Page 1 of The World Outside My Window

PROLOGUE

MARCH 1991

It was almost midnight, as it often was by the time I staggered out of the restaurant after a long shift. Rain had transformed the pavements and roads into slick, shimmering lakes, and as I pulled my car out of the tiny staff car park I smiled. There was something special about London at this time of night. It felt as though the city had fallen into a deep slumber, and the roads were deathly quiet as I wound my way northwards towards East Finchley.

Fifteen minutes later I turned onto my street. The rain had begun again in earnest and I squinted through the windscreen, the ancient wipers losing their battle against the sudden downpour as I searched fruitlessly for a parking space.

I crawled past my flat and slowly down the street until finally I found a space a couple of hundred metres from my front door, just big enough to squeeze my little Fiat into. It felt like a small triumph.

As I locked the doors I felt a rumble of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. The sudden downpour had ended as quickly as it had begun, and while the pin-drop peace might seem magical from the safety of a car, there was a menacing undertone to a darkened London street, and I hurried my pace, key wedged firmly between my fingers as a weapon, just in case.

The moment my flat loomed into sight, the tension began to drop from my shoulders. Although my husband, Jim, was away, the hallway light I’d left on earlier still glowed like a welcoming beacon. I checked my watch: 12.24 a.m.

I’d be inside any second, stepping through the door into the safety of our flat. I hitched my bag up onto my shoulder and took a few more steps.

It happened without warning. Staccato movements. Beats of terror.

A knock against my elbow.

A hand on my mouth.

A stifled scream.

A stumble; blinding pain.

Primal, all-consuming panic.

Fury rose in me as I tried to jab my elbow into my attacker’s face. But his vicelike grip held me firm. Fury turned to terror as I was dragged towards a narrow pathway between two houses. I dug my heels in, frantic, desperate, but it was hopeless. He was stronger than me. I stood no chance.

Then we were engulfed in blackness, the street lights positioned so that no one passing the end of the alleyway would ever see us. A face loomed, tiny eyes in a black balaclava.

‘Make a noise, and I’ll kill you,’ he hissed. His body pressed against me, and I realised I was trapped between him and the wall. I frantically dragged air in through my nostrils, in two, three, four, out two, three, four. Breathing was all I could concentrate on. He tugged at my waistband and I screamed, but no sound came out. Terror rose in me with every second.

I couldn’t let this happen, just yards from home.

His hand moved inside my trousers and pulled hard. I heard a rip and tried to kick out, but he pushed my legs apart roughly.

Then a glint in the darkness and I froze, paralysed with dread.

A knife.

For a few seconds we were both utterly still. Then adrenaline kicked in and I sucked in as much air as I could and tried to scream again. But a dizzying pain filled my head, my neck, my face. He’d smacked my head against the wall. I slumped down, all fight gone as my body roared with pain.

This was it. This was the end.

A shout then, and the eyes in the mask froze. Hands ripped away, footsteps receded. I was suddenly alone again, hunched on the cold wet ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over.

I stayed there, curled into a ball, for what could have been seconds or hours. Then someone spoke in the dark – ‘Are you all right?’ – and I knew I was saved. A man had been walking his dog, had heard noises from the alleyway. He’d given chase, and called the police. My saviour.

He helped me up, walked me home and stayed with me until the police arrived. He made tea and spoke to the officers and gave a brief description of the man who’d attacked me, for what it was worth. We all knew he’d never be caught.

I stayed up for the rest of that night, too terrified to sleep. The police wanted me to go to the station and give a statement, but I refused. When Jim returned from work the following day he begged me to go, but I still said no.

Two weeks he stayed at home with me, desperately trying to get me to see the GP, the police, to consider returning to work.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even contemplate crossing the threshold of the flat. Because something told me that if I just stayed in the safety of my own four walls, nothing bad could ever happen to me again.

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