But there was still someone there with him; they were closer than before. The feeling inside that he had written off as paranoia earlier that evening was growing in intensity. He remembered an experiment he once read about that proved you could tell when someone was looking at you, an inbuilt instinct called a gaze detection system, largely to do with survival or attraction. Right now, Adrian knew that someone was looking at him. He was a target.

There was something wrong. The streetlights on the other side of the passage weren’t working; it was darker on that side than it was on his. Someone must have smashed them. He wished he had the strength and stamina that Imogen had when it came to running. She was a machine. He kept meaning to do more, to try harder. He was fit, but running for a long time took a set of skills that Adrian didn’t have. He would start tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

Sucking in a big gulp of air before entering the passage, which was barely fifty feet long, Adrian sped up and ran full pelt. If he could get to the streetlights, he would feel safer.

Before he knew it, he was out the other side of the passage. Just as his body untensed, he felt something swipe hard across the back of his head. A fist. He fell to the ground.

Chapter Forty-Three

Imogen pounded on Adrian’s door. There was no answer. She looked around and saw that his car was parked a little further up the road. It was gone midnight, but she couldn’t sleep. She didn’t want to be one of those girlfriends who couldn’t spend a night away from her man, but at the same time, she didn’t want to leave it the way it was.

She had scrubbed her kitchen and bathroom until they looked practically new again and then she had hopped in the shower. After drying her hair and jumping in bed, she accepted that she couldn’t just go to sleep. She at least needed to try to speak to Adrian again. Her mother had always said that you should never go to sleep on an argument. It was strange which pieces of advice stuck.

He wasn’t answering, so she decided paying him a visit was the only way. Wherever he was, it was just a walk away. She could take a punt and try a few pubs, find him and tell him again that she was sorry. She hated the way she was feeling. She felt like a bitch.

Usually that would come with some implied victory, but this was not deliberate – she didn’t play games with Adrian; there were no points to be won by upsetting him. Why couldn’t he stay in and binge-watch TV like everyone else did when they were pissed off?