It was all I needed to say; she understood.
“In the back,” she said. “The changing area in the corner.”
I did as I was told, finding myself in a room full of haberdashery supplies. In the corner a tiny changing area was enclosed by a curtain. I pulled it around me, trying to make sure it didn’t gape. I sat on the chair that just fit into the space, hugged my arms around my chest, and tried not to shake.
Minutes ticked by. I heard nothing from the front of the shop apart from the scratch and snip of fabric being cut, and I began to doubt myself.
Had I run from the car for no reason? Imagined it was pursuing me? Who had sent it? Diana? How?
She’d told me I couldn’t quit, and the way she’d said it was calm, resigned almost; she had no doubt about it. Was this what she meant? That they’d find me and bring me back?
What the hell was this Institute if you couldn’t leave it?
I jumped at the sound of jangling bells. Someone had come into the shop.
“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked. I held my breath.
A woman’s voice answered, “I’m looking for my friend. She’s in a bit of a state. Has she come in, or have you seen her go past?” She proceeded to give a full description of me. How tall I was, my hair color, exactly what I was wearing. My mouth dried out. I tried not to make any noise. I was hardly breathing. “We’re really worried about her,” the woman said. “She hasn’t been taking her meds. She may be showing signs of paranoia.”
My chest started to heave, a panic attack coming on. I clapped my hand over my mouth, smelled fear on my breath. I shut my eyes.
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen her,” the shopkeeper said. “I’m so sorry. That sounds very worrying. Would you like to leave your number in case she comes in? I can give you a call if she does.”
“Thank you, that would be great,” the woman said. She sounded so calm, so rational. I might have believed her if I were the shopkeeper.
“What’s her name?”
“Anya Brown.”
“Good luck finding her.”
It felt like an impossibly long time before the shop door opened and shut again. I heard it being locked. I didn’t dare move until the shopkeeper pulled back the curtain.
“Did I do the right thing?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I knew she was a wrong ’un,” the shopkeeper said.
“How?”
“She didn’t mention your name. And when she did, she told meyour full name. Women don’t do that. The names of our female friends roll off our tongues easily.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Should I call the police for you?”
What would I say? That someone tried to run me over? Had they? My gut said yes, I’d certainly thought so at the time, but could I prove it? I didn’t have the car’s number plate, and I didn’t know if the alleyway had CCTV. I imagined myself telling an officer that I’dthoughtI was in danger but had no proof. It didn’t go well. I shook my head. “I’d rather go home.”
“Okay, but you’re hurt.” She was looking at my bloody shoe. “Let’s deal with that first.” I winced as she removed the dressing and redid it, unwrapping my father’s work, wadding clean cotton over it, binding it with a strip of linen. I eased my sneaker back on.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here a bit longer?” she asked.
I shook my head. I wanted to be somewhere they couldn’t find me. I wanted to call Sid. I felt too vulnerable here.
“You can leave through the back. There’s a footpath. The tube station is just two hundred yards away.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
