She’s putting away the mats at the end of Krav Maga when she’s aware of a noise behind her and turns to see a shape at the door, so thick it blocks the light. Guts has gone next door to the gym; through the walls comes the throb of a beat, a bass that vibrates in the brickwork and her heart.
He waits for her to notice him, go to him. When she does, a trickle of perspiration slips down her back. It’s too hot in here, needs better ventilation. Flicking up the spout of her water bottle, she sips as she walks, moving slowly, as though he’s no big deal.
This irritates him. He looks her up and down, dismissing her with his eyes. “Tonight.”
She replies with a glare that says she came all the way over there just to hear one word, before turning away. There’s nothing else to be said. The less she knows, the better. Even so, she can guess the details, has done enough background checks of her own, could probably name the time and place if she had to.
The light changes and when she turns toward the door again, he’s gone. She exhales in relief, sitting down on the edge of the stack of mats, holding her shaking hands out in front of her. She traps them underneath her armpits, stilling them, and then collects her things, cramming them into her bag before leaving the warehouse.
When she’s out of sight of the gym, she quickens her pace, pulling up her hood, walking with her face down. She knows what she has to do—has been through it enough times in her mind, but suddenly it feels real and acid burns in her stomach, setting fire to her lungs. There’s not a soul in sight, not that anyone would want to hang around here, but it makes her feel lonely for the first time, scared. She can’t dwell on that though, or she’ll lose her nerve.
Turning up a dark alley, she runs up the steps, feet like pistons. There’s litter, syringes everywhere, and graffiti which she doesn’t understand or see the point of, and then she’s standing outside her apartment building, looking over her shoulder before booting the front door twice to open it.
There’s a pile of junk mail which she snatches up, dropping it onto the table. On the message board, someone’s written ET phone home. Hilarious. Like anyone would actually be helping anyone. Upstairs, a baby’s crying behind a closed door; someone’s having a coughing fit; there’s the theme tune of a daytime show—the same one her mom’s probably watching.
Inside her apartment, it smells of yesterday’s food—not hers. Smells travel here, through floorboards and walls, like the noise. She’s lost count of the amount of times she’s heard her neighbors orgasming while she eats noodles from a plastic pot.
Undressing, she jumps into the bathtub, attaching the rubber mouth to the tap, holding the shower head over her body. There’s a splutter and then the water drizzles out, barely enough to wash with.
Satisfied that she doesn’t smell like the gym anymore, she goes to the mirror, wiping off the steam, watching it steam up again. Too soon.
In the bedroom, she pulls clothes from drawers, throwing them all over the bed, trying to find her hoodie, tracksuit bottoms, wondering why she didn’t have them ready. Because she hadn’t known it was going to be tonight—thought she had more time.
The hoodie and bottoms are in the cardboard box that she uses for a laundry basket. Tipping it upside down, she shakes them out, sniffs them, decides they’ve passed.
The mirror is clear now, but her hand is shaking worse than before. She closes her eyes, steeling herself, then picks up a pair of scissors, holds her hair out straight to one side, grits her teeth, cuts.
Her feet are tickled by hair as it tumbles down. She peers forward to do the fringe, trying to get it as straight as she can, thinking that hairdressers deserve more credit.
She examines the results, turning her head from side to side, running her hand around her emancipated neck. Getting back into the tub, she holds her head under the water, hair amassing in the plug.
She gets dressed quickly, the material cloying to her wet skin. In the bedroom, she drops to the floor to pull a shoebox out from underneath the dresser. Ripping the chain from her neck in one yank, she tosses it into the corner of the room. And then she removes the necklace from inside the tissue paper, reinstating it, the diamanté B sitting squarely on her chest.
In the living space, there’s a miniscule shelf holding a framed photo. Hitting the back off, she slides the photo out, pushing it into the pocket of her tracksuit bottoms.
Casting her eye around the room, she tries to think whether there’s anything else here she’ll need or miss. She doesn’t think so. Her clothes are all crap. She could set fire to the whole lot and nothing would be lost.
As a last-minute precaution, she retrieves the broken necklace, brushes up her hair from the floor and unplugs the bath, taking the mess with her in a plastic bag. And then she’s out of there, slamming the door behind her.
Hood up, eyes down, she runs back down the steps of the alley, nearly turning her ankle to miss an abandoned kebab. Halfway, there’s a bin that’s always there, always full. Slipping the bag down the side of it, she runs back up the steps, making for the corner shop.
Her heart’s hammering as she buys milk, eggs, cheese, tomatoes, enough for her mother to make an omelet, trying to ignore the resentment poking her ribs. She packs the food into a cheap carrier, the sort that looks like the bottom will give way after four steps, telling herself that if that happens, she’s ditching the lot and her mother will have to make do for one evening without her. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about.
Fear’s a funny thing. She teaches this every day—how not to freeze if jumped in the dark. Yet, her fingers and toes are tingling, her vision is starting to narrow as though she’s hemmed in on either side, and the resentment is turning into something worse: guilt.
No one looks at her as she skirts puddles, twisting to avoid knocking into pedestrians. To them, she’s no one—a boy figure in baggy clothing, probably up to no good because none of them ever are.
She runs all the way to her mother’s house, where she rings the doorbell to give her the heads-up and then pelts down the hallway, shouting, “I’ve brought you some food, Mom. Make sure you eat!”
She hesitates, listens, as she shoves her backpack out of the way underneath the shoe rack in the hallway where no one will notice it.
“Okay, dear,” her mom calls. “Thank—”
She doesn’t hear the rest, is down the driveway, past the sun dial and the nude statue, and through the gates, her footsteps echoing around the redbrick buildings and high walls.
The bus is late. She shifts her weight, stamping her feet, trying to stop them tingling. The electronic message says it should have been here five minutes ago. Darkness is falling, the letters glowing, branding themselves on her retinas.
When the bus shows up, she barely speaks, going right to the back, hunching in the corner. The journey’s an hour long, feels more, the engine straining on hills.
And then at last she’s ringing the bell, darting down the aisle as it lurches to a stop, and she’s standing in High Street, not far from the singles’ bar where she first met him. But there’s no need to think of that now. Instead, as she runs down a side road, passing the Neptune Hotel, she thinks of the thick shape at the warehouse earlier, the tiger on his back, the one word he said.
Tonight. That’s here; it’s now. As if in response, from somewhere above, a lonely cat mews.
Running up an alley, her tunnel vision returns and she has to stop, lean against the wall, catching her breath. Bending over, she focuses on her feet, the whiteness of her shoes hurting her eyes. She’s so hot and cold; she goes to put her hair up before realizing it’s all gone.
She continues on her way, slower, taking off her hoodie, tying it around her waist. At the top, she glances into a car window at her reflection, barely recognizing herself.
Things are starting to become more familiar now and she begins to feel calmer. She slows down even more, checking that the photo’s still in her pocket.
Finally, she’s there, on Ocean View Road, the cherry blossom trees iron-still. Wiping her hands on her trousers, she counts the houses as she passes them, to help with her nerves. She doesn’t need to otherwise. She knows exactly which one it is.