Page 43 of The Perfect Son
Every part of me freezes. I don’t breathe, I don’t move. The last few seconds replay in my mind as my eyes fix on the now-empty doorway. Did I imagine it? There’s a flight of concrete steps and a buzzer system on the wall. It looks like the entrance to flats or small offices.
Time passes, a few seconds, enough for my mind to start to question what I saw, and I catch my breath. It was a deliveryman or an office worker waiting for the door to buzz so he could go inside. That’s all.
Except I’m not sure.
I give the pockets of my coat a pat as if I might’ve forgotten something and turn back in the direction of the alley. At the last second I whip around to face the doorway, expecting to see it empty, expecting this feeling tightening in my gut to be a figment of my imagination.
It isn’t.
He’s back, staring right at me. His face is just a shadow beneath ablack baseball cap, but I feel his eyes on me and the scream building in my throat.
The man moves a fraction further into the light, a fraction closer to me. He’s wearing black jeans and a dark hoody. He is staring right at me. I stagger back and he moves again, walking toward me. My old winter boots slip on the wet cobblestones as I turn and run toward the main high street. The alley is a dead end, the side street is empty, but if I can make it to the main road then surely I’ll be safe among the shoppers.
My heart is raging like the hooves of a bull stampede inside my body but even so I hear his footsteps tap tap tapping on the stones behind me. Five paces, four paces, he’s gaining on me and I burst into a sprint, dashing the final meters and half throwing myself into the passing shoppers, all the while expecting to feel the weight of a hand on my coat pulling me back.
“Watch it,” a woman’s voice shouts in my ear as I knock into someone.
I look up and see a young mother with a pushchair. One of her shopping bags has fallen to the ground and the toddler in the pushchair has dropped a packet of crisps, spraying the contents to the damp sidewalk.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp.
I force my gaze back to the cobbled street, but it’s empty. I look around and around, scouring the street for any sign of the man. I can’t see him, but I can feel his watching eyes tickling the hairs on the back of my neck.
I duck into a greeting card shop with helium balloons floating in the windows. I shuffle around and face the door before moving further into the shop. My eyes are glued to the street outside as I wait to see who is following me.
Where did he come from? How did he know I was here? Did he follow me from the village? I try to remember the make of the car behind me on the lane but I can’t even be sure of the color. I think it was blue.
“May I help you?” The voice startles me like a prod in the small of my back. I yelp, dancing sideways, almost toppling over a rickety magazine display rack. My hands grab the creaking frame at the final moment and steady its base on the floor.
“Here, let me,” the shop assistant says, stepping out from the counter and shifting the stand to one side. “I’ve been telling them for weeks that this thing is in the way, but no one ever listens to me.”
The woman clasps her hands together and stands before me. There is a stiffness to the way she is holding herself that reminds me of my mother and I wonder if she’s in the first stages of arthritis. Her hair is white and cut close to her scalp and the thick lenses of her red-framed glasses magnify her eyes so when she looks at me it’s as though she might be able to see right into my thoughts.
“What’ll it be?” she asks, like I might order a glass of wine and a packet of crisps.
“Oh... I...” My eyes move to the window and the empty street beyond, then back to the shop and the display racks stuffed with cards. “I... I need a birthday card for my son,” I stammer, surprised I can speak at all.
“How nice. Well, our children’s cards are over here,” she says, striding deeper into the shop. “How old will he be?”
“Eight.” I follow the woman, glad to be moving away from the window.
“Here you are then.” She waves her hand over two rows of cards, more colorful than the others on display. “I’ll leave you to have a look.”
I flick a final glance back at the empty street before focusing on thedisplay. The cards, like the shop itself, are dated. There are no character cards, no Star Wars or Spider-Man, nothing Jamie would like, but I stand and stare for a long time anyway, picking up each one in turn before sliding it carefully back into its slot, killing time.
My phone hums in my bag. I dig through the pockets and pull it free. Shelley’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hi,” I say in a whisper.
“Hey, Tess, I’m just parking. Are you in town yet?” Shelley’s voice bounces in my ear.
“I’m in a card shop opposite the library.”
“Are you all right? You sound weird.”
“It’s... I’m... I think... I mean I know—someone is following me.”
“What?” Shelley gasps. “Are you OK? Are you hurt?”
