couple of corners and
being in the act of crossing the road opposite her block of flats, she was still
listening so hard that she didn’t hear the car coming until it was too late. A
tremendous impact. A burst of white light. The feeling of going down into deep
velvet blackness.
She came to in hospital. A nurse was peering into her face and behind her was
the patient figure of a police officer sitting waiting.
“What happened?” Gemma queried.
“You’re very lucky. You’ve got a few broken ribs and a bit of concussion but
other than that you’re as right as rain,” the nurse reassured her.
Gemma recalled she’d been struck by a car. “Did they get the driver?” she asked.
“It was a taxi and the driver couldn’t have done anything to avoid you. All his
passengers vouched for that. They wished you well. Just said you ought to revise
the Green Cross Code.”
What was the policeman doing there, then? It must be to do with the man who was
following her. Perhaps he’d raped someone else instead. How did they know he’d
been after her first?
The policeman stepped forward and spoke, interrupting her musings.
“We believe you can help us with our enquiry into an attack which took place
outside a wine bar on the same evening as your accident,” he said. “A group of
drunken men set upon a passer-by who had a weak heart. During the onslaught he
had a fatal seizure.”
Gemma opened her mouth to protest but she was too feeble. They were only
supposed to scare him off a bit! But the police officer continued relentlessly.
“You’ve been connected with the incident because the dead man was carrying your
Filofax at the time...”
Gemma heard no more. She’d slipped back into the welcome embrace of
unconsciousness.
About the Author
Damaris West is the Managing Director of Anysubject Ltd which she runs from
the Italian office. You can see more about her at
www.italyhouse.co.uk. You are welcome to
use this article as long as it is unedited and a link to
www.anysubject.com or
www.italyhouse.co.uk is included.