In the pub, Adrian sat alone at the bar. A group of guys chanted at the TV as the football came to an end. The bar was rammed with men in blue shirts. Chelsea had won at home and so there was much celebrating from a load of men who had probably never set foot inside the London borough. He ordered another Jack and Coke before going back to observing the rabble.
He picked up his phone and looked at the screen: no messages from Imogen, just a couple of missed calls. He felt guilty for storming off, but not guilty enough to apologise. He didn’t want to speak to her right now. He needed this time alone, but he had a knot in his stomach from earlier, a bad feeling. He hated arguing with Imogen and hated the fact that he had made her feel like she had done something wrong. They were both at fault here.
He knew he was feeling sorry for himself without good reason. As usual, he was hardly blameless. Either way, he couldn’t face that conversation tonight; it could wait until the morning.
He welcomed the feeling of light-headedness the drink gave him, but it wasn’t enough – he wanted to be drunk, to stop thinking altogether.
He ordered two more drinks and looked at the clock. The bar was open until two in the morning. He had a good four hours drinking left; he could do some real damage in that time. He felt like people were looking at him, judging him for being alone. He wasn’t sure exactly who he was rebelling against. Adrian had always struggled with being told what to do, even when it was himself doing the telling.
Over time, the pub emptied of football fans and filled with other revellers, either on their way to or from elsewhere. The music from the jukebox got louder and the corner nearest the toilets turned into an impromptu dance floor. It was a fairly central pub, so the clientele largely consisted of people passing through.
By midnight, Adrian had had enough. Tempted as he was to be the last person in the place, he had work in the morning and should probably sleep it off.
His phone buzzed again in his pocket, but he wouldn’t answer it now; he was too drunk not to say what he was thinking and he knew he wouldn’t be thinking it forever, so better to avoid saying it. For once, he was going to be sensible and wait until he had a chance to calm down before he did any permanent damage to their relationship. Imogen was too important to have this disagreement with. He had also lost count of how much he had drunk, but he was way past merry. After polishing off the dregs of what was left in his tumbler, Adrian left.
The streets were quiet, almost eerie. Considering how busy the pub had been, Adrian expected more people to be out, but owing to that pub’s late licence, most of the other bars in this area were already closed and any other people had moved on to the nightclubs, none of which were situated in this part of town. He walked down the hill towards St Thomas. It was a brisk fifteen-minute walk to his house and he had done it a thousand times or more. After the few people he saw on the lower part of Fore Street, the road ahead emptied with barely even a passing car.
Even through his drunken haze, Adrian’s instincts were sharp. Something was wrong; he wasn’t alone. Walking faster, he crossed the roundabout with ease, as there wasn’t even a car on the road. The silence was noticeable. Almost suffocating. There was an apocalyptic atmosphere, where anything could happen.
He kept his eyes ahead, looking for the St Thomas the Apostle church tower in the distance, which meant he was getting close to home. He approached the railway bridge on Cowick Street and heard the sound of a bottle being kicked somewhere behind him.
‘Who’s there?’ Adrian said, pausing for a moment.
Silence.
The red brick railway passage in front of him was like the entrance to another world, so close and yet so far. The archway was pitch-black. He could feel danger now. His skin prickled and his hairs stood on end.
Adrian picked up the pace and started to jog towards the railway arch. He could hear footsteps, running faster than him, but couldn’t tell if they were in front or behind him. Had someone followed him from the pub? He hadn’t noticed anyone watching him, but then again, he hadn’t really been paying attention.
Wishing he wasn’t so drunk, he kept moving forwards. The surge of adrenaline was sobering.
But there was still someone there with him; they were closer than before. The feeling inside that he had written off as paranoia earlier that evening was growing in intensity. He remembered an experiment he once read about that proved you could tell when someone was looking at you, an inbuilt instinct called a gaze detection system, largely to do with survival or attraction. Right now, Adrian knew that someone was looking at him. He was a target.
There was something wrong. The streetlights on the other side of the passage weren’t working; it was darker on that side than it was on his. Someone must have smashed them. He wished he had the strength and stamina that Imogen had when it came to running. She was a machine. He kept meaning to do more, to try harder. He was fit, but running for a long time took a set of skills that Adrian didn’t have. He would start tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
Sucking in a big gulp of air before entering the passage, which was barely fifty feet long, Adrian sped up and ran full pelt. If he could get to the streetlights, he would feel safer.
Before he knew it, he was out the other side of the passage. Just as his body untensed, he felt something swipe hard across the back of his head. A fist. He fell to the ground.