So, on to Plan C.
I know where Amy is going to be: in town, at the Christmas light switch-on, hoping to meet Anthony. But Anthony isn’t going to be there. Instead, a creepy dude who fantasizes about raping people will be.
From what I saw, Rapey Pete thinks he is arranging to meet Amy in the car park. The main car park next to the square is an old multistory one, which is exactly the kind of place I’d expect to meet someone like Rapey Pete if I were writing a screenplay.
I’d like to think that Amy’s sensible enough not to go meet someone in a multistory car park, or that if she does she’d take her friends with her. But Tori’s a master manipulator, and who knows what poison she’s been dripping into Amy’s ear to get her to do what she wants.
All of this is very scary, but it also makes Plan C quite simple. Keep Amy away from Rapey Pete. I’ll just stick as close as I can to Amy, without being caught. If Anthony isn’t Tori and all is above board, then how she deals with him is up to her. But if Anthony is Tori and her plan to get Amy to meet Rapey Pete in the car park works—well, I’ll be there.
My main problem is how to find Amy in the first place. The square is pretty big, and there will be hundreds, if not thousands, of people here, so it’s going to be absolutely packed. Luckily, Amy’s still in thrall of The Great Social Media Beast, pinning her locations and posting pics left, right, and center, which means I should be able to keep tabs on her. Plus, it’s easy to find someone if you follow them from their initial destination.
The other challenge is making sure she doesn’t see me. I’m not exactly nondescript, but I’m trying my best. Black hoodie pulled up, scarf to help cover my lower face (although I’m already regretting that. So hot!), hair tied back; with my head down and my hands in my pockets, I’m just another fat girl in the crowd.
I hover at the end of the road. I know Amy has to walk past here to get to the square. I’ve checked her Facebook update, and she’s already excited, gushing about Anthony, saying she can’t wait to meet him. Judging by his responses, he is equally excited, saying he’s “on the motorway, not long now!” No location pin for him, though. Funny, that.
She’s also told everyone she’s walking as it’s “such a lovely night, all cold and crisp and clear,” and has tagged a few people with her. Indigo is part of that group, along with some other names I recognize from uni. So far, she’s sticking with her group. Good.
I wonder how long that will last.
I can hear a group of girls chattering and shrieking in the distance. I step back into the bus shelter and get my phone out. To anyone looking, I’m waiting for a bus. Just have to hope no one from Amy’s group recognizes me.
The group draws nearer. My heart thunders in my head. Closer, closer, closer—then past me. No one looks my way. Amy’s not with them; it’s yet another group of random girls. How many is that now? Four? I don’t know. I’m losing count.
Oh, Jesus. What if she decides not to come this way? To take a taxi or something? If she got the bus (which would be ridiculous, as it’s, what, a five minute walk, tops? She’d be sitting at the stop longer than it would take her to walk it) she’d have to get off here, but there’s always that chance she’s going to throw a massive curveball and I’m going to miss h—
Another group approaches. Head down. Look at phone. Make yourself as small as possible. Come on, Beth, you’re good at this. Think invisible thoughts.
I recognize that laugh. I risk a peek. I also recognize that walk and those wings and, yep, she’s already bought one of those flashy LED-wand thingies from a dodgy street merchant. It’s Amy, with about five others. She’s laughing, bouncing down the road opposite me, obviously excited. I send up a little prayer of thanks. This is about as good as I could expect. She’s on the other side of the road, so her chances of spotting me are even slimmer than before. And she’s carrying a great big flashy beacon that I can follow. Okay, so are half the other people at this godforsaken event, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone else wearing fake glittery wings over the top of a purple coat. Thank God for Amy’s complete devotion to being an individual.
I keep a safe distance. There’s no entry fee, so I wander into the square, making sure I’m behind the group at all times. There’s a heart-stopping moment when a large group of feral youths barges past me, snarling as they suck on their badly rolled fags, forcing me to stop. When I finally manage to get past them I think I’ve lost her; I can’t see her, can’t see that stupid flashing stick, can’t see the idiotic wings, I can’t see her, oh fuck oh fuck oh f—
Then I hear a familiar shriek, and she runs past me, not five feet away. I cringe back, trying to use the crowds to disguise me as she flings her arms around someone’s neck. A hard lump forms in my throat. She used to do that to me.
I swallow. Got to keep my mind on the mission. So far, so good—no sign of “Anthony,” and no sign of her leaving her little group. She looks at her phone and frowns, then holds it up so her new friend can read it. The friend shrugs. Amy looks a bit upset. The friend slings an arm around her shoulders, and I have to look away. I wonder if I could risk getting a bag of chips? They smell so good. Maybe a hot dog. With onions. God, those onions smell amazing. I wonder what they do to them? They never smell that good when I cook them up at home—
I glance over to where Amy was.
Amy is no longer there. The friend is, but Amy’s gone. My heart lurches as I scan the crowd. I can pick out a few people she was with, including Indigo, but no Amy. Oh no, Amy, no no no no. Please don’t go off and meet him on your own.
What do I do? What if she’s just gone to get a drink or some food? She could be back in a minute. But she could also be making her way over to the car park, on her own, looking for a boy who doesn’t exist. If I stay here, no one will be able to stop it, but if I go and she hasn’t left, then I definitely will lose her, and if the car park thing’s been changed, I won’t be able to follow her and fuck, I need to calm down, come on Beth, just think, think, make a decision.
Ask one of the friends? No, that’s creepy, and if Indigo sees you, you can forget finding Amy.
Try your luck and ring her? She won’t answer, she’s blocked your number, remember?
Look on Facebook, okay, yeah, that’s an idea, see if she’s written anything . . . yeah, yeah, good, photos of people with LED sticks, lovely, where are you, Amy, where are y—
Another photo, a selfie taken near the library. That’s near the car park. And a tag: He’s here!! Off to meet my boi!
I stuff my phone back into my pocket and half-walk, half-run in the direction of the multistory car park. It looms over the buildings that border the square, black and foreboding against the sky. Behind me, there’s the whine of a microphone, and a voice echoes out, telling us it’s nearly time to light the tree.
I still can’t see Amy. I dart over the road and down an alley, dodging small groups of latecomers. Either she’s turned that stupid stick off, or she’s gone another way. Crap. Still, there’s only one entrance, so she has to be there.
Away from the square, the streetlights flicker and hiss. More people drift out from the car park—families, mainly, all looking a bit hunted, obviously wondering why they bothered parking in such a horrible place. That’s good. Good that people are around. If Rapey Pete is in there, then there’s a good chance someone will hear.
Closer to the car park and still no sign of her. I hate this place. It stinks of rotten concrete and stale piss. Obscenities crawl up its walls. It’s almost too stereotypical; if this was a movie, you’d be yelling “Holy shit, don’t go in there!” at the screen. Oh, Amy, where are you?
Suddenly I see it. The faint flash of blue, red, green, then back to blue: that stupid LED stick thing. It has to be her.
I jog across the road. She’s farther into the car park than I’m comfortable with—she’s not waiting by the entrance at all but is actually inside. I duck under the barrier; the cubicles that flank them have been empty since the payment machines got installed, so I can’t even ask a guard if a pretty girl in a purple coat came this way.
The lights have gone again. Where the hell is she? The concrete and piss are now joined by engine oil and exhaust fumes. My footsteps echo around me. Why aren’t these places properly lit? It’s like they want something to happe—
Just up ahead, there’s a scream. Not a little one. A proper, big, human-in-distress shriek. Everything inside me leaps, and I run.
And there, I see her. A man has her. He’s not very tall but quite stocky. She’s struggling. He’s trying to clamp his hand over her mouth. For a second, I can’t do anything but watch.
I am no longer imagining this; this is real. The man takes a step back, dragging Amy toward his van. He thinks this is a game. He’s not going to let her go, because this is what he thinks it’s all about.
I tense. Time to put my weight to some good use.
Patrick once told me I’d make a good rugby player, and boy, now is the time to test that theory. Head down, I charge forward, not caring that I sound like a steam train, ignoring the flare of pain in my legs. The man looks up, his eyes wide, just before I barrel into both of them.
If I’d been any smaller, it might not have worked, but the force of my impact knocks them both flying. I grunt as I hit the floor, my hip screaming at it smacks against the concrete.
“What the fuck?” the man cries. He pushes Amy away and tries to scramble to his feet.
“Amy, get away! Find security!” I yell and haul myself upright. She’s been knocked on her back and is looking at me like I’m some kind of alien. Next to her is the plastic flashy stick, now broken. The shards left behind look sharp.
I hear Amy whimpering as she finds her own feet. The man, Rapey Pete (I presume), looks both terrified and livid, and it strikes me that knocking over a heavily built guy who actively admits to rape fantasies in car parks is probably one of my stupider ideas.
I grab the broken stick and brandish it in front of me, like a sword.
“What the fuck, bitch?” Rapey Pete snarls.
I don’t answer him, just lunge out with the stick, because I am not fucking about.
He dodges easily, calling me insane, and then punches out at me, catching me on my jaw. Pain explodes across my face, and I reel back.
There’s a screech and the sound of hissing, followed by a man screaming.
Suddenly, the world is filled with people. People yelling, people running, hands grabbing me, asking me if I’m okay, what’s going on, oh my God, she’s bleeding—
“I wasn’t doing nuffin, that mad bitch just attacked me!”
—Amy sobbing, begging me to be okay while I sit there, my head spinning, my jaw and hip throbbing. Next thing I know, there’s the sound of a scuffle as Rapey Pete tries to make a bolt for his van and a deep voice declares, “No you don’t, mate.”
Amy’s crying again: “He grabbed me, he attacked me, he said he was going to rape me!”
And Rapey Pete’s calling her a bitch: “This was arranged, it’s not what you think it is, fucking hell, get off me . . .”
I feel oddly detached from all of it. Maybe I have a concussion. It’s certainly a weird sensation. I can’t make out much; I’m still sitting on the floor, and I’m seeing everything strobing through a crowd of legs. My hearing’s gone a bit funny, too, like someone put a goldfish bowl over my head. I want to lie back, but someone’s holding me upright. Please, just let me lie down. The cold concrete against my hot jaw would be so nice . . .
“Beth. Beth! Stay awake!” My eyes flutter open. It’s Amy. I try to smile, but it’s too painful. Shit, is that a broken tooth? I probe it with my tongue. I think it is. Oh, fucking hell, as if I don’t have enough to contend with. First fat, now toothless.
The car park lights up blue, and a blast from a horn echoes throughout the building. It’s so loud, it makes my head pound even more. More running, and someone kneels down beside me.
“You all right, love? What’s your name?”
“Beth,” I manage, although it sounds more like Beszh.
“Beth? Okay, Beth, you’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”