can’t pretend this isn’t happening. She’s looking right at me. I’m staring back. Like I know her . . .
She leans towards me. ‘So it is you.’
‘Look.’ My voice sounds too high, too strained. ‘Look, I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but you have to leave me alone. OK? Just leave me alone. Stop following me. Stop looking at me. Stop acting like you know me. OK? OK?’
I meant to tell her, not ask her. Why am I asking if it’s OK?
‘But I do know you.’
I stare at her angrily. ‘No, you don’t. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Just . . . Just go away.’
I get up and start to walk away, angrily, desperately. When I’d daydreamed about confronting the freaks, I’d imagined them laughing at me for being an idiot, or looking at me strangely because actually they weren’t following me or looking at me at all, it was in my imagination. Sometimes I’d imagine them disappearing in a puff of smoke because I’d had the courage to look them in the eye and tell them to go. This, though . . . I wasn’t prepared for this; for her acknowledging me, saying she knows me, for her actually being real.
‘Will. It is Will, isn’t it?’
I look behind me and quicken my pace. She’s following me. She’s trying to keep up with me – I can hear her heels clattering. I’m going to call the police. I’m going to run into a shop and get help.
Help for what? Because an eighteen-year-old girl is following me? Even now my sarcastic mind is laughing at me. Yeah, the police will just love that. They’ll put it right to the top of their ‘to do’ list.
I jump on the escalator, take the steps two at a time. I look around wildly – there’s a bookshop. I dive inside, make for the Philosophy section. It’s empty – obviously no one reads philosophy books. I lean over and put my hands on my knees, let the blood return to my head.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’
I stand bolt upright. She’s there, right next to me. How did she find me? I feel like I’ve been transported to some alternative reality. Any minute now the secret cameras are going to appear and someone is going to explain what the hell is going on.
‘You didn’t scare me,’ I say, mustering all the courage I can. She’s a girl, not a big bloke. I know judo. I could totally take her down if I needed to. ‘You’re just really annoying me. Go and follow someone else, OK? Whatever it is you want, I’m not interested.’
‘You really don’t recognise me, do you?’
She looks perplexed, worried. She looks older up close. Or maybe it’s just her eyes – that soulful look they have. Maybe she’s part of a cult, I think suddenly. Maybe this is how they get new members – follow them until they’re so freaked out they think they need salvation.
I decide I need to take the upper hand. I put my hands on my hips.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t know who you are. I don’t care who you are. So you tell all your weird friends I’m not going to fall for it, OK? I’m not interested.’
‘Interested in what?’
They’re clever these cult people, but they won’t get the better of me.
I shoot her a knowing look. ‘In whatever,’ I say pointedly. ‘In whatever it is you want.’
That’ll do it. There’s no comeback from that. But she doesn’t give up.
‘I’ve been looking for you for years. So have the others. When I heard . . . heard you were here, I didn’t believe it. Then they said you weren’t . . .’ She sighs, looks at me worriedly. ‘You really don’t recognise me? You’re sure?’
She looks at me again, those eyes doing the weird thing they did on the bench, looking into mine, like really into them. I feel self-conscious. I feel strange. I feel like I’m remembering something.
I kick myself. That’s what she wants me to think. It’s like those healers who pretend to make people who are paralysed think they can walk. It’s a con. I’m not falling for her rubbish.
‘How,’ I
She leans towards me. ‘So it is you.’
‘Look.’ My voice sounds too high, too strained. ‘Look, I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but you have to leave me alone. OK? Just leave me alone. Stop following me. Stop looking at me. Stop acting like you know me. OK? OK?’
I meant to tell her, not ask her. Why am I asking if it’s OK?
‘But I do know you.’
I stare at her angrily. ‘No, you don’t. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Just . . . Just go away.’
I get up and start to walk away, angrily, desperately. When I’d daydreamed about confronting the freaks, I’d imagined them laughing at me for being an idiot, or looking at me strangely because actually they weren’t following me or looking at me at all, it was in my imagination. Sometimes I’d imagine them disappearing in a puff of smoke because I’d had the courage to look them in the eye and tell them to go. This, though . . . I wasn’t prepared for this; for her acknowledging me, saying she knows me, for her actually being real.
‘Will. It is Will, isn’t it?’
I look behind me and quicken my pace. She’s following me. She’s trying to keep up with me – I can hear her heels clattering. I’m going to call the police. I’m going to run into a shop and get help.
Help for what? Because an eighteen-year-old girl is following me? Even now my sarcastic mind is laughing at me. Yeah, the police will just love that. They’ll put it right to the top of their ‘to do’ list.
I jump on the escalator, take the steps two at a time. I look around wildly – there’s a bookshop. I dive inside, make for the Philosophy section. It’s empty – obviously no one reads philosophy books. I lean over and put my hands on my knees, let the blood return to my head.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’
I stand bolt upright. She’s there, right next to me. How did she find me? I feel like I’ve been transported to some alternative reality. Any minute now the secret cameras are going to appear and someone is going to explain what the hell is going on.
‘You didn’t scare me,’ I say, mustering all the courage I can. She’s a girl, not a big bloke. I know judo. I could totally take her down if I needed to. ‘You’re just really annoying me. Go and follow someone else, OK? Whatever it is you want, I’m not interested.’
‘You really don’t recognise me, do you?’
She looks perplexed, worried. She looks older up close. Or maybe it’s just her eyes – that soulful look they have. Maybe she’s part of a cult, I think suddenly. Maybe this is how they get new members – follow them until they’re so freaked out they think they need salvation.
I decide I need to take the upper hand. I put my hands on my hips.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t know who you are. I don’t care who you are. So you tell all your weird friends I’m not going to fall for it, OK? I’m not interested.’
‘Interested in what?’
They’re clever these cult people, but they won’t get the better of me.
I shoot her a knowing look. ‘In whatever,’ I say pointedly. ‘In whatever it is you want.’
That’ll do it. There’s no comeback from that. But she doesn’t give up.
‘I’ve been looking for you for years. So have the others. When I heard . . . heard you were here, I didn’t believe it. Then they said you weren’t . . .’ She sighs, looks at me worriedly. ‘You really don’t recognise me? You’re sure?’
She looks at me again, those eyes doing the weird thing they did on the bench, looking into mine, like really into them. I feel self-conscious. I feel strange. I feel like I’m remembering something.
I kick myself. That’s what she wants me to think. It’s like those healers who pretend to make people who are paralysed think they can walk. It’s a con. I’m not falling for her rubbish.
‘How,’ I
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