I don’t even like to say the word.
Dead.
Just like that, he was dead.
As if the syllable could flatten the way he laughed, the smell of his jacket, the way he would reach across the table and tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. It was sudden. Heartbreaking. Torn away before I could even say goodbye properly.
I grip the steering wheel tighter. I don’t want that feeling again. I don’t want to watch someone slip through my fingers, to be standing on the pavement helpless while the door closes for the last time.
But with Pete, it’s starting to feel inevitable.
He’s sliding deeper into something he can’t name and won’t escape from. And me? I’m already caught, already invested, already stupid enough to think I can save him.
I know I can’t stay here all night, so I start my car and look into the rear-view mirror
I blink, heart thudding.
A car is parked down the street behind me. Grey. Compact. Familiar.
The grey BMW.
Is this the same one that followed me?
I catch a glimpse of the driver’s silhouette but the streetlight is behind them, making a halo of shadow. My pulse spikes.
No. This is paranoia. This is me spiralling.
I put the car in gear, pull off the kerb. The BMW pulls off too.
I take a left I don’t need to take. The BMW takes it too.
Another turn. Another. The same headlights in the mirror.
My palms go slick. My chest feels tight. My therapist’s voice pipes up in my head, calm and clinical: count your breaths, Tom. Four in, four out. Ground yourself.
But it’s hard to ground yourself when you’re sure you’re being hunted.
I speed up. The BMW stays back but not far enough. My heart’s hammering now, breath loud in my ears. I cut down a side street, loop back around, hit the roundabout and take the exit at the last second. The BMW hesitates, then follows.
Okay. Not paranoia.
I drive faster, weaving through Clifton’s narrow roads, past the Georgian terraces, past the coffee shops now shuttered and dark.
Another turn. Another.
Finally, at the bottom of a long hill, I slam on the brakes. The BMW is forced to stop behind me.
In a move driven by adrenaline, unlike anything I would normally do, I dive out of my car and approach the car behind.
For a long second, nothing happens.
Then the driver’s door opens.
A woman steps out.
Streetlight catches her face.
And I know her.
