She’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t look dangerous. He looks like a schoolboy, all smooth cheeks and concerned eyes. She should be careful. But she’s so tired now, so beyond tired, she can’t face running.
Shortly afterwards, a black Prius pulls up. Tom ushers her into it and takes her bag to the boot. Anna leans her head against the back of the seat, relief washing over her. She’s exhausted; the twenty-four hours of hell are almost over. She shuts her eyes, the fragments of the day laid out in her mind like shards of broken glass.
13
Tom starts making calls as soon as he gets in the cab, but Anna tunes out every word. After the cacophony of prison, the sound of a single voice isn’t that annoying, his deep tones almost soothing. She watches the lights flash past the window, trying and failing to take it all in.
She should just go to the hostel. She knows what men are capable of, the stories she’s heard over the last years. He’s a total stranger.
The car radio is tuned to Magic FM and there’s a comfort in that, the fact that even after all these years, the playlist is unchanged. If she shuts her eyes, it could be any journey she took back before it all went wrong, ‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’ segueing into ‘Got My Mind Set on You’, same as it ever was. Between that and the rumble of Tom’s voice, Anna finally goes to sleep, her head leaning against the car window.
She doesn’t wake until they draw to a stop and Tom shakes her gently by the shoulder. ‘We’re here.’
She’s too out of it to do anything other than follow him sleepily out of the car, feeling the lumps on her head again as she does. Her legs are stiff as she leans against the vehicle, waiting for Tom to take her bag out of the boot.
‘Here we go,’ he says. ‘This is me.’
As the car pulls away, she looks at the long street of neat, terraced houses with gardens at the front, suburban and entirely peaceful. Nothing bad could ever happen here. She laughs at the delusion. Net curtains hide the worst crimes.
‘Come on,’ Tom says, pulling her out of her reverie. ‘Let’s get you inside. I’ve sorted things with probation.’
He leads her up the front path, through a red door and into the house, stopping at the bottom of a flight of stairs.
‘Tea? Something to eat?’
She shakes her head. ‘I just want to go to sleep,’ she says.
‘Of course,’ he says, and takes her upstairs to a small bedroom at the back. There’s a single bed covered in papers and a desk piled high with books. He sweeps the bed clear and pulls back the duvet.
‘Here you go,’ he says. ‘I’ll show you where the bathroom is, then I’ll leave you to it.’
Within minutes Anna is under the duvet, light off. Peace at last, but now her mind’s spinning, flashes of death and handcuffs, the jeering faces of the police officers, the bloodied throat of the woman in the bunk below. Despite the homely smells of washing powder and books, she suddenly tastes that strong iron tang in her mouth.
She turns from one side to the other, trying to dislodge the thoughts, picturing the viscous blood on her hands. But it’s too quiet now, the bed too soft, the duvet smothering her, heavy in its warm embrace. A fox screams in the distance and she sits bolt upright. She shouldn’t be here; she shouldn’t have let this man talk her into coming home with him. He’s lulled her into a false sense of security, catching her when her guard was down.
There’s a creak outside the door and she’s out of bed immediately, taking a fighting stance in the middle of the floor, feet wide, fists clenched. The door opens and, with a shriek, Anna launches herself on the intruder, kicking hard.
‘What the hell?’ Tom shouts. ‘Calm down, Anna. It’s me. Tom. It’s OK.’
He takes hold of her by the wrists and after a few moments Anna stops, sitting down heavily on the bed. He lets go, backing away to the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to give you a clean towel, check to see if you’re OK. I’m worried about your head.’
She looks at him, at the chaos in the room, the scratch on his face where she lashed out at him. Slowly her heart rate starts to come down, her breathing slows.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I thought . . .’
‘I know what you thought. I’m sorry. I should have knocked. I should have told you I’d be checking on you, come to that. It’s the concussion. I mean, in case you have concussion.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘It’s just . . .’
Freeze, flight, fight. She used to freeze, but once flight stopped being an option, fighting became her default response, the only way to shut a situation down before it got out of hand. There’s so much she’s going to have to unlearn.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘Go back to bed. I’ll do my best not to disturb you. But if you don’t mind, I do want to check in on you through the night. Just in case.’ He puts the towel on a chair by the door.
She looks him up and down, the dark hair now dishevelled, his cheek marked with her scratch, a small smear of blood where he’s wiped at it. He’s harmless. Mostly.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘OK.’ It’s been so long since anyone looked out for her, she doesn’t quite know what to do with it. But the idea of leaving now, walking out into the cold night – it’s too much. She sits back down on the bed. Tom leaves the room, shutting the door behind him, and after a couple of moments Anna gets back under the duvet.
