Nothing was clear anymore. He drove quickly in the van, too aroused, too angry. He couldn’t go home. The noise in his head was loud now, like a scream that he knew he had to silence. The journey was just a stream of red lights, blurred, blending into one. He couldn’t remember where he had driven.
He thought he could hear people mocking him, just quiet laughs, almost inaudible, but definitely there. He took deep breaths, sweat prickling across his body, his shirt sticking to his back.
He had to find someone. Blackley was too far. He headed back into Turners Fold on one of the back roads, so that he wouldn’t pass her. She hadn’t got a look at his face, he was sure of that, but he couldn’t give her a second chance.
He was soon in the town centre, looking for a woman, any woman. This was different to Jane and Deborah. This was about the instant need, not revenge, and the rush of adrenaline blocked out the noises outside.
He saw a young woman coming out of a shop, a carton of milk in her hand, looking down, her car keys with her. He slowed down. He liked her. She wore a tight T-shirt and he could see her titties bounce as she went back to her car. She shouldn’t have worn that. Bad choice. But then he saw him, the boyfriend, waiting. She skipped as she got closer.
He drove on. He knew there’d be more. He thought about going where he said he would never go again, where the women roam in packs, their skirts short, handbags slung across their bodies, ready to laugh at him, fucks for money. Weak man. But it was a bad idea. They were in Blackley, a few miles away, and he needed release sooner than that. And anyway, the women who sold themselves looked out for each other, and they always fought him off whenever his hands went around their throat, just for a tease.
He carried on driving in a loop around the small town centre and then onto some suburban curves. And then he saw her.
The noises got louder.
She was young, in her twenties, walking on her own, head down, her arms folded across her chest, wrapped up in her thoughts, a cigarette jammed between her fingers. Perhaps on her way home from an argument, so it was possible that she wouldn’t really hear him.
He drove past her and pulled into a side street. He got out of the van and waited, leaning against the driver’s door. He would have to be quick, there were houses nearby, tall Victorian buildings that had been converted into flats and bedsits. Practice meant he could do it quickly. The snap of the cuffs, the hands around the throat.
The noises in his head receded. They always did when it was time, as if they didn’t want to put him off. He had to be perfect. The timing of the grab, the threat. All he could hear was the stillness of the night, and like always, it seemed like sound had been magnified, so that her footsteps were loud slaps on the tarmac. He could hear her clothes rubbing together as she walked, the suck of her lips on the cigarette. Traffic sounds were distant. It had to be now.
She was there, crossing his side street, her head still down, the grey-blue cigarette smoke curling behind her. Why had she chosen that route? Choices again. She had made that choice, put herself in danger.
He set off walking, falling into step behind her. He was wearing soft soles, so that he could get close before she heard him. He tried to keep to the left, to keep out of the shadow of the street lights.
And then he was within grabbing distance.
He reached behind, for the cuffs that were attached to his belt. He took a deep breath through his nose. It made her turn around. She looked startled and was about to scream, when his arm snapped forward, his hand went around her throat, squeezing hard, his free hand snapping the cuff around one wrist, his legs moving quickly, pushing her towards an alleyway he could see ahead.