BEX
I watch him watching her. Jen is sitting on a bench at the front of Kenwood House. He is standing behind her, pretending to check his phone. Although I’m not certain, I think I know who he is. He’s the teenage boy who ran away from the scene of the murder.
I didn’t notice him at first. Why should I? He must have been mingling amongst the crowd of tourists, young mothers with their children, and retired Hampstead types. He stood out because he wasn’t moving – he was just standing there, uncertain about what to do next – and because he kept glancing over at Jen, quick, furtive squints to begin with, and then longer, more intense looks. My first instinct was to go over and confront him, but I stopped myself. By watching him I knew I had the advantage. I had the chance to study him.
I walk over towards him, but I’m careful not to let him see me in case he recognises me; he may have followed Jen during the times we were together. I take shelter behind a tree and notice every little thing about him. He’s wearing a pair of sandy-coloured chinos, a blue Oxford shirt, and a tweed jacket. He’s not sporting the latest trainers, but a pair of brown brogues. I wonder whether he dresses like this all the time or whether he’s in disguise.
Jen gets up from the bench and begins to walk along the path. The boy follows at a safe distance. I begin to shadow him. I consider messaging or calling Jen to tell her what’s happening, but I worry about her reaction. That maybe she’ll panic or cause a scene.
I quicken my pace, hoping that the boy doesn’t look around. I also hope that Jen doesn’t turn her head. We move away from the track, away from the crowds, and onto a stretch of pathway shielded by a long line of trees. The temperature drops a few degrees. There is a strange hush, as if the birds in this shaded spot have flown away and deserted us. If I can’t see anyone apart from Jen and the boy it probably means no one else can see us either. We are two women, alone on the Heath, and one of those women, a particularly vulnerable one, is being followed. I refuse to let the images I’ve seen in the newspapers and on television over the last few weeks – boys and girls, men and women stabbed to death at an alarming rate – get to me. But at the same time I have to be prepared to protect Jen.
What if he has a knife?
As I step forward I feel an obstacle in my path. My foot is stuck on a gnarled tree root and, before I know it, I’m falling. I swallow the pain as my palms make contact with the stony ground. I squeeze my eyes shut in the naive, childish belief that if I do so nobody will see me. I look up, half expecting to see the teenage boy standing before me, but he’s gone. I strain my neck and can see no sign of Jen. I push myself upwards, wince as I clear the cluster of small stones and twigs from my stinging palms, and run.