I See You by Clare Mackintosh

a group of girls some distance in front of me and I try to catch up with them. Safety in numbers, I think. They’re messing around; running, jumping, laughing, but they’re not threatening. Not like the footsteps behind me, which are loud and heavy and coming closer.
    ‘Hey!’ I hear.
    A male voice. Rough and harsh. I pull my bag in front of me, keep my arm over it so it can’t be opened, then panic that if someone snatches it they’ll drag me with it. I think of the advice I always give the kids; that it’s better to be mugged than injured.
Give it up without a fight
, I always tell them.
Nothing’s worth getting hurt over.
    The footsteps come faster. He’s running.
    I run too, but panic makes me clumsy and I twist an ankle, almost falling. I hear the same voice, shouting again, and now the blood is pumping so loudly in my ears that I can’t hear what he’s saying. I can only hear the noise of him running, and of the breath I’m forcing out in loud, painful bursts.
    My ankle hurts. I can’t run, so I stop trying.
    Igive up. Turn around.
    He’s young; nineteen or twenty. White, with baggy jeans and trainers that pound on the concrete floor.
    I’ll give him my phone – that’s what he’ll be after. And cash. Do I have any cash?
    I start to pull the strap of my handbag over my head but it catches on my hood. He’s almost on me, now, grinning as though he enjoys my fear, enjoys the fact that I’m shaking so much I can’t untangle myself from the leather strap of my bag. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut.
Just do it. Whatever you’re planning, just do it.
    His trainers slam against the floor. Faster, louder, closer.
    Past me.
    I open my eyes.
    ‘Hey!’ he calls again, as he runs. ‘Bitches!’ The tunnel curves to the left, and he disappears, the echo of his trainers making it sound as though he is still running towards me. I’m still shaking, my body unable to process the fact that what I thought was a certainty didn’t happen at all.
    I hear shouting. I start walking, my ankle throbbing. Round the corner I see him again. He is with the group of girls; he has his arm round one and the others are grinning. They’re all talking at once; excitable chatter that builds to a crescendo of hyena-like laughter.
    I walk slowly. Because of my ankle, and because – even though I can see now that there’s no threat – I don’t want to pass this gang of kids, who have made me feel so foolish.
    Not every footstep is following you
, I tell myself.
Not everyone who runs is chasing you
.
    When I get off the train at Crystal Palace Megan speaks to me, but I’m slow to respond. I’m relieved to be out in the open air; cross with myself for getting in a state over nothing. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘what was that?’
    ‘Ijust said I hoped you’d had a good day.’ There are still fewer than a dozen coins in her open guitar case; she told me once how she scoops the pound coins and fifty pence pieces out throughout the day.
    ‘People stop giving if they think you’re doing too well,’ she’d explained.
    ‘It was okay, thank you,’ I tell her now. ‘See you in the morning.’
    ‘I’ll be here!’ she says, and I find her predictability comforting.
    At the end of Anerley Road I walk past our open gate and through Melissa’s painted railings. The door swings open, a response to the text I sent as I walked from the Tube station.
    Time for a cuppa?
    ‘Kettle’s on,’ she says, as soon as she sees me.
    At first glance Melissa’s and Neil’s house is the same as mine; the small hall with the lounge door to one side, and the bottom of the stairs facing the door. But the resemblance stops there. At the back of Melissa’s house, where next door you’d find my poky kitchen, is a vast space extending into the side return and out into the garden. Two huge skylights allow the light to flood in, and bi-fold doors run the whole width of the house.
    I follow her into the kitchen, where Neil is sitting at the breakfast