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Authors: Johnny Vineaux
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recollect where I had seen that face before;
what was familiar about it. A few blocks down I remembered: The
thin guy that Bianca had pointed out at the café. Was it the same
guy? All I could really remember was the tall, gaunt frame, and
what seemed like lank, black hair. The guy I had just seen
certainly had that look. I walked on, conscious of not turning
around, hopeful that he might follow me—if indeed he was following
me. Was I being paranoid? I had read once that most sensations of
coincidence or de ja vu occurred not because of strange or similar
circumstances, but actually because we just remembered them that
way. At that point, numb from the sickly bright supermarket, and
hopelessly depressed, it was entirely plausible that my mind was
playing tricks on me.
After making my way to the end
of the street, I stepped into a cornershop. The window was almost
entirely full of posters, phone card tariffs, and adverts. He
wouldn’t see me as I leant over the ice-cream freezer, and peered
out through a gap in the posters. At first the street seemed empty,
then I noticed a figure standing in a doorway, a little further
back from where I’d approached the shop. I couldn’t make out a
face, but his hair was lank and black.
Had the tall man been wearing a
green jacket like that? I wasn’t sure, but something was definitely
wrong. He looked around anxiously. I thought I noticed him look
over at the shop. He reached into one of the side pockets in his
green jacket, pulled out a small notebook, and intensely wrote
something down in it before shoving it hurriedly back into his
pocket.
I pulled away from the freezer.
Was it possible that I was being followed? I ambled through the
cornerstore so as not to draw attention from the shopkeeper,
wracking my brains to think of who and why anyone would be
following me. I remembered the stoic but deliberate way Bianca had
pointed the man out to me in the cafe.
“He was watching us since we got
here.”
I had seen him then, but only
vaguely. A shabbily dressed figure in the rain that turned and
walked away. I was usually pretty sharp at noticing stuff, and I
felt like I could read people well, but I had always been bad at
remembering faces.
After circling the store twice,
pretending to look at tin cans and sweets, I resolved to go and
simply ask whoever it was. I made for the door before realising I
had what was probably fifteen kilos of shopping bag in my hand. If
the guy had been following me, he might not take kindly to a
head-on meeting, and with all that weight he would no doubt get
away easily. It was, perhaps, an unnecessary measure, but I put my
bags down beside the counter.
“Can I leave these bags here for
a second? I’ve just got to go make a call.”
The shopkeeper glanced at me
with a furrowed brow before noticing my arm.
“You won’t be long?”
“No, I’ll be back in a few
minutes. Thanks.”
I peeked out of the window
again. He was still there, with that anxious, nervy look. A few
drops of rain fell onto the window, and the heavy, grey, midday sky
hinted at more to come. I swung the door open and walked briskly
towards him.
Upon scanning the street
nervously, as he had been doing since he’d stood there, his gaze
fell upon me, and I thought that for a split second I detected some
kind of fear in his eyes. As I continued walking towards him, he
seemed to suddenly realise it was him I was interested in, and
shifted his feet quickly. I got within about five yards of him and
raised my hand to address him. As if the gesture was some sort of
threat, he immediately sprung his heels in the opposite direction
and began to run. He did all this in such an awkward, unpredictable
manner that it took almost a full two seconds before I started
after him.
His tall frame had a long
stride, and he covered a lot of ground with his head start, but I
was confident I could catch him pretty quickly in a straight race.
He must have realised this himself. He swung his head
what was familiar about it. A few blocks down I remembered: The
thin guy that Bianca had pointed out at the café. Was it the same
guy? All I could really remember was the tall, gaunt frame, and
what seemed like lank, black hair. The guy I had just seen
certainly had that look. I walked on, conscious of not turning
around, hopeful that he might follow me—if indeed he was following
me. Was I being paranoid? I had read once that most sensations of
coincidence or de ja vu occurred not because of strange or similar
circumstances, but actually because we just remembered them that
way. At that point, numb from the sickly bright supermarket, and
hopelessly depressed, it was entirely plausible that my mind was
playing tricks on me.
After making my way to the end
of the street, I stepped into a cornershop. The window was almost
entirely full of posters, phone card tariffs, and adverts. He
wouldn’t see me as I leant over the ice-cream freezer, and peered
out through a gap in the posters. At first the street seemed empty,
then I noticed a figure standing in a doorway, a little further
back from where I’d approached the shop. I couldn’t make out a
face, but his hair was lank and black.
Had the tall man been wearing a
green jacket like that? I wasn’t sure, but something was definitely
wrong. He looked around anxiously. I thought I noticed him look
over at the shop. He reached into one of the side pockets in his
green jacket, pulled out a small notebook, and intensely wrote
something down in it before shoving it hurriedly back into his
pocket.
I pulled away from the freezer.
Was it possible that I was being followed? I ambled through the
cornerstore so as not to draw attention from the shopkeeper,
wracking my brains to think of who and why anyone would be
following me. I remembered the stoic but deliberate way Bianca had
pointed the man out to me in the cafe.
“He was watching us since we got
here.”
I had seen him then, but only
vaguely. A shabbily dressed figure in the rain that turned and
walked away. I was usually pretty sharp at noticing stuff, and I
felt like I could read people well, but I had always been bad at
remembering faces.
After circling the store twice,
pretending to look at tin cans and sweets, I resolved to go and
simply ask whoever it was. I made for the door before realising I
had what was probably fifteen kilos of shopping bag in my hand. If
the guy had been following me, he might not take kindly to a
head-on meeting, and with all that weight he would no doubt get
away easily. It was, perhaps, an unnecessary measure, but I put my
bags down beside the counter.
“Can I leave these bags here for
a second? I’ve just got to go make a call.”
The shopkeeper glanced at me
with a furrowed brow before noticing my arm.
“You won’t be long?”
“No, I’ll be back in a few
minutes. Thanks.”
I peeked out of the window
again. He was still there, with that anxious, nervy look. A few
drops of rain fell onto the window, and the heavy, grey, midday sky
hinted at more to come. I swung the door open and walked briskly
towards him.
Upon scanning the street
nervously, as he had been doing since he’d stood there, his gaze
fell upon me, and I thought that for a split second I detected some
kind of fear in his eyes. As I continued walking towards him, he
seemed to suddenly realise it was him I was interested in, and
shifted his feet quickly. I got within about five yards of him and
raised my hand to address him. As if the gesture was some sort of
threat, he immediately sprung his heels in the opposite direction
and began to run. He did all this in such an awkward, unpredictable
manner that it took almost a full two seconds before I started
after him.
His tall frame had a long
stride, and he covered a lot of ground with his head start, but I
was confident I could catch him pretty quickly in a straight race.
He must have realised this himself. He swung his head
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