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Authors: Neil Davies
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her ears.
The man in the suit and wide-brimmed hat stood at the corner, watching her through eyes hidden by the hat’s shadow.
That afternoon, as she sat on the edge of her bed, shivering, trembling, she tried to convince herself she had imagined it.
One moment he was there, the next he had ducked behind the building. She had only hesitated a moment before running forward, almost skidding around the corner, but he was nowhere in sight.
Imagination? Hallucination? Madness?
She pressed the palms of her hands against her face and cried, heavy, shoulder shaking sobs.
What’s happening to me? He was real. But he couldn’t be!
She forced herself to stand up, willed her legs to move, to walk out of the bedroom and to her desk. She had been avoiding this since she got back to her apartment, but she knew she had to look.
The two photographs were pinned side by side on the corkboard, both slightly askew, the corner of one overlapping the other.
For a moment, her eyes would not rise that far. They stayed fixed firmly on the desktop as if looking for something there. But there was nothing there she wanted to find. It was fear that was stopping her looking higher. Fear of confirming what she knew to be true.
I have to do it. I have to know.
She looked up, first at the beach scene. Only those vague footprints remained to show the man had ever been there.
Next, the street argument.
She looked at the watching crowd. There was no business suit, no wide-brimmed hat.
He had disappeared!
She felt dizzy, nauseous. Her fingers trembled as she raised them up to touch the two photographs, as if needing the physical contact to know they were real. But she wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t expected him to be there anymore.
How could he still be in the world of the photograph when he was there, in her world?
The first note appeared the next day.
She found it pinned to the outside of her apartment door, written in faint, spidery handwriting on a page torn from the kind of notebook available in every newsagent in the city.
FOUND YOU .
There was no signature.
Shaking, glancing nervously along the corridor, she tore the note from the door, the tape holding it ripping a layer of paint away. She screwed the paper into a ball and threw it in the bin just inside her apartment.
She tried to tell herself Steven was playing some kind of sick joke. Or he’d split up with her ex-best friend and was hoping to come back. But deep inside, pushing at the edge of her deepest fears, she knew who the note was from.
She told no one.
The second note was pushed under her apartment door a day later as she bathed.
She saw it as she stepped into the living room, naked expect for the towel wrapped turban-like around her wet hair. It lay on the carpet, white with faint blue lines. Folded in two.
She grabbed up her bathrobe from the back of a chair and pulled it on hurriedly. Her nakedness made her feel vulnerable, self-conscious, as if whoever had left the note could see through her apartment door.
She stepped towards the note, hesitated. Could he still be outside? Waiting for her to get near? Waiting to grab her?
She quickly checked the locks. She could see the security chain was in place, the Yale lock was on, even the ugly black bolt Steven had put on for her after a series of robberies in other apartments nearby was slid across. There was no way anyone was going to suddenly open that door and grab her.
Still, she was hesitant, nervous, as she approached it. Her eyes never left the door.
She picked up the note and retreated quickly back into the middle of the room.
For a moment she considered just throwing the note away, never opening it, never reading it. But she knew she had to read it. Maybe she was wrong and it was from Jackie, or some other friend? Someone who came to the door while she was in the bath and, not getting an answer to their knocking and ringing, decided to slip a note under instead?
Maybe she was letting her
The man in the suit and wide-brimmed hat stood at the corner, watching her through eyes hidden by the hat’s shadow.
That afternoon, as she sat on the edge of her bed, shivering, trembling, she tried to convince herself she had imagined it.
One moment he was there, the next he had ducked behind the building. She had only hesitated a moment before running forward, almost skidding around the corner, but he was nowhere in sight.
Imagination? Hallucination? Madness?
She pressed the palms of her hands against her face and cried, heavy, shoulder shaking sobs.
What’s happening to me? He was real. But he couldn’t be!
She forced herself to stand up, willed her legs to move, to walk out of the bedroom and to her desk. She had been avoiding this since she got back to her apartment, but she knew she had to look.
The two photographs were pinned side by side on the corkboard, both slightly askew, the corner of one overlapping the other.
For a moment, her eyes would not rise that far. They stayed fixed firmly on the desktop as if looking for something there. But there was nothing there she wanted to find. It was fear that was stopping her looking higher. Fear of confirming what she knew to be true.
I have to do it. I have to know.
She looked up, first at the beach scene. Only those vague footprints remained to show the man had ever been there.
Next, the street argument.
She looked at the watching crowd. There was no business suit, no wide-brimmed hat.
He had disappeared!
She felt dizzy, nauseous. Her fingers trembled as she raised them up to touch the two photographs, as if needing the physical contact to know they were real. But she wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t expected him to be there anymore.
How could he still be in the world of the photograph when he was there, in her world?
The first note appeared the next day.
She found it pinned to the outside of her apartment door, written in faint, spidery handwriting on a page torn from the kind of notebook available in every newsagent in the city.
FOUND YOU .
There was no signature.
Shaking, glancing nervously along the corridor, she tore the note from the door, the tape holding it ripping a layer of paint away. She screwed the paper into a ball and threw it in the bin just inside her apartment.
She tried to tell herself Steven was playing some kind of sick joke. Or he’d split up with her ex-best friend and was hoping to come back. But deep inside, pushing at the edge of her deepest fears, she knew who the note was from.
She told no one.
The second note was pushed under her apartment door a day later as she bathed.
She saw it as she stepped into the living room, naked expect for the towel wrapped turban-like around her wet hair. It lay on the carpet, white with faint blue lines. Folded in two.
She grabbed up her bathrobe from the back of a chair and pulled it on hurriedly. Her nakedness made her feel vulnerable, self-conscious, as if whoever had left the note could see through her apartment door.
She stepped towards the note, hesitated. Could he still be outside? Waiting for her to get near? Waiting to grab her?
She quickly checked the locks. She could see the security chain was in place, the Yale lock was on, even the ugly black bolt Steven had put on for her after a series of robberies in other apartments nearby was slid across. There was no way anyone was going to suddenly open that door and grab her.
Still, she was hesitant, nervous, as she approached it. Her eyes never left the door.
She picked up the note and retreated quickly back into the middle of the room.
For a moment she considered just throwing the note away, never opening it, never reading it. But she knew she had to read it. Maybe she was wrong and it was from Jackie, or some other friend? Someone who came to the door while she was in the bath and, not getting an answer to their knocking and ringing, decided to slip a note under instead?
Maybe she was letting her
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