Emma stepped off the tube. This morning’s copy of Stylist in one hand and rummaging for her mobile with the other, she sashayed along the platform. Forming a queue with the other weary commuters, she sighed as she inched slowly towards the stairs. Up and around they walked, until they reached the top, where they broke like greyhounds set loose, the turnstiles their rabbits. Set your sights on one, head down and go for it. Emma had her Oyster card ready. Heaven forbid she should be one of the numpties who leaves it ‘til the last minute, fumbling through their bag for their ticket whilst the rage of the delayed homeward-bound burnt into their idiotic backs.
The gates glided sideways, and she was through, walking towards the light of the exit, face lifted to the cool air that greeted it. By the time she had left the station, her phone was already level with her face as she dismayed at the lack of signal.
‘Come on, useless thing!’ A half-hearted mutter at her most precious possession.
Her Louboutins clacked across the pavement loudly. She loved the sound they made and strutted just a little harder as she looked down at them and smiled. A birthday present to herself. Well, no one else was going to bother, were they? Although that could be about to change, she thought, taking another glance at the screen. Five bars. Yes! She paused, stepping to one side to allow the flow of Upper Street to continue around her as she scrolled to her Snapchat. She’d got the notification on the way down the escalators at Bank. Frustrated, she’d lost signal before she could load the snap. She’d been twiddling her thumbs ever since. Was it from him?
Emma eagerly tapped on the Snapchat icon. Two new messages now. Both from LondonBoy. Well, someone’s keen. She smiled to herself as she opened the first snap. It was gone almost as soon as it flashed up on her screen. Just long enough for her to appreciate a mighty fine torso. Emma felt her cheeks warm as she giggled like a teenager. Covering her mouth with her hand, she slipped the phone back into her bag. Best to leave the second snap until she got home, she didn’t want to look too keen, after all. She walked under the trees and along the shops of the busy London street. Her pace was lazy now that she was out of the tube and nearly home. She wandered along and toyed with the idea that her flirtation with LondonBoy could be the start of something special.
By the time she reached her street she was humming The Wedding March. Realising what she was doing, she shook her head a little. Talk about jumping the gun. I’ll be as bad as my mother next, she thought as the guilt inducing voice ran through her mind. Thirty-one now and no sign of a husband! I’ll just have to face it, there’ll be no grandchildren for me. Emma rolled her eyes at the familiar words, although she had to admit that they were starting to get to her. Sod it. I don’t have time for games. She reached into her bag and felt for the rough case of her phone. Crystal encrusted, it wasn’t the most comfortable to hold. But it looked bloody gorgeous. Rounding the corner, she looked down into leafy urban street and like many times before, felt grateful for where she’d got to. A good job, a nice house in a top London location. Well I work damn hard for it, she thought, as she tapped again on the little ghost icon.
If only she could find someone to share it all with. Her life was so busy she just didn’t seem to have the time to meet new people. She’d turned to internet dating, as so many of her friends had recommended it. And, even though loads of people were doing it nowadays, she still felt a little awkward about it. There were plenty of weirdos, that’s for sure. She’d been on a number of dates, some just plain awful, some fine, and some that had led to a lot more than a goodnight kiss. Unfortunately, there had been no repeat performances. She’d had her fingers burnt on more than a few occasions, but what choice did she have? She was lonely. One by one, her friends had hooked up and she was being left behind.
Halfway down her road she stopped and held the phone still. The second snap from LondonBoy sat innocently on her home screen. Secretly hoping that it would be a little spicy, but terrified that it would be totally pornographic, Emma scrunched her eyes up a little and opened the snap. The image flashed before her, only a second and it was gone. Wait. What? Emma felt herself falter a little. Who was that? She pressed on the snap again, knowing it was futile. The little square icon that had been full was now empty. It had already been erased. The beauty of Snapchat. She tried to recall the image as best she could. It had been blurry, a woman taken from a distance, blond hair like hers. She reached up and twisted it around her fingers. Slowly she started to walk again, picking up the pace and deciding that he must have sent it by mistake. It had looked a little like a picture taken by accident, kind of blurred and skewed, at a funny angle. She exhaled a little and relaxed again, enjoying the cool breeze that lifted her hair from around her face and cooled the back of her neck.
She lowered the phone as she approached her house. A neat Edwardian terrace, it sat quietly in line with the others. Whitewashed, with a red wooden door, traditional brass knocker and arched window at the top. She rummaged in her handbag for her keys and leant forward to jiggle them in the lock. It was old, but she had paid over the odds to keep as many original and genuine features as possible. It added to the charm of the place. Her hair fell across her eyes as she opened the door, and she puffed it away with a sharp breath. LondonBoy's torso entered her mind once more as she stepped into her hallway, heels clacking on vintage tiles. But why did he send that weird snap? She was sure they had a connection, that there was more to it than online flirting. She smiled as she decided that she wasn’t ready to give up on him yet.
***
Emma pulled her dinner out of the microwave, middle fingers catching the lip of the plastic rim either side. Steam billowed into her face as she crossed the room and tipped the contents into her pasta bowl. She blew upwards from her bottom lip, forcing the air up and over her face and blowing the stray hairs out of her eyes as she reached for a fork. She tried not to think about the recommended daily allowance of salt as she crunched the grinder over her bowl. Grabbing her glass of wine in one hand and her dish in the other, she walked briskly through to the lounge and plopped onto the sofa. She tucked her legs up beneath her, bowl on lap, as she flicked on the TV. Her phone buzzed from inside her pocket.
Leaning forward to place her dinner on the coffee table, she reached for her phone. It would be LondonBoy, she was sure, explaining the odd snap from before. She imagined reading the words as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. The soft material of her training pants caressed her fingers, reminding her exactly why she loved wearing them so much. Expensive, they were comfortable as well as flattering. She brought the phone up to her face and saw it was another snap. She allowed herself a smug smile. Her resistance to reply had paid off. The smile was still on her face as she tapped on the snap and it remained there as the image appeared before her. Another one-second flash, there and then gone. But this image wasn’t blurry. This image was sharp. And, in the split second it took for the hard lines to arrange themselves into an image in Emma’s mind, she felt a cold, heavy sensation in her gut. Right down there at the bottom where her most carnal feelings let themselves be known. But this was not a pleasurable feeling. This was ancient. A feeling that human-kind had dreaded from the day they evolved. A feeling of fear.
Emma dropped the phone into her lap and clasped her hands over her mouth. Adrenaline made her heart pump and her fingers tingle. Sitting for a second in thoughtless panic, eyes darting left to right and back again. She clenched her jaw as she made a decision. Advice was needed. She quickly picked up her phone and dialled, her fingers tapping silently on the soft velour of her sofa as she listened to the dial tone.
‘Ems! Hi!’ As the dull roar of the tone clunked into active call.
‘Hi Holly.’ Emma breathed.
A pause. ‘What’s happened?’ Concern crept into Holly’s voice. Her oldest friend, Holly could tell in an instant when Emma needed help.
‘Nothing, not really, it’s just…’ Emma searched for the words, ‘something a bit creepy just happened . . .’
‘Ok, one sec,’ Emma heard the muffled sound of Holly’s voice as she talked quickly to someone in the background and she imagined Holly getting up and leaving her lounge, telling her husband Chris that Emma was on the phone. Holly’s voice sounded so far away that suddenly Emma wished she was right there on the sofa, a warm and comforting presence in Emma’s lonely house.
‘Right, I’ve assumed the position.’ Emma heard the smile in Holly’s voice and she could picture her in the comfy window seat of her house, pillow tucked into her lap and phone in her hand.
‘Ok, so I’ve told you about LondonBoy?’
‘Yes, vaguely…’
‘We’ve been chatting on WhatsApp and exchanging a few pics…’
‘Ooo pics, naughty!’ Giggled Holly.
‘Well, yes, up ‘til now it’s been going well.’ the serious undertone of Emma’s voice brought Holly’s giggles to an abrupt stop.
Emma rubbed her hand across her forehead as she thought back to her first interactions with LondonBoy. She gave Holly the lowdown on their contact so far. She’d seen his picture on a dating site and ‘starred’ his profile, which added him as one of her ‘favourites’. It sounded so ridiculous now that she was saying it out loud. Nearly as soon as she’d done so, she’d gotten a message from him. She was ashamed to admit that she had liked his keenness, a fact that she left out of her monologue to Holly. From there they had chatted on WhatsApp before she added him as a friend on Snapchat. They had got on well and she had thought that they had a connection. Of course, a connection was nice, but you had to exchange a few pictures. You could never solely rely on the dating site ‘profile’ image. She wasn’t afraid to admit that she was picky. She looked after her body and she wanted a partner who did the same. That meant full body pics, height and build had to be established. It was easy if you knew what questions to ask. Obligatory to scope people out a bit before you agreed to meet them. And that’s what she had hoped they were heading towards; a meeting.
‘So after the ‘torso’ pic I get another snap.’ Emma paused. ‘It was blurry and I couldn’t make it out. I thought it looked a bit like me but then thought I was being silly.’ She looked down at her lap and felt her cheeks redden as she recounted her confusion.
‘I decided to ignore it, thinking it was a mistake. And then, just now, I got another one, but this one is definitely me.’ She held her breath for the reaction from Holly.
‘Wait. He sent you a snap of yourself?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you haven’t met him yet?’
‘No.’ Emma chewed her lip.
‘Whoa! What the…?’ Emma could hear shuffling as Holly sat up straighter.
‘Yeah, I know. It looked like it was taken today.’ Emma visualised the pic in her mind, her standing with a take-away coffee cup in one hand and looking down at her phone in the other. ‘I only saw it for a second but it was definitely me, in the same outfit I wore today, standing outside my office.’ She shuddered at the thought of looking so desperate, searching her phone for contact from him, when he had been watching her all along.
‘Ok, that’s weird.’ Holly’s voice was low, ‘How does he know where you work?’
‘Well he must have worked it out, I guess.’
‘But how?’
‘I don’t know.’ Emma’s mind was whirring. Her jaw was clenched tight and the pressure had started a tension headache at the base of her skull. She scrunched up her eyes and tried to think. ‘Wait,’ She lifted her head as an idea occurred to her. ‘He knows what I do. And what company I work for!’
‘What, how?’
‘Shit!' Emma slapped her hand to her forehead. 'I told him I was an accountant and he asked about my qualifications. He said this his best mate was doing his finance exams at the moment. He wanted to know whether I would recommend my company to a newly qualified accountant.’
‘Oh god Emma, do you really go about telling strange men where you work? Did you give him your home address too?!’ Holly scolded. Only she could manage to do it in a way that didn’t rile Emma.
‘It didn’t even click!’ Emma whispered. ‘I thought he was being genuine.’ She lowered her eyes as her cheeks burned again. She wasn’t annoyed with Holly, but it stung to realise what a fool she had been. And to make matters worse she had actually been keen to tell him who she worked for. She had wanted to impress him. Well, congratulations, Emma, you obviously impressed a right weirdo.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Emma lay her head back on the sofa and looked up into the corner of her high ceiling. Then she lay the back of her free hand over her eyes. ‘Why the fuck can’t I just meet a normal man?!’
‘He is definitely a creep.’ said Holly, ‘Even if he came across you by accident, which I doubt, wouldn’t the normal thing be to introduce himself? Not take a bloody picture and use it to freak you out.’
‘I know, I know. I’m just so pissed off that yet another man turns out to be a dud.’
‘Delete him from your phone. Have you locked your front door?’
‘What?’ Emma’s hand quickly lifted from her face and she sat bolt upright.
‘Emma! He was outside your work! He could have followed you home.’
A chill crept across Emma’s chest. She hadn’t even considered the possibility. ‘Ok, you’re scaring me now.’ She stood up and walked to the front door.
‘Good!’ Holly’s voice got louder. ‘You should be scared! You need to be careful. A gorgeous woman like you will always attract psychos, I’m afraid.’ Holly said it like it was a matter of fact.
‘Jesus, Holly, you watch too many scary movies.’ Emma tried to laugh, but a strained, staccato bark came out instead. She twisted the deadbolt key and put on the chain. ‘Stop it, you’re freaking me out.’ She walked back to the living room and closed the door behind her. She took a deep breath. She needed to be calm, there was so much to do at work tomorrow. She really couldn’t afford a sleepless night.
‘Ok, ok.’ Holly relented, and Emma imagined her holding up her hands in mock surrender, phone lodged between shoulder and ear. ‘Just promise me you’ll lock your door.’
‘Holly, I live in London.’ Emma smiled, and it felt more genuine now, ‘I always lock my door!’
‘Fine then. Well, you’ve brightened up my evening of dull domesticity, and for that I am grateful.’ The playful tone had returned to Holly’s voice.
‘I aim to please.’ Emma was fed up of talking. Fed up with all the shit that trying to achieve domesticity involved.
‘Please call me tomorrow to let me know that you haven’t been brutally murdered.’
‘Will do,’ Emma chipped, ‘and thanks for that!’
They said their goodbyes and Emma ended the call. She sat down on the sofa and stared at her congealed dinner sitting pathetically on the coffee table. Funnily enough she’d lost her appetite. She turned over the evening’s events in her mind. Maybe she should check the rest of the house. But she felt angry. Angry to be messed around again. Angry at being lonely. Just plain angry. And she was damn sure that she wasn’t going to let some weirdo make her scurry around her own house locking windows and checking cupboards. Fuck him.
She picked up her mobile and opened WhatsApp. She tried not to read the comments from their last conversation and willed herself on. With a practised flick of her fingers she blocked, then deleted LondonBoy’s number and opened up Snapchat. She scrolled onto his Snapchat profile and allowed herself one more glance at his photo. So damn good looking. She should have known he was too good to be true, what a fucking idiot. She hovered her finger over the delete option and jumped out of her skin when the phone buzzed in her hand. Another snap from LondonBoy. Emma could feel the slick of sweat across her forehead as she stared at the little grey symbol. Her thumb hovered above it. Well, it couldn’t get much worse, could it?
As the image opened Emma realised that, yes, it could get worse. Much worse. The image burned into her retinas for a full two seconds before deleting itself. Her golden hair shining in the sun and falling across her eyes in a bouncy curl as she leant forward and put her key in the lock of her front door. Her face frozen in a relaxed and happy smile.
Her face. Her front door.
There was nothing left to do but panic as the reality of the photo struck her full in the face. Her hands clasped around her throat as she shot out of her seat. He had followed her. He had watched her. He knew where she lived. Standing up, she stood shaking in her luxury sweatpants. The velour was suddenly too hot and clingy to have ever been comfortable. Panicked thoughts whizzed across her mind as fear rose in her chest and up into her throat. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it might tear out through her ribs. She darted to the window and closed the curtains, before pulling one aside very slightly and looking out. It was dusk and the street was quiet. No one stood outside, looking in on her. The street lights illuminated all the cars and she could see that they were empty. She felt her breathing slow slightly. There's no one out there. He's just trying to scare me.
Should she call the police? No, they would think she was wasting their time. But, would they? Wasn’t this serious? She imagined the discussion she would have with a police officer. Explaining how desperate she was to find a boyfriend that she gave out information about herself to every psycho that came along. She would look like an idiot. A desperate idiot. Shaking the possibility of calling the police out of her head, she tore at her hands as she stood in the centre of her lounge. She would leave. As soon as the thought entered her head she knew it was the right one. Her body snapped back into action as she ran out of her lounge and upstairs to grab a bag.
Into the bathroom to grab a toothbrush and then up two steps to her room. She lifted her overnight bag off the top shelf of the wardrobe and threw it on the bed. In went the toothbrush and some knickers. What else did she need? She couldn’t think straight. Every fibre in her body was screaming at her to get out of the house but she couldn’t shake the practicalities of life. What about work tomorrow? What if she was over reacting? What a fool she would look in the office with yesterday's clothes and no make-up. A dirty stop-out. She grabbed a non-crease shirt and shoved it into the bag, along with her make-up box. Fuck it, that would do, she’d just have to explain to her boss tomorrow if anyone questioned her shabby appearance. She couldn’t bear to be in the house any more. She picked up the bag and turned to leave the room. Then she froze. Her door was shut. She didn’t remember shutting it. She never shut her door, in fact. The small fabric stopper that usually held it open was sitting adrift in the middle of the carpet, about two feet in front of the door.
Her phone buzzed again. The vibration shot through her like an electric shock and her arms jolted wildly, her bag thudding to the floor beside her. The room started to spin around her as she looked down at the little square symbol on her phone. She turned her head away and let out a small whimper, closing her eyes, as if she could make that small square disappear, if she really tried. Another buzz. The inanimate square icon grew until she could imagine it bleeding across the screen, outwards into the room, bearing down on her, enveloping her, demanding to be seen. She knew she had to look. She had to know. Her hands were shaking so violently that she had to use both to still the screen long enough to tap on the icon. She willed them to be still as she peered at the opened snap. She felt the handset start to slip in her sweaty palms. A low groan seeped out of her mouth. The snap showed her sitting down, her back to the camera. Sitting down on her sofa. In her lounge. The truth punched her in the chest with the force of a heavyweight fighter, knocking the breath right out of her.
He’s in the house.
Her eyes darted to her bedroom door. Where was he? Could she make it to the front door? Maybe if she ran as fast as she could and just flung it open and…oh, shit! I locked the door! I’ve locked myself in.
With him.
Her legs turned to jelly and her knees began to buckle. Before she could act her phone vibrated again and a second image flashed upon the screen. The image tore through her to her very core. It was a photo of her closed bedroom door. From the outside. Scrawled across the photo, in garish red handwriting, were two words:
Too late.
The phone dropped to the floor as the practicalities of life left her mind. As everything left her mind. Everything except the most carnal human instinct. Survival. It surged through her body as she ran to her window. Shoving her drapes aside she tore desperately at the metal lock, caked in years of paint. It wouldn’t budge. She silently cursed the traditional sash windows that she had refused to replace for more practical PVC ones. She kept pulling at the lock, even as the bedroom door creaked open behind her. Even as she heard the slow, heavy footsteps echo across her waxed floorboards. She kept pulling as her fingernails tore and bled and her tears blurred her vision and her voice whispered ‘please’ over and over again. She kept pulling as she felt her hair grabbed roughly from behind. As her head was propelled forward with such force that it slammed into the wooden frame of the Georgian sash windows of her terraced town-house.
Until all she could see was black and her bloodied hands fell limp at her sides.
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