Chapter 2

Mia

Seven years ago

For the first time in my seventeen years, I’d gone up against my mum. I was shaking with a mixture of triumph and fear as I walked down the length of our street, but already starting to have regrets by the time I reached the corner, nervous about the ear bashing I could expect to receive when I returned home. Mum wasn’t violent; she’d never physically abused me, but she could flay me with just her words. Silence was her other tool. It wasn’t unknown for a week or more to pass with her not saying a single word to me, punishing me for even the most minor of infractions, such as being five minutes late coming home from school. What on earth was she going to do this time? All I was wanted was to be a normal teenager for once!

Pausing automatically to check for traffic at the zebra crossing, I crossed over the road and made my way to Anna’s house; luckily only a couple of streets over from my own. I tried to stop thinking about Mum, not wanting her to ruin my night, but it wasn’t easy. My excitement at going out, ruined by her disappointment in me. Could I come up with something to placate her? Actions do speak louder than words, if I only stay out for a couple of hours and get home at a decent time, maybe that will calm her down a bit and show her I could be responsible if she just loosened the leash a little? Oh, to heck with it. She’d just have to get over it.

I’m going to a party! That was something in itself! It’s not that I was a victim of bullies at school, but being brought up the way I had in a strictly religious home made me the quiet one, the one the other girls typically tended to ignore as part of the background. Not someone they issued invitations to or involved in their lives. So having received the invite out of the blue I certainly wasn’t going to turn it down. I’d longed for so long to be part of the crowd. Did this mean the other girls were starting to accept me? A grin came over my face as I raised my fist in the air and pumped it down. Yes!

I was just a few months shy of being an adult. Surely it was well past time to break out of the control of my stern and fanatically religious mother.

But there was still a little voice inside of me that hoped tonight would be worth all the hassle. Like any girl, I still needed my mum, whatever her shortcomings. She’s the only one I had and with no other close relatives, the only person I could turn to.

I’d bring her round. I’d have to.

 

Present day

I’m still sat at the same table in the café when, forty minutes later, the police eventually arrive. Despite my state of distress, I almost smile when the waitress quickly greets them, and takes charge, describing the afternoon’s events in great detail before leading them across to me. Even now in author mode making mental notes, I note her behaviour; the attack on me seems to have made her day; she acts as if she hasn’t had so much excitement in years. All the time she’s talking and describing blue hoodie’s threatening behaviour, her hands gesticulating wildly. From the way she’s recounting it, I start to think they must be surprised I’m still alive and breathing. I let her have her moment. In truth, she’s saving me a lot of explaining.

There are two police officers, a man, and a woman. He looks in his early thirties; she seems a bit younger, but they’re both wearing that worn ‘seen it all before’ expression. The woman sits down opposite me, and when she deigns to glance at me properly, she winces and throws me a quick look of sympathy. I see her eyes taking in the redness around my throat. I know just what she’s looking at, I’d already spotted just how visible the marks were in the mirror in the Ladies and had accepted I’ll probably bruise later. After taking in my appearance for a good few seconds, her eyes flick to the envelope and paper still lying on the table. I notice the exact point when she reads the words written on the note, as she flinches, then lifts her chin at her companion. His eyes narrow as he, too, takes in the threat in front of them. She regards me carefully, introducing herself and her partner, and then starts her questions. “I’m PC Starkey, and this is PC Smith. What’s your name, love?”

Well, it’s not ‘love’ for a start, but I shrug off the condescension. She’s probably trying to put me at my ease. Keeping my voice quiet, aware of listening ears, I tell them, “My real name’s Mia Fable, but my pen name’s Dexie Sanders.” I offer both my identities, not sure whether blue hoodie was following me or my alter ego. Or, whether as some small part of my brain keeps hoping, he might have thought I was someone else entirely.

She starts, frowns, and glances up quickly, a disapproving look appearing on her face. Her companion does the opposite, grinning widely. “My wife loves your books,” he informs me, “I’m not into them myself, but…” As his voice trails off, he shrugs; wry amusement on his face. I resist the urge to shake my head in despair. It’s not uncommon for people to tell me my writing has put a spark into their love lives. The female police officer’s reaction is also fairly universal. The mistaken assumption I have the same active sex life I tend to write about is the reason I protect my privacy so fiercely. If my plots were about murder, they wouldn’t be bringing out the handcuffs, but due to the openly sexual and often deviant lifestyle of my characters I’m immediately found guilty and convicted of participating in the same kink. And that couldn’t be further from the truth.

My glare causes the police officer to recoil. Realising she’s let her prejudice show a bit too openly, she backtracks and almost overcompensates by becoming ultra-friendly. Plastering a fake smile on her face, and lightening her tone she asks, “So when did you first notice someone following you?”

Shrugging, glad we’re back on track I tell her, “I can’t be certain. I may have noticed him outside my agent’s office in Westminster, but I wasn’t paying too much attention at the time. With so many people having to walk home today, I was more bothered with avoiding being crushed in the crowds and didn’t notice particular individuals. Looking back, I think he was there, but that might just be my mind playing tricks, you know? It wasn’t that much later, though, when I really noticed him, and at that point twigged I’d seen him more than once.”

After a pause for breath, I continue, “Of course, at first, I just thought he was going in the same direction as me. He wasn’t the only person taking the same route, so I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But when I kept seeing him…” I break off, remembering how scared I’d become and shudder. “When I kept noticing him, I started to think it couldn’t be a coincidence. When I loitered in a shop for a while, and he was still there when I came out, I ran, hid behind a bin, and figured I’d lost him. And then, well, you know the rest.” I nod towards the waitress who’s already brought them up to date. “He found me.”

“Any idea why he would have been following you?”

That’s the question that’s been bugging me, but I can’t come up with any rational explanation to offer. And the note made no sense at all. “I have no idea. I’m hoping he’s got me confused with someone else.”

She listens intently, scribbling frantically in her notebook. As I stop talking, she looks up. “Hmm, we’ll have to consider that possibility of course, but for now, let’s work with what we’ve got, the assumption he meant to follow you. Can you give me any description?”

I heave a sigh, not really is the answer, but I make an effort. “He was wearing a light blue hoodie. No logo that I could see. The hood was pulled up and down over his face. He seemed to have a heavy build, muscular I’d say. Oh, and his little finger on his left hand was missing.” I shut my eyes, grimacing as I try to recall as much as I can remember, “I can’t tell you much more. He had a dark five o’clock shadow on his chin, so possibly he has dark hair? But then, he could have been bald as I really couldn’t see him. And he had thin lips.” In all truth, I know I haven’t given them much to go on.

The waitress, who’s been hovering within earshot, backs me up, confirming he hid his features well. Then I have to sit, and watch as PCs Starkey and Smith go to take statements from the other people who were present at the time, but it takes a fair bit of time for them to sort out who they should be speaking to. In the time it took for them to arrive the customers had changed; some sneaking out as soon as they heard the police were being called, others coming in to satisfy their curiosity about what’s going on. Then there are the regulars who just want to give their opinion even if they didn’t see much at all. As they sort out the actual witnesses, I start to get tired and lose patience. My throat’s hurting, shivers of fear still plague me and I just want to get everything over and done with. I want to go home, preferably without being followed. I hate all the fuss, normally I’m a very private person and very shy. Drawing all this attention is quite unnerving.

In the end, because of the plausible threat on the table in front of me, and because I’m a “celebrity” they decide to take me to the police station to talk to a detective. I’m pleased they’re taking it all so seriously but instead of dissipating, my stress levels seem to be rising. Breathe, Mia, breathe. Soon you’ll be home and opening that bottle of Chardonnay you put in the fridge to cool.

I stand up, dragging my sodden coat back on, musing that at least I’ll be in a heated police car, and won’t have to walk the streets in the wet. Outside the rain is still coming down in such a way it’s making me wonder whether somewhere out there a man called Noah is building an ark.

I’m tired and cold, and not a little scared and uncertain. I’ve written about police cars and criminals, and watched them on TV like most other people, but have never actually been in one myself. So it doesn’t surprise me to feel a hand placed on my head as I’m helped into the back of the police car even though I’m going willingly. I suppose it’s become a habit for the PCs, but it makes me feel like I’ve done something criminal. And then there are the passers-by who are stopping to gape, giving me curious looks, wondering what I’ve done wrong. Trying to ignore them, I take out my phone and glance at the screen. It’s already seven o’clock. I left Val’s office at three. No wonder I’m so weary. Suppressing a yawn, once the car is underway I look out the windows as we drive through the traffic that’s now begun to clear as the main rush hour is over. Ironically, there are hundreds of taxis passing, their orange Taxi signs now glowing as they’re on the hunt for customers. Too late, mateys, I think to myself. And I have to wonder whether I’d be here now had I been able to get a ride earlier on today. Would I have shaken off the stalker? Or would he just have followed me another day?

The police car isn’t as warm as I’d hoped; for some reason they’ve got the air conditioning on instead of the heater, so I’m shivering as the PCs lead me into the police station. I’m taken to a room and offered a cup of tea while I wait for a detective to be assigned to my case. Once alone, my shivers turn to uncontrollable shaking as the shock of the day catches up with me, made worse by the fact I’m sitting waiting for someone to interview me in a police station. It makes it seem all too real. Why me? What have I ever done to upset anyone?

I know some people are offended by my books, but no one’s forced to read them. Why would someone stalk and threaten me? The sound of the door opening interrupts my thoughts. Looking up, I find a middle-aged man with a tired looking face coming in carrying two hot steaming mugs. He puts one tea in front of me and places the second on the other side of the desk where he seats himself. I sip at the drink cautiously.

He watches as I put my hands around the hot mug, trying to soak up the warmth, his eyes examining me intently. “I’m Detective Waring, and your case has been allocated to me. But before we go further, do you need a doctor?” he asks, apparently noticing the bruises on my neck which must be darkening by the second, and the violent trembling I seem powerless to stop.

Shaking my head, I dismiss his suggestion, “No. I’m alright. Thank you.”

He still looks concerned. “You’ve had a shock and have been assaulted. Are you sure you don’t need to see someone?”

The thought of seeing a doctor, as usual, makes me more than a little apprehensive. Adding to that, I’ve not been in a police interview room before and find it bleak and unnerving even though I’m innocent of any crime. Right now, all I can think of is getting this over with and going home to my comfortable little cottage where I always feel safe and nurse my hurts myself, medicating myself with that nice chilled wine.

“I'm all right.” I tell him, trying to put strength in my voice. In truth, my throat is more swollen now, making it painful to speak, and my head throbs from where blue hoodie had banged it against the wall, but I don’t need, can’t face, medical attention. Clearly, I want my attacker caught, so I have to stay and go through this, however uncomfortable I’m feeling. I take a small sip of the tea even though it’s still close to boiling; the simple action providing some comfort and helping to settle me.

“Okay.” Giving me an intense stare, he doesn’t seem happy with my response, probably preferring I get checked out, but he accepts my decision. My injuries are superficial; they look worse than they are.

Opening a folder he looks carefully at the contents, and I try to see what he’s reading. He appears to have copies of the statements taken in the café, and two plastic evidence bags; one containing the envelope, and the other the note blue hoodie gave to me. He turns the envelope over, and back again, and then reads the writing on the piece of paper. Finally, he looks up, “I’m sorry, I know you’ve had a bad experience, but I need to ask you some questions so we can try to get to the bottom of exactly what’s going on here, and I’d like to do it while it’s still fresh in your mind. The first question is the obvious one. Did you recognise anything about this man at all? It was definitely a man; I take it?” he starts the interrogation.

“No doubt he was male. I can’t even think of anyone I know with that build. He was tall,” I put my hand over my head, trying to show how much taller than me he was, “Bulky. It looked like he had muscular legs and arms, and his body was broad. I didn’t see his face, properly, only the lower half. I’m sure I’ve never come across him before. I can’t remember anything I haven’t already put in my statement.”

“Nothing else you can remember from the assault?” He consults the notes police officers Starkey and Smith must have passed on to him.

I think back. Ah, there was something else, “His hands were calloused. Possibly a workman? And as I told your colleagues, he had a finger missing on his left hand. His little finger.”

He jots down the additional information. “Did you get the impression the note was from him or was he delivering it for someone else?”

“Someone else,” I say without hesitation, “He told me ‘he’ is coming for me.”

Lifting his head, he stares at me, tapping his pen against his teeth as he seems to be deliberating something. “You mentioned to the PCs that you thought it might be a case of mistaken identity. Obviously, we can’t discount that, there was no name on the envelope, but if he was following you from your agent’s I think it unlikely, I’m afraid. We have to work on the premise that he knew who he was after. So who do you think he was stalking, would you say? Mia Fable or Dexie Sanders? Or is it common knowledge you’re one and the same?”

I shrug, that’s what’s got me worried. “Though it might be wishful thinking, I’d say Dexie Sanders. I protect my identity, only my publisher and agent know my real name.”

“Hmm,” he considers for a moment, “And the Inland Revenue, your accountant, your bank probably. I expect there are more people than you think.”

Reluctantly I nod in agreement. He’s probably right, but I don’t like thinking about that. I pick up the tea and drink some more.

“Friends? Family? They’d know your pen name, wouldn’t they?”

“I haven’t had contact with my family for years. But yes, my mother does know my pseudonym. And a few of my close friends, other writers.”

He snorts as if he’s been clever catching me out. “So quite a few people.”

I don’t like being made to feel stupid. Even if that’s not his intention, that’s the result his words are having on me. “I can’t think of anyone who’d want to threaten me. And before you ask, I don’t owe anyone anything.” The idea that someone close to me might do something like this is making me distressed.

“Who knew you’d be at your agent’s today?” He changes tack.

I know that I’m to blame for that. “No one knew Mia was going there, but all my fans knew Dexie was. It’s on her Facebook page.” Remorsefully, I think back to the status I’d posted last night. ‘Hey folks, off to see my great agent Val tomorrow. Lots of laughs and booze will be involved.’ I regret writing that now.

He looks confused. “You talk about yourself as two different people.” Picking up his drink, with a hand covered in liver spots showing his early aging, he gulps it down noisily, finishing the whole mug in one go. Then he tilts his head to one side, waiting for me to explain.

Laughing softly, I try to put it into plain words so he can understand, “I am. As Mia I’m myself, quiet, shy, but Dexie is outgoing and confident. Dexie’s the one who can talk at conferences and book signings. I hide behind her. It’s like an actor on stage playing a role.” By the way he’s shaking his head I don’t think he gets it. I know it must seem as though I’m schizophrenic, but sometimes I find it easier to play the part expected of me as Dexie. Dexie’s the extrovert.

“Your books,” he begins, and I think I know what’s coming. “There are obviously people who are offended by them. And think that you’re immoral to write the way you do. I understand your descriptions are quite explicit?”

His words give away that he’s seen my Facebook page, or my Twitter account, already. The vast majority of comments are from fans, usually positive and full of praise. But occasionally I get the odd one on there from someone with a rather bizarre take on the content of my novels, telling me I’ve got no morals, that I’m encouraging abuse or something of that ilk, making the assumptions that I’m into the same things as my characters. The same assumption he is making. I start to get angry. “So if I wrote a story involving drugs you’d pull me in on a suspected dealing charge?” I challenge him.

“So you’re saying you don’t have the same proclivities as your characters?”

“I’m saying that’s none of your business!” I snap at him, starting to get outraged. Suddenly Dexie wakes up. “I’m not a suspect here. I’m a victim! Now, can you just tell me what the next steps are to find out who’s threatening me; how I can stay safe, and then let me go home?”

He has the grace to look sheepish and his eyes turn away from me, looking back down at the documents in front of him.

When he stays quiet, I prompt him, “What happens now?” If I know some action is being taken, something positive is being done to find who’s behind this, it might help me to keep it together. At the moment, I’m a hairsbreadth away from falling apart. Who could possibly be threatening me? And why?

“We’ll see if we can lift fingerprints off the envelope and paper, I’ll get our forensic team to look into it.” Now he looks at me. “Would anyone know Dexie Sanders’ address?”

I’m pretty sure they don’t. “No. As I said, the link between my pen name and my own is quite hidden, and I’m careful with my real identity as well. I don’t give it out unless I have to. I don’t use business cards with my physical address on, only details of my website.” But I still know I'm more hopeful than positive with my answer. For goodness sake, I hope to God he doesn’t know where I live.

“Just to be on the safe side, I’ll get a squad car to take you home, Ms Fable, and as a precaution, one of the officers will check your house before you go in. But for now, I have to tell you there’s very little to go on.” He breaks off and frowns as something occurs to him. His eyes narrowing, he adds, “Assure me that this isn’t a publicity hoax, Ms Fable? It wouldn’t be the first time police time’s been wasted as a way to increase sales.”

Pointedly rubbing the marks round my neck, I stand up, furious, and lean over the table, Dexie very much in control of my actions. “Detective Waring,” I shout, well, as much as possible with a sore throat, “I’ve been scared out of my wits today. Someone’s followed and threatened me. At lunchtime, I was enjoying myself, accepting congratulations on the sales of my recent book, and discussing the new project I’m working on without a care in the world. I’m now frightened and scared, and that’s just not fair!”

He mimics me by also rising to his feet, but in contrast to my outburst speaks quietly. “I understand your frustration, Ms Fable, but I’ve been on the force for a very long time, and unfortunately day after day I see people like yourself, who, through no fault of their own, become victims in some way or another. You do have my sympathy, but I have no magic wand to wave and miraculously get answers. We’ll try to get to the bottom of this, and try to give you back some peace of mind. Now, for tonight, let’s just get you home.”

As he stretches his hand across the table for me to shake, I begrudgingly reach out mine to take it. He’s right; I know. I write about victims; often my characters have something in their backgrounds that they need to recover from, abuse, and neglect. My temper evaporates as quickly as it came, but I need to make no apology. My reaction can’t be anything he hasn’t seen before. “You’ll let me know what you find out from the note?”

“We’ll be in touch. In the meantime, I suggest you have a think about who might have a grudge against you. As I said; we haven’t got a lot to go on at the moment.”

“You think blue hoodie will contact me again? Or the person who’s putting him up to this?”

He seems to be considering his next words carefully and then tells me gently, “I’m afraid the wording of the note and the verbal message suggests there’s more to come. Be very careful, Ms Fable, and don’t publicise your or your alter ego’s whereabouts or plans anymore.”

I nod. At least that’s one area where we’re in total agreement. I’ve certainly learned that lesson today.

 

****

 

The one benefit is I get to travel home in comfort, sitting in the front of a police car instead of battling with the crowds on the tubes. A different police officer is driving, a young constable. He’s not exactly talkative, which suits me. I’m happy to stay silent as I’m driven away from the city, through the suburbs and out into the countryside near Epping, to the house that I call home; a small cottage, dating back over two hundred years. It sits on the edge of the forest that nowadays is a mere shadow of its former self, yet still a beautiful area. I was able to move here from the flat I was sharing with my student friends, with the proceeds from my first four novels and, of course, a hefty mortgage to my name. But notwithstanding the substantial amount I owe to the bank, it’s mine.

When we pull up outside, I obey the instruction I’m given to wait in the car. The police officer takes my keys, and my eyes follow him as he unlocks my front door and disappears into the house. It’s a traditional two up two down with an extension on the back, giving me a large kitchen and conservatory that would be perfect for entertaining if I had many friends living nearby. The sad fact of the matter is that my closest friends are mostly virtual, and we connect more via instant messaging more than we do in person. Writing isn’t a job with a lot of socialisation involved, except for the occasional conferences I attend.

I see lights appearing in each of the rooms, as he methodically goes through the building top to bottom and watch as he puts on the security light in the garden, using a torch to peer into the darkened areas, appreciating his thoroughness. He’s back in a few minutes and opens the car door for me.

“You’ve not got a security system, ma’am?” he asks me as I step out of the car. I notice he doesn’t make the unnecessary statement that he’d found nothing of concern in his search.

“No,” I confirm, starting to frown, “I never thought I needed one.”

“Might be a good idea to get one installed,” he advises.

I nod. The idea had already gone through my mind on the drive back. I’ll have to look into it. The lack of security never bothered me before, but after today, well, I have to give it some serious thought. But where the heck would I get one from? What type will I need? And then I’ll have to find someone to install it for me. I think of asking the constable for help, but he seems anxious to get on his way, and I’m just too tired to take in many details tonight. I’m also angry; I was so pleased to find this cottage affordable in my price range, and it’s always felt a comfortable haven to me. Now I’m unnerved at the prospect I might not be safe in my own home. I’m banking on the hope the person was following me because he doesn’t know my address. God, I hope that’s true!

“You’ve got decent locks front and back, ma’am,” he continues, looking back at the house. “Make sure the doors are locked and bolted, and if you’ve got window locks, use them too.”

To be honest, his recommendations are making me even more nervous; it’s almost as if he expects someone’s going to break in. As he prepares to go, I turn and thank him for the lift home, take back my keys, and then, at long last, make my weary way to my front door. It’s been one heck of a long day.

At least the heating has been on, and the house is warm and cosy despite the rain that is still coming down heavily, blowing against the windows and making them rattle. Walking through the house drawing the curtains shut, checking the window locks, and bolting the doors following the instructions the police officer had given me, I start to jump at each little noise from outside. I’m a bloody bundle of nerves! Trying to get myself together I take a bottle of wine from the fridge, a glass from the cupboard, and make my way to the lounge where I collapse onto the sofa. I pour the first glass of that Chardonnay I’ve so been looking forward to, and down half of it in one go, feeling I deserve it. Only then do I take my phone out of my bag, but before making my call, top up my glass expecting I’ll be on the phone for quite a while.

I press the pre-set number, the phone rings a couple of times, and then the familiar voice answers. “Hi?”

“Hey, Val. It’s Mia.”

“Hi, kiddo! How’s it going?” My agent seems puzzled to hear from me when I only saw her earlier today.

Then she sounds even more perplexed when my only answer is to burst into tears, sobbing my heart out on the phone. It surprises the hell out of me as well. I’ve managed to hold it together all afternoon, and all it takes is one friendly voice, and I’m a complete mess. But this is Val. As well as being my agent she’s become someone I’d call a friend, close enough to stay on the line for the few minutes it takes for me to compose myself, staying silent until I’m ready to tell her what’s got me in such a state.

By the time I’ve finished explaining she’s lost for words herself. “Val?” I prompt her.

“Just give me a minute.” Again there’s silence. I suspect she’s pouring her preferred brand of fortification. I top up my wine again. Half the bottle’s already gone, but I’ll need some help to sleep tonight. Tomorrow can go hang itself.

Back on the line, she makes me go through the afternoon’s events again and again until we’ve thrashed the very little we know to death, going round and round in circles, asking the same questions and coming up with no answers. In the end, I know we’re just repeating ourselves when she asks for the umpteenth time, “Mia, are you okay? Is this going to set you back?”

Val knows something happened to me in my past, but she doesn’t know any details. No one does. When I first met her, I was a mess, jumping at everything, scared of people brushing past me, suspicious of their intentions. Gradually I’ve become stronger and what I do know is I’m not going to let anything or anyone chase me back to that dark place. I refuse to let them, so I reassure her, “I’m fine, Val.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and I suspect she’s considering my sincerity before she leaves that avenue there and gets back to the main topic. “And you’ve absolutely no idea who could want to hurt you, Mia?”

“None at all.” And that’s the honest truth. I don’t know anyone I’ve upset, or at least not to the extent they’d want to hassle or stalk me. Okay, maybe I was a bit abrupt when I was shortchanged at the newsagent’s last week, but I can’t see the shop assistant taking that to heart.

Eventually, she tells me, “I’ve got a friend who might be able to give us some help. Can you leave it with me tonight, while I try and contact him, Mia?”

I’m a bit puzzled, “What friend? What could he do?”

“He has a security firm. He’ll be able to give you advice if nothing else. Are you okay if I contact him?”

Knowing any help might be better than none, I tell her, despondently, “There’s not a lot else for me to do, is there? At the moment I’m just stuck with the police seeing if they can find anything from the little they’ve got.”

By the time we’ve said our goodbyes and Val’s off the phone, it’s getting on for midnight, and the bottle of wine is almost empty. I finish it up, double check all the locks, switch off the lights and make my way to bed. Having eaten nothing since lunch, the effects of the alcohol on a nearly empty stomach make me a little woozy as I climb the steep cottage stairs and stumble into the modern bathroom. Doing just the absolute necessary, I get ready for bed and then settle in for a restless night, expecting the old familiar nightmares from my past to resurface tonight, as well as new ones conjured up from my horrendous day.

I’d wanted to get home, to the place where I have always felt safe. But the thought someone might be after me makes me toss and turn, unable to relax. Then, when I force myself to lie still, I’m alert to every creak in the old building, having to try to convince myself it’s nothing more than the usual sounds of the aged timbers settling. I hear owls hooting in the distance, the sound of the rain still lashing down against the window panes, and gradually, despite my nervousness, my eyes start to close as I give into the stress-induced exhaustion and eventually drift off to sleep.

 

****

 

Tuesday morning, I awake after a surprisingly good uninterrupted rest. Even the bottle of wine only left me a bit fuzzy, and the expected and well-deserved headache is happily absent. Refreshed, the events of yesterday seem like just a bad dream. Safe and cosy in my bed, with the sun streaming in through the gap in the curtains, memories of being stalked through the rainy streets of London seem far, far away. But my bruised throat, and the lump on the back of my head, remind me what happened yesterday was all too real and I shiver. Is someone really out to get me?

Dressed and ready for the day I wait anxiously to hear from the police, but there’s no update, and gradually I stop looking at the phone to make sure I haven’t accidentally put it on silent. Slowly I convince myself, if they haven’t bothered to rush to get back in contact they can’t think it’s as serious as it seemed at the time. My mind starts to blur over the facts, as I refuse to let myself feel intimidated. The bright sunshine and blue skies, replacing the ominous dark of the day before, help to lift my mood.

The morning passes quickly. Despite everything I manage to get in my word count and more, as a sudden unexpected blast of inspiration hits me. In one day I’d experienced more than I normally would in a year. The range of emotions I’d gone through, the people I’d met—the ebullient waitress, the police officers, and the detective—being in a police car and police station for the first time as well as the encounter and attack itself; all fuel for my plots. My characters come alive, and start rambling off in directions I’d neither planned nor expected, and I know I’m doing some of the best writing I’ve ever done. Hmm, I make a joke in bad taste to myself. Perhaps I should get out and get stalked more often. Although, that does seem quite a high price to pay for some inspiration!

While I’m churning out words by the dozen, as usual, I lose all sense of time. Lost in another world, I work all day and by the evening, when I eventually emerge from my study, I realise I’ve forgotten to organise an alarm system for the house. But I’ve also forgotten any real urgency to do so. I’m happy with the work I’ve completed, pleased with the progress I’ve made and having heard nothing further from the police and still unable to conceive anyone could want to hurt me; I no longer feel under threat. At least here, in the safety of my cosy home. I’ll be a lot more cautious if I have to go into London anytime soon. No one knows where Dexie Sanders lives. Yes, I’m sure of that.

“Hi, sweetie. How are you doing?” Val rings around seven, just as I’m putting a ready meal for one in the oven.

Pleased with myself, I tell my agent that I’ve doubled my word count today, and start to enthuse about how the new novel is shaping up until she stops me, laughing. “Not much keeps you down, does it? I’m ringing to see how you are, not what you’ve done.”

I smile, my phone balanced between my shoulder and ear as I get out a plate and cutlery. “Sorry, Val. Everything seems different today. I’ll just be ultra-vigilant when I’m out in future.”

“Did you sort out your alarm system?”

“No, I’ll get round to it sometime. I haven’t had time today. It will be fine, I’m sure.”

“Mia, it sounded serious to me!” She sounds exasperated and reminds me again of the precautions that I should be taking in her view. Then she adds, “Look, I’ve pulled in a favour from someone I know at Grade A Security. They’re a protection and security company with great rep. They’ll be sending someone to see you tomorrow about what exactly it is you need.”

“There’s no point, Val. I’ll get round to sorting it out.” Eventually, but I add that under my breath.

She sighs loudly, “You’re a celebrity, now, Mia. I think you need some expert advice on this.”

“Actually, I’m bloody angry I need to pay out money just because someone doesn’t like the content of my books,” I suddenly snap. I’ve started making a decent income now, but it’s not a fortune and just as hard earned as anybody else’s, often as a result of fourteen-hour days and no weekends off or holidays. “Why don’t they just bloody well not read them, if they hate them that much?”

“I’m trying to help, here, Mia,” Val retorts sharply, stopping my tirade.

At once, realising it’s wrong to direct my anger at her, I apologise. After she reminds me someone’s coming from Grade A tomorrow, I thank her for taking the time to arrange it, and we say our goodbyes. Putting down the phone, I eat my dinner for one. Christ Val, I was just feeling comfortable now you’ve unnerved me all over again! Glancing around my kitchen, I check the window is locked, and in the silence realise how alone I am. I’ve always lived by myself, and so far have never felt lonely. With all the characters talking in my head I don’t need anyone else’s company. But all of a sudden I realise how vulnerable that makes me, a twenty-four-year-old woman, living on her own, out in the country, at least a quarter of a mile from the nearest neighbour.

A shiver runs up my spine as though a ghost has just walked over my grave.

 

****

 

As darkness gives way to light, my fears once again begin to evaporate in correlation with the sun rising, and the next day starts much like the last. The police still haven’t made contact, I’ve heard no more about the stalker, and once again, my writing’s on a roll. I pause only to make a few notes on my iPad to remind me to see if Detective Waring, who’d given me his contact details and card, might be amenable to talking me through some police procedures I’ve been getting confused on. I do like to get authenticity into my work.

As I’m pondering whether the detective would mind answering some questions, the rattle of the letterbox signalling the post has arrived interrupts the flow of my thoughts and jolts me back into reality. I don’t live a great distance from the town of Epping, but far enough away to be considered resident in a rural area. Hence, I’m almost the last on the postman’s round, and he often doesn’t get to my road until late morning, sometimes not until after lunch so I never know when to expect him. I don’t bother moving at first, not until I hear the knock on the door which probably means there’s a delivery I need to sign for. Sighing, I back away from the keyboard and check my watch. Eleven o’clock. The postie’s made good time today. Calling out for him to wait for a moment, I run down the stairs from the spare bedroom which serves as my study, and open the door to him. He’s my regular, so he greets me with a smile.

“Only a few bills for you, love,” he says, passing the brown envelopes over, then he waves his hand downwards, “But I didn’t know if you realised you had these? I didn’t think you’d want them left here to spoil.” Having pointed out the delivery left for me, he nods and leaves, quickly exiting down my short front path, and jumping into his van to continue his round.

But I don’t watch him go. Instead my eyes are focused on what he so kindly pointed out to me. Someone had left a bouquet of white lilies against my front door. My mouth goes dry. I don’t know anyone who’d send me flowers. And while relatively innocuous, if you like that type of bloom, to me it looks like something you’d put on a coffin. With a feeling of dread, I suspect that is exactly the effect they are meant to have. Shit! Sinking to my knees, I gingerly extract the card that’s attached to the cellophane wrapping. Carefully I open the envelope, which has my address clearly printed on it, then, with shaking hands, I hold it up, letting the contents slide it out, still hoping there’s a possibility it’s from a friend. But reading the words printed on the card in big bold type, I rock back on my heels and put my hand to my face. Dear God! He does know where I live!

Fuck! My hands tremble so much I drop the card. Tears of frustration and fear come to my eyes and I angrily wipe them away, annoyed at myself for my weakness. Glancing down, I read what’s written on the envelope again. It’s addressed to Mia Fable. I’m right to be afraid. Another threat, and this time there’s no doubt he knows my true identity, as well as my address.

I leave the flowers where they are; I don’t want to touch them, and I don’t want to bring them inside and have that sickly sweet scent wafting through my home. I shut the door, so they are out of my sight and waste no time grabbing my phone and ringing the detective I spoke to on Tuesday evening at the police station in London. He answers, and I tell him what’s happened. There’s some confusion as he’s with the Met, the Metropolitan Police Force covering London, but the local Essex Police are the ones who deal with the area where I live, so he’s going to have to contact them and pass my case over. I just teem with exasperation. I don’t care whose jurisdiction it is. I just want them to bloody well get it sorted!

It takes two hours for them to decide who’s doing what, and to get someone out to me, but I suppose an unexpected delivery of flowers is not generally classed as an emergency. When they do arrive, they come mob-handed suggesting the notes of my interview last night have finally been transferred and they’re now taking it as a serious threat. Different police officers come tasked with various jobs, one starts to fingerprint the front gate, which would have to have been opened to deliver the flowers then, finished with that task, uses tweezers to pick up the card and place it in a plastic bag, berating me for handling it. I snap my patience now almost non-existent. What did they expect me to do? He bags the flowers and takes them out to the police car and I breathe a sigh of relief once they are out of my sight. But it’s impossible to forget the words that I’d read:

RIP BITCH! ONCE YOU’VE PAID YOUR DUES.

Apart from the forensic expert who, on returning to the house, continues to mutter about me contaminating his crime scene, there are three other police officers; a detective, a crime scene officer, and a constable; the latter standing as if on guard by the front door. The detective, who quickly introduced himself as Detective Sergeant David Coulton, takes me into my sitting room and starts to question me, taking me through every possible scenario where I might have made an enemy.

But nothing’s changed from Tuesday night; I still can’t think of anyone who would want to threaten and scare me. He seems focused on the demand that I pay my dues for what I owe. But I owe nothing to anybody. Shaking my head and narrowing my eyes I’m perplexed and puzzled as to what the hell this could be about. I honestly have no idea! Who’d want to do this to me? I think he’s on the wrong track. Although it doesn’t make any sense, the only thing that occurs to me is that some nutter has got extremely upset by the content of my books. But in that case, why weren’t the flowers sent to Dexie Sanders? Why were they addressed to me?

“Is there someone you can stay with for a few days?” Coulton asks me when we’ve exhausted just about every avenue to explore as to who might have a serious grudge against me. “If you can go somewhere else, you would feel safer. At the moment, we can’t say whether this is a credible threat or just a hoax. It could just be someone playing a cruel joke, getting their kicks from upsetting you. But as the person knows where you live, well, I must admit that makes me more than a tad concerned. He might remain content with just leaving these messages, but we can’t rule out that his actions might escalate into actual violence.”

I don’t have to think about it for long. There’s no one I’m that close to that I could impose on to give me house-room. So I shake my head as I tell him, “Not unless I stay at a hotel. And how long would I have to go away for?”

He shrugs. “The problem is we have no idea who is threatening you or why. Until he crawls out of the woodwork, it’s impossible to say.”

What the hell do I do? I’m scared and feeling very alone. My stalker is already winning, and that infuriates me. “Then it’s impossible for me to leave,” I tell him, firmly. “I haven’t got unlimited resources. Can’t you provide protection for me?”

“I’m sorry, but unless we know who or what we’re protecting you from, or have evidence there’s a real risk of physical danger towards you, we just haven’t got the manpower after all the recent cuts. We’re spread too thin already.” He looks at me sympathetically, “I can have a squad car include your house in its regular rounds, and obviously, we’re only a 999 call away, but, horrible as this might sound, the situation needs to escalate before we can do much about it. I know that doesn’t give you much comfort, Ms Fable, but I’m afraid that’s how it is.”

Nodding slowly, I accept that in the scheme of things my stalker problem probably appears insignificant. To them, maybe, but not to me. He looks around. “You need to have a security system installed. One with a panic button connecting you directly to us.”

I’m an author; I’m not a practical person, and it probably sounds pathetic when I start to ask him for his advice. “Who can install a security system? What type do I need?”

Suddenly an unfamiliar but authoritative voice interrupts us. “You can leave that to me.”

I spin round. My eyes open wide, and my jaw drops. All the air has been sucked from my lungs, as I struggle to take in a breath. I’ve written about scenes such as these. The immediate attraction to someone on first sight, but I’ve never experienced anything like it in real life. Having to put my hand on the back of a chair to steady myself, I can’t tear my eyes away from the man standing in the doorway, his massive frame making my sitting room seem far too small.

He’s wearing a leather biker jacket, tight fitting black jeans which cover his long legs and, to complete his ensemble, biker boots. In his hand, he’s holding a helmet. He’s so tall; I have to lift my chin to look up at his face. His eyes are dark, almost black as they focus on me, his nose straight and aquiline. His lips are slightly parted, revealing straight white teeth. He’s got designer stubble – more than just having missed a shave but less than can be called a beard – on his chin, and dark brown hair just long enough to reach below his collar looking neat and styled even though having been flattened by his helmet. All his features add up to one thing, and the reason for my immediate irrational reaction; if I’d dreamed about a man I couldn’t have conjured up someone who appealed to me more. It’s as though one of my favourite fictional lead characters has come to life. My stomach clenches and my body’s unwanted response to this devastating man scares me almost as much as the threatening notes I’d received. This man, whose very presence makes my house feel like it’s shrunk; not just because of his size, but there’s something about him that oozes power and dominance and which makes me want to give myself over into his care. I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man before and never believed I ever would. I do not get attracted to men.

“Who … Who the fuck are you?” I manage to stammer out, my voice sounding so unlike my own, shaking and full of trepidation.