BEX
I wake up, drowning in a sea of guilt. I look at my phone. It’s 6.15 a.m., too early to call or message. I lie there, thinking of Jen. I type out a line or two on WhatsApp, include a funny emoji, but then delete it. I try to put myself in her position. If I was feeling paranoid and had received some weird messages on Twitter I would be feeling jittery too. I might very well lash out. Despite my flare-up of anger that had exploded inside my head when Jen accused me of stalking her, I am ready to forgive her. I tell myself that I will make everything better today.
I get up and put on my running gear, grabbing a water bottle as I leave. A long run always helps to recharge me. In a matter of minutes I’m out on the streets, taking in the cold, early-morning air.
I take the longer route to the Heath, across the bridge over the railway line and through Dartmouth Park. I jog past Julia Jones’s house, a warm glow coming from one of the windows inside. As I run I enjoy the feeling of energy being expended, the rush of blood to my head, the sound of my breath as I inhale and exhale. At Parliament Hill Fields I choose the pathway that leads to the viewing point. The cordon is still there, a marker that something terrible happened here.
I pause for breath and take in the view. The city is shrouded in low-lying cloud, the sun casting its delicate rays onto the enormous glass skyscrapers. I start to run again, across the Heath and down to the ponds. I do a circuit, tracing the line of the water, entranced by the reflections of the ever-changing sky. Then, as I pass by the entrance to the men’s pond, I see a figure in the distance. It’s Laurence. He’s coming towards me. I jog on the spot for a moment to make my turn less noticeable and then start running, slowly, away from him. I take a left and continue to jog on the spot, in the hope that he will run straight ahead; if he comes in my direction I will start off again in an effort not to be seen. I watch as he jogs ahead. I follow him, allowing a few other runners to occupy the space between us.
I think about the recent conversation I had with Jen about Laurence. I remember how he hurt her. I recall, once again, the horrific scene that night in his kitchen when Jen went to pieces. I wonder whether that relationship could ever have really worked. They are such different people, after all.
Laurence glances at his wrist, most likely his Fitbit, and bursts into a sprint. I increase my pace, hearing my breathing quicken. As I run I begin to think about what might happen to him. A series of images flash into my mind. He’s being pushed in front of an oncoming tube train, his body mangled. I see him bludgeoned over the head, blood spilling from his temples. I imagine him running across the Heath, on such a morning as this. There are lots of isolated spots where it could happen. He’s passing through a stretch of woodland, he’s got his buds pushed deep into his ears, just as he has today. He’s unaware of the woman running up behind him. She has a knife. She plunges it deep into his neck, severing his carotid artery. There is a spurt of blood and he falls to the floor. He opens his mouth to talk, but nobody can hear him. He dies a lonely and a painful death.
Whatever happens I’ll make sure of one thing: he’s going to suffer.