Coming For You

PROLOGUE

I’m dying.

This dusty stone tomb is completely dark and there are no shadows. Or maybe it’s my eyes. They are so dry and itchy. I can no longer open them as my eyelids have stuck together. I’ve not drunk or eaten since being here.

Eleven days ago, the stone ground on which I lie felt so cold. So hard. Now I barely notice it. My body is shutting down. Fluid seeps from me. My underwear is wet. The only item of clothing my abductor has left me with.

Retribution.

I’m slowly choking on the thick substance in the back of my throat and my lungs are breaking down. I try to take a weak breath through cracked, painful lips. I’m drifting into my final sleep and my breathing is hindered. Very soon, death will take me.

Left deliberately to slowly die of unmitigated hunger.

I want my mother.

CHAPTER 1

2004

I hear a gasp, I pause for a split second before realising it has come from me.

Got to get to work. I don’t want to be late. I hate being late, it’s rude. But I stop, without warning, and I can sense the frustration of others around me.

He’s there again.

People are continuing to pass me by, maybe on their way to work or shopping. I don’t care at this moment. He is staring intently at me from the other side of the road. His body is motionless, his stance confident.

This has been going on for about four months now. I don’t know who he is. I can see him across the narrow road and he’s always dressed the same, the man in the grey trench coat and trilby.

At first, I thought it was a coincidence. I seemed to keep bumping into him regularly. He has never approached or even tried to speak to me. He just stares, always watching. My mum always says there’s no such thing as a coincidence.

I lower my head, denying myself the pleasure of the morning sun on my face. Hurrying towards the office, ignoring him, I wish I hadn’t seen him. I can feel him watching me. I like to feel in control but this is making me anxious. An emotion I’m not familiar with.

Glancing at my watch, I quicken my pace. I’m five minutes away from my destination. It’s 7.50 am and I start work at 8 am. I always wear heels. They look great but they slow me down. For the last five months, I’ve been getting the metro into the city centre, then it’s twelve minutes to walk to work. It saves on driving in rush hour and expensive parking. I feel that the man watching me knows my weekly routine.

I can see the office block in front of me. It’s a huge building with a glass front and a small café on the ground floor, used mainly for catchups with colleagues. The sun is reflecting off one of the huge windows. I love this time of year, late summer, with warm mornings and hours of daylight. The double doors open automatically and I take the stairs to the third floor where I work for an accountancy firm. P.E. Evans Accountancy, named after my boss. We are a small team of twenty-two and we all get on well. Unlike my last job, working with people who were over-promoted and without a clue. It's so true that you join an organisation but leave a manager. I work in finance as I prefer numbers to people.

I hurry along the white painted corridor. No pictures. It’s very clinical. I stop when I reach the familiar solid wooden door with my name and job title on the small plaque, ‘Faith Taylor – Personal Assistant.’ I key in the door code C2468 which is easy to remember. My south-facing office is warm, so I slip off my navy jacket while stretching up to open a window. Throwing my Radley handbag under the desk with my other arm, I reach over to press the ‘on’ button and fire up the laptop. My desk is clear apart from the laptop, notebook and teacup. I hate clutter and I keep my private life very private. No naff family photos smile from my workspace.

I hear the adjoining door open and I know who it is without looking up. My boss is a man of routine. He wanders into my office with a small pile of papers in his hand. As a company, we are yet to go paperless.

“Good morning, Mr Evans.”

“Morning, Faith. Can you deal with these, please?”

He hands me the papers. Some are letters and some are invoices. Not all our clients like to use email which frustrates me as it takes so much longer.

I smile at the middle-aged traditional man, now standing in my office space. Peter Evans is a good man and boss. I’ve been his secretary for three years. He’s mild-mannered, a workaholic, and treats his team with respect. He always gets me a case of red for Christmas and discreetly overlooks the odd hangover I bring into the office after a night out with the girls or some guy I’ve been seeing that month. We have mutual respect. He’s a traditionalist who dislikes me calling him by his first name. I’ve had other PA jobs in finance, for larger organisations, where it was common for the boss to sleep with one of the secretaries. Sex in the office before home time was a regular occurrence. Mr Evans is a loyal family man. I can’t imagine him getting crumbs on his desk, never mind having reckless sex on it. I honestly don’t think he would want to crease his suit.

As he turns to head back into his office, I turn my attention to the chrome kettle in the corner and flick the switch. It is one of my first jobs of the day; Mr Evan’s white coffee, no sugar. My gaze wanders back to the window, watching the bright morning. Summer is nearly over and we are a few days away from September. The office overlooks the beginning of the city centre and, beyond that, a run-down housing estate.

He’s there. The man with the grey trench coat.

Icy goosebumps stand to attention on my body and the back of my neck has gone cold as I involuntarily shiver. He’s just standing there. On a public pavement, staring up at my office window. Is he looking at me? I might be paranoid, but my heart rate has increased and my hands feel clammy.

The figure in the grey trench coat continues to invade my life and, at night, my sleep. I’ve started to wake at night in fear. Sometimes my eyes snap open and I find myself upright, with no memory of when I sat up. My heart pounds, my mind is confused and the dreams are so vivid.

Always the same recurring dream. He’s chasing me and there’s no escape. I try to run but my legs won’t work, or I dream I’m in a dark room and the lights won’t work, and he’s coming towards me in the grey trench coat, with his trilby hat pulled low on his face. I can’t stop him. I’m in darkness. I’m trapped and each dream ends the same. He grabs my shoulders, we are face to face and I can’t move.

I hate those dreams.

My mind has started to play tricks at night. I know I’m safe in the home I share with my parents, as I drift off to sleep in my room. But then I see him, near my bed. My hand frantically searches for the bedside lamp to cast his shadow and the terror away.

Knowing I’m safe in my office, I can’t help staring back at him. He’s motionless and just looking straight at me. He looks middle-aged, maybe older, lightly-built if not a little too skinny; it’s hard to tell with the trench coat. His thinning grey hair is nearly shoulder-length and he has an unkempt look about him. My thoughts are racing. Do I know him? I don’t think so. Is he undercover or an investigator? No, he stands out too much.

The kettle clicks off, drawing me sharply back to normality. Avoiding the hot steam, I make my flat white coffee.

Time passes quickly, it’s been the usual busy day. Eight hours in front of the laptop, combined with the constant stream of incoming phone calls. I felt on edge most of the morning. Now I finally feel relief. Total relief. The man in the grey trench coat has disappeared and I can’t see him anywhere out of the window. Sometimes I wonder if I should mention him to Mr Evans or even my parents, but I’m not one to worry people. I like to keep a low profile. I’ve never told a soul of my fear of the Grey Trench Coat Man.

Very soon I will deeply regret that decision. Later today, my life will change forever.

The best part of my day was another quick lunch with Aidan Handford, the new Debt Recovery Manager. The business does a lot of bookkeeping but not everyone wants to pay their bill. At thirty-five years old, he’s seven years older than me. He’s your stereotypical tall, dark and handsome guy. Rumour has it that he’s a player and I plan to find out. The physical attraction between us was instant when we first met three months ago, but neither of us mentioned it.

I don’t know if he’s married. I don’t care. I have no plans to marry him. Just borrow him. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring but that doesn’t mean anything. He never talks about his private life and doesn’t do social media. I’ve checked.

As time was tight and we both had a load of work to do, we went to the small café near the office block. He looked very attractive in his blue suit and what I could only describe as a blush shirt; a pale pink. He wore brown shoes, thankfully with socks. I know the trend today is for men not to wear socks but it looks like they’ve left the house in a hurry.

The Pure Apple Café only has five tables as most of its trade is takeout. It only does a vegan menu. I like a plant-based diet at times but I love a bacon sandwich more. Aidan, on the other hand, is vegan and hasn’t eaten meat for ten years. Since I wanted to see more of him, I ordered a roasted butternut squash and black bean salad for lunch washed down with a cup of green tea known as Matcha. The salad and Matcha were both very good.

“Would you like to go for dinner on Saturday night?”

Aidan was looking directly at me for a reaction. I felt a surge of excitement and casually replied, “Okay, sure.”

“Good, I’ll pick you up at 7.30 pm then. Can you text me your address?”

Nodding and trying to play it cool, I casually responded, keeping the excitement out of my voice, “Looking forward to it. Shall we head back?”

Suppressing emotion usually comes easy to me and it comes in handy when you’ve just been asked out by someone you like. Together we left the café and walked briskly back, in contented silence.

*

My mind wanders as I think about what to wear for our first date tomorrow, and he is probably thinking about which restaurant will impress me the most. I hope there is chicken on the menu.

It’s now five o’clock.

I collect my things, close the window, and pop my head through the adjourning door. Mr Evans glances up from his desk.

“Have a good weekend. Doing anything special?”

He’s smiling at me.

“No, nothing planned apart from a meal.”

I keep the excitement out of my voice.

“See you Monday then.”

“Yes, here’s the mail for your signature.”

I hand him a blue cardboard file.

At that moment, I did not know I would never return.

CHAPTER 2

Outside the comfort and safety of the office block, there is no sign of him. No sign of the Grey Trench Coat Man. With relief sweeping through me, I head towards the metro station, my thoughts drifting to Aidan.

At twenty-eight years of age, I’ve never had a serious relationship. I like my freedom. Most of my relationships have lasted six months or less, and my parents joke if I’ll ever leave home. I’m not planning on it. I save most of my wages each month and I don’t have to cook, do laundry or clean. My mum, Martha, is fifty-eight years young and still attractive but plump; not that I’d ever say that to her. She’s also easy-going and very talkative, takes pride in her family and runs a loving home. Her husband, James, my father, is quiet, reserved and likes to keep an eye on the finances, unlike Mum who likes to spend. At sixty-two, Mum is never going to change Father’s ways. I was three months old when they adopted me and took me into their very warm hearts and home. They are the only parents I have ever known.

My birth mother didn’t know who my birth father was, and she died about ten years ago in one of Her Majesty’s prisons. I think it may have been HMP Durham. No one speaks about her. I never knew her and never wanted to. She was incarcerated for stabbing her then-boyfriend and, as he lay dying, she poured a bottle of bleach over his head to finish him off. It wasn’t her first offence.

I feel the darkness within me that must have run through her veins too, to kill and destroy the guy so easily. So far, I have suppressed it. It’s my dark secret. My birth mother died in prison from a drug overdose. I was eighteen years old when my mother told me, but I felt no emotion. She was a stranger to me.

I picture what it must feel like to kill someone. To be responsible for taking their life. If I took someone’s life, would I feel guilty or powerful? I read that psychopaths don’t feel guilt or empathy and they usually dislike or torture animals. Whilst I fantasise about murder, according to the experts I’m no psychopath. I love animals and I even have a cat. She’s jet-black and called Snowy.

Someone has grabbed my arm.

Shocked, I stop. My brain tries to process what has just happened. An elderly lady with thin, pale twisted fingers is gripping my arm and gasping for breath.

“Help me,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper.

Still feeling stunned, I lean in to hear her as I ask, “What’s wrong?”

She smells of mould and dampness. It’s unpleasant and my nose twitches, trying to block the smell of stale body odour combined with pee. She points with her free arm to her chest and her breathing is heavy and slow.

“Chest pains. My heart isn’t what it used to be.”

The woman doesn’t look well. Stick-thin, she looks in her late seventies, is shabby in appearance and her thin arthritic fingers are still clutching my arm. Her white hair is short and very fine and, although you can see her scalp in places, there’s a natural wave to it. The shock is starting to leave me. I need to focus. She’s old and I’ve got a metro to catch but there’s no one else in sight. Damn it!

“I’ll call you an ambulance,” I say, as I start to rummage in my large navy Radley bag in search of my mobile phone; remembering that I still need to text Aidan my address.

“No, no need. Would you see me home? I live just five minutes from here and I’ve got medication there. I’m not dying in a bleeding hospital. Rather go in my own bed.”

She is pointing in the direction of the run-down housing estate. I’ve seen it before from my office window. Many of the properties are empty and boarded-up. It would cost less to demolish the estate than to return the properties to a habitable state.

My heart sinks. I’m going to miss the 5.20 pm metro but thankfully they run every eleven minutes.

Still wheezing, the old woman points towards Bowman Street, the street I had just passed when my thoughts were filled with sunshine and Aidan Handford. My instincts are screaming at me. I feel on edge as if something isn’t right. I’m looking at her. She needs help and there’s no one else around. I must help her, yet I feel anxious and irritated by the delay. She still smells funny, slightly musty. Up close she looks about ten years younger, she could be early sixties. It’s hard to tell.

I take the shopping bag hanging from her arm. It’s very light but smells the same as its owner. I’m going to need a shower when I finally get home.

With a sigh, I turn back the way I came and slowly we make our way along the street. The old woman is clinging to me as if her remaining time depends on it. I don’t know her name. I stop myself from asking as I just want to see her home and catch the metro. I hope I don’t smell like her.

We continue to walk in silence. I still feel on edge and frustrated that I’ll be getting home late. My tea will be ready. My mum is a great cook. I wish I was at home.