Denied (One Night 2)

‘What did ya say?’

I look blankly at the guy, who has turned from his task and is looking at me expectantly. What did I say? ‘Nothing,’ I breathe, reaching up to run my palm over my nape, unease settling over me like a blanket. I shake my head mildly and he shrugs, returning to the coffee machine.

I look around but only find other customers waiting impatiently, nothing out of the ordinary, yet my body’s screaming that something isn’t right.

‘Three-twenty, please.’

I drag my wary eyes to the counter, finding Miller’s coffee and a hand being held out. ‘Sorry.’ I shake myself back to life and fumble for my purse, taking for ever to locate a fiver before shoving it into his hand. Scooping up the take-out cup, I slowly turn, my eyes darting everywhere looking for something, but I haven’t the first idea what. I feel stifled by anxiety. Claustrophobic. My steps are careful as I make for the exit, my eyes measuring every person I pass. None of them return my gaze. No one seems interested in me. I’d brush off my discomfort as paranoia, if my internal alarm bells weren’t still ringing like crackers.

‘Miss, your change!’

The muffled yell of the server doesn’t make my steps falter. My legs have switched to automatic and seem hell-bent on carrying me away from the source of my distress, even if it’s not obvious what that source is. I break free of the confines of the coffee house, hoping my freedom will restore some rationality and calmness. It doesn’t. My legs take off down the street at a steady jog, and I glance over my shoulder repeatedly, every time finding absolutely nothing. I’m frustrated with myself but can’t seem to convince my legs to slow, and I’m not sure whether I should be grateful or frightened by this. The increasing coldness of my skin tells me frightened. My strides quicken, my breath instantly drained as I weave through the passers-by, stupidly careful not to spill or drop Miller’s coffee as I do. My relief is immense when Miller’s apartment block comes into view and a quick check over my shoulder reveals . . . something.

A man. A hooded man chasing me.

And that confirmation registers in the part of my brain that’s feeding the instructions to my legs. My pace rockets, and I return my focus forward, my mind oblivious to my surroundings. The vision of someone hooded bursting through the crowds behind me is all I can see. The pounding of my heart is all I can feel.

I rush into the lobby and head for the lift, autopilot not taking me to the stairs this time. Now autopilot is desperately trying to get me away from my cloaked shadow.

‘Lift’s broken,’ the doorman calls, pulling me to a sharp halt. ‘Engineer’s on his way.’ He shrugs before returning to his desk.

I growl my frustration and dart towards the stairwell, trying to gather some level-headedness. The door bashes against the wall behind me and I hit the concrete stairs, sprinting up them two at a time. The combination of my heavy breathing and pounding feet combine, ricocheting loudly off the walls around me.

Then a loud crash from below brings me to an abrupt halt on the sixth floor.

I freeze, my legs now refusing to work at all, and listen as the echo of that crash travels up the shaft of the stairwell, eventually fading to nothing above my head. I hold my breath, listening carefully. Silence. My lungs are screaming for some air, but I refuse them, concentrating on the stillness around me and the continued anxiety coursing through my cold veins. Long seconds pass before I brave a step forward, craning my neck to peer down the shaft, seeing nothing but steps, stair rails and cold, grey concrete.

I roll my eyes to myself, thinking I’m being ridiculous. It could have been a runner. There are hundreds on the streets of London. Get a grip! Allowing some air into my burning lungs, I bring my body further forward, almost laughing at my silliness. What the hell is wrong with me?

Feeling foolish, I begin to pull back from the rail, but when I see a hand grip one of the stair rails a few floors below, I turn to stone. Then I watch in silent terror as it glides silently upward, getting closer, but there’s no evidence of feet hitting the steps, like whatever’s heading towards me has no feet . . . or they don’t want me to know they’re there.

My head is screaming instructions to run, that I need to get away, yet none of my muscles are listening. I’m frustrated, mentally screaming back at my mind’s torrent of urgent instructions, but the deafening shrill of a mobile phone breaking through my mental argument brings me crashing back into the stairwell. It takes me a few confused seconds to register that it isn’t mine. Then I hear thundering footsteps coming closer. I can’t move. I’ve never been so terrified.

Nothing is working – my legs, my brain, my voice, nothing, but when I hear another crash of a door from below, energy seems to surge through me, snapping me into action and sending me sprinting up the remaining flights of stairs. The other set of footsteps increases its pace, which only catapults my fear and, subsequently, my speed.

Relief nearly knocks me to my arse when I reach the tenth floor, and I fall through the door into the corridor that’ll take me to safety, the sight of Miller’s shiny black door probably the most welcome vision ever – the most welcome until the door swings open and I’m powering towards a semi-naked, alarmed-looking Miller.

‘Miller!’

‘Livy?’ He starts towards me, his sleepy eyes widening by the second the closer we become, until it’s quite apparent that he’s wide awake and wondering what the hell is going on.

I drop the coffee and my purse as I reach him and launch myself into his arms, my panic now subsiding, making way for emotion. ‘Oh God,’ I gasp, letting him lift me from my feet and pin my full length to him, securing me to his bare chest with a firm hold at my neck and lower back. ‘Someone’s following me.’