Stark went straight back to his flat. He checked his messages, half-hoping Jenny might have contacted him about drinks. But she hadn’t, and he wondered if maybe he should message her, then decided against it. Too much, too soon. Last thing he wanted was to be regarded as “pushy”. Last thing he wanted was to be rejected.
He experienced a range of emotions. The conclusions of Maggie’s research was mind-boggling and weird and terrifying. Yet, not surprising. He knew the truth in his dreams. He had known, all along, deep down, they were real. Maggie had merely “rubber-stamped” his own instinct.
He changed, put on his old, ragged running trousers, a T-shirt, his ancient running shoes, and hit the streets. He hadn’t run for days. The first mile was tough. The one thing he knew about running – about any exercise – was how quickly fitness and endurance dissipated through lack of routine. He felt stiff, his lungs tight. After a mile, once the blood started pumping, things got easier. The stiffness disappeared, the lungs were less laboured. He ran five miles, and felt good. Running made him forget, for a little while.
He got back, showered, changed. He had brought some work back with him, files packed into a small rucksack. Perhaps, he mused, he might buy a proper briefcase with his pay cheque. Probably not.
He laid the papers on the kitchen table. He tried to concentrate. But always, his thoughts steered back to the dream, the little girl, her terror and pain. The woman, her sadness and desolation.
He soldiered on, focused on the work. He gave up at 9pm, watched TV, and drifted asleep on the couch…
…and was in the girl’s bedroom.
Again watching from the corner. Everything was as before. The room was exactly the same. Dread filled his heart and squeezed his throat. He made out the shape under the covers. The shape moved. The girl sat up, looked at him. She pulled her blanket back. She was wearing pyjamas – bright with pink elephants. She made her way to him, stopped, and looked up. She was so tiny and frail.
“Make him pay,” she whispered.
She returned to her bed. Seconds passed. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Time meant nothing. Stark knew the sequence of events, and it terrified him. The bedroom door opened, the shadow slithered in…
…and then he was in the wood, in the place where the cherry-blossom tree stood. The woman stood before him. So pale. So tired. She turned, and spoke to him.
“I hid it there.” She pointed to the base of the tree. “Make him pay,” she whispered, and she touched his cheek. Her fingers were ice cold.
“Make him pay.”