happened?’
‘There’s been a rape on the Heath.’ I feel a cold chill run through my body. ‘I heard it on the news.’
‘That’s awful, Bell. When did it happen?’
‘Sometime today, I think, I’m not sure. I was so worried when you didn’t answer your phone.’
‘Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear it ring. I’m fine. I’m walking home now. And I’ll text you when I get there.’
‘OK.’ She sounds calmer now. ‘Go straight home and lock the door.’
‘I will, I promise.’
I call Wispa and walk back, suddenly aware of the impenetrable darkness on both sides of the road. When I get home and lock the door, I realize how tense I’ve been. I text Bell and open my
laptop. I find the news almost straight away.
Camden police are appealing for witnesses and information following a sexual assault on Hampstead Heath this morning. The victim, a
thirty-two-year-old woman, was attacked while she was jogging in the area of Parliament Hill sometime between 06.45 a.m. and 07.30 a.m. The suspect is believed to have followed the woman
from Holly Lodge Estate, before pushing her to the ground and assaulting her. He then fled in the direction of Gospel Oak.
The suspect is described as being a male of Mediterranean appearance, 5ft 8–5ft 10, wearing a dark T-shirt and light-grey tracksuit bottoms.
Anyone with information is requested to contact DI Brown of Camden CID on . . .
I close my laptop and sit motionlessly in the darkness of my sitting room. Poor woman. I’m paralysed with fear just imagining what she must’ve gone through. A frightening thought
occurs to me. Bell is right. It could’ve been me. Suddenly I’m covered in cold sweat. What if it
was
me? My weekend doubt hits me again and it’s even more alarming than the
first time. What if what I considered a consensual encounter was some kind of a testing ground for a rapist? Is it possible at all that the Dior Man is the rapist? Have I, with my reckless
behaviour, created a monster? He liked the taste of it with me and now he can’t stop and attacks other women? I open the laptop again and frantically look for more information about the
attack. The victim, although they don’t reveal her identity, could’ve been me. Young, probably professional, jogging in the park before her commute to work. But the attacker . . . It
definitely wasn’t the Dior Man, unless he’d completely changed his appearance. And his dress sense . . . light-grey tracksuit bottoms, yuk, I bet he wouldn’t be seen dead in a
pair of those. My own flippancy shocks me. But somehow it helps me to shake off the awful feeling of suspicion and guilt. It’s not him.
Fifteen Days Earlier
It’s been nearly a week since I last jogged on the Heath. I have a legitimate excuse – it’s been a hellish week at work. I get to the office early and work
late every day, barely staying on top of the massive tsunami of change that is slowly gathering momentum under the watchful eye of Cadenca Global. The Friday Bake-Off, cheerfully orchestrated by HR
and Happy Workplace, is a distraction no one wants and no one needs. The few cakes, baked by some mad souls who still have spare time and energy to be wasted in the kitchen, sit on the table in the
main conference room, barely nibbled on. There will be no Bake-Off winners this Friday, because everyone is a loser right now. A new structure is being put in place, new job descriptions drawn up
and approved, and the painstaking process of elimination is just about to begin. For some reason I’m reminded of a Borg cube from
Star Trek
, with all the superfluous drones being
ejected into space, their place immediately filled by the newly assimilated useful entities. Resistance is futile, that’s for sure. I have to do my job, while trying to prepare the most
advantageous exit strategy for myself. Bell, a devoted Trekkie who infected me with a passion for the indestructible TV series, would be proud of me.
Bell – I need
‘There’s been a rape on the Heath.’ I feel a cold chill run through my body. ‘I heard it on the news.’
‘That’s awful, Bell. When did it happen?’
‘Sometime today, I think, I’m not sure. I was so worried when you didn’t answer your phone.’
‘Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear it ring. I’m fine. I’m walking home now. And I’ll text you when I get there.’
‘OK.’ She sounds calmer now. ‘Go straight home and lock the door.’
‘I will, I promise.’
I call Wispa and walk back, suddenly aware of the impenetrable darkness on both sides of the road. When I get home and lock the door, I realize how tense I’ve been. I text Bell and open my
laptop. I find the news almost straight away.
Camden police are appealing for witnesses and information following a sexual assault on Hampstead Heath this morning. The victim, a
thirty-two-year-old woman, was attacked while she was jogging in the area of Parliament Hill sometime between 06.45 a.m. and 07.30 a.m. The suspect is believed to have followed the woman
from Holly Lodge Estate, before pushing her to the ground and assaulting her. He then fled in the direction of Gospel Oak.
The suspect is described as being a male of Mediterranean appearance, 5ft 8–5ft 10, wearing a dark T-shirt and light-grey tracksuit bottoms.
Anyone with information is requested to contact DI Brown of Camden CID on . . .
I close my laptop and sit motionlessly in the darkness of my sitting room. Poor woman. I’m paralysed with fear just imagining what she must’ve gone through. A frightening thought
occurs to me. Bell is right. It could’ve been me. Suddenly I’m covered in cold sweat. What if it
was
me? My weekend doubt hits me again and it’s even more alarming than the
first time. What if what I considered a consensual encounter was some kind of a testing ground for a rapist? Is it possible at all that the Dior Man is the rapist? Have I, with my reckless
behaviour, created a monster? He liked the taste of it with me and now he can’t stop and attacks other women? I open the laptop again and frantically look for more information about the
attack. The victim, although they don’t reveal her identity, could’ve been me. Young, probably professional, jogging in the park before her commute to work. But the attacker . . . It
definitely wasn’t the Dior Man, unless he’d completely changed his appearance. And his dress sense . . . light-grey tracksuit bottoms, yuk, I bet he wouldn’t be seen dead in a
pair of those. My own flippancy shocks me. But somehow it helps me to shake off the awful feeling of suspicion and guilt. It’s not him.
Fifteen Days Earlier
It’s been nearly a week since I last jogged on the Heath. I have a legitimate excuse – it’s been a hellish week at work. I get to the office early and work
late every day, barely staying on top of the massive tsunami of change that is slowly gathering momentum under the watchful eye of Cadenca Global. The Friday Bake-Off, cheerfully orchestrated by HR
and Happy Workplace, is a distraction no one wants and no one needs. The few cakes, baked by some mad souls who still have spare time and energy to be wasted in the kitchen, sit on the table in the
main conference room, barely nibbled on. There will be no Bake-Off winners this Friday, because everyone is a loser right now. A new structure is being put in place, new job descriptions drawn up
and approved, and the painstaking process of elimination is just about to begin. For some reason I’m reminded of a Borg cube from
Star Trek
, with all the superfluous drones being
ejected into space, their place immediately filled by the newly assimilated useful entities. Resistance is futile, that’s for sure. I have to do my job, while trying to prepare the most
advantageous exit strategy for myself. Bell, a devoted Trekkie who infected me with a passion for the indestructible TV series, would be proud of me.
Bell – I need
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