She was clutching her mobile in her hand like a weapon. She couldn’t call the police, though. For so many reasons, she couldn’t call the police.

She tried Borys again. Listened to the same two rings. Heard the same genial-sounding voicemail greeting.

“Can’t come to the phone right now. Sorry! Leave a message, and I’ll call you back.”

“Fuck’s sake. Where are you?” she hissed, shooting a look back over her shoulder.

The man was still there. Still walking. Still behind.

“Call me back as soon as you get any of these,” Olivia instructed, then she covertly thumbed the hang-up button, but kept the phone to her ear and waved her arms like she was engaged in conversation.

That was what you were meant to do, wasn’t it? Make them think you were talking to someone?

Or was that the opposite of what you were meant to do? Did that suggest a lapse in concentration? An opportunity to strike?

Fuck it, she was running.

She waited until she’d rounded a bend in the road, buying herself an extra head start, then she propelled herself forwards into as close to a sprint as she could manage with this bag and that footwear.

Her breathing became laboured almost immediately, her lung-tightening terror cutting short her oxygen supply. Still, she ran, air wheezing in and out, tears bubbling to the surface.

Was he still behind her? Was he running now, too?

Or would he appear ahead somehow, blocking the way to her house, and to the relative safety it offered?

She was a minute away. Maybe less. But she was away from the busy roads now, running along her quiet residential street.

Alone.

She caught the reflection of the pavement behind her in the wing mirror of a parked car, then glanced back to confirm.

He was gone. Vanished.

This only heightened her fear. At least if she could see him, she knew where he was. She could be prepared. Braced.

But now, he could be anywhere. He could’ve gone behind the houses. He might be running along the paths at the back, closing the gap on her even now.

Panic provided a burst of energy. She picked up speed, her school shoes clopping on the hard pavement, her bag trailing along behind her.

The house was dead ahead. No lights on, but that was fine. She had a key. She could get inside, lock the door, arm herself if necessary. She was almost there. Almost home.

Way back at the start of the street, a car turned off the main road. She didn’t see it, but she heard the revving of its engine, the squealing of its tyres.

She ran. As fast as she could, she ran.

She was at the gate.

On the path.

At the door.

The key rattled and scraped against the metal.

The engine roared. There was a clatter of metal and plastic hitting a speed bump too fast.