He's After Me

Chapter THIRTY-TWO



I never, ever want to go through that again, as long as I live. When we’d got away, once he knew we were safe, Jem was fired up by it all, sparking with excitement. Like he was off his head on something. Like he’d been tagging. For him it was the same thing, he thrives on the thrill of the chase. But me, I was shit-scared, weak with fear and remorse, my conscience going into overdrive, filling me with horror at the thought of what we had done and how nearly we had been caught.

‘No harm done!’ scoffs Jem as he tucks into a bacon sarnie at the café we’d found open near the station. ‘We borrowed some real estate lying empty for a few nights, that’s all. Squatters’ rights. Nothing wrong with that.’

For once his beautiful mouth makes me feel sick as I watch his strong teeth tearing into the food in hungry, feral bites. I couldn’t eat a thing.

‘Shush!’ I glance round, scared someone will overhear us, but apart from the owner, who’s glued to the TV, there’s only an old guy, half asleep and stinking of alcohol, and a grossly fat woman in layers of filthy clothing who’s muttering away to herself. ‘We left it in a mess!’ I whisper. ‘We were going to clear up this morning, remember? Now they’ll know someone’s been there.’

‘They’ll know that all right,’ he says and grins, before slurping his mug of tea. This morning, in this sleazy café, with greasy bacon fat on his chin, I don’t know what I ever saw in him. He needs a shave and looks scruffy and unkempt.

I can talk. I need a shower and a complete change of clothes.

‘I want to go home,’ I announce.

‘You can’t,’ he points out. ‘Not till tonight, anyway. You’re staying at Zoe’s, remember?’

I nod, too wasted to talk. I’ll have to go to college first. In yesterday’s clothes.

Too late I remember the top I’m wearing is the one I wore yesterday. It belongs to Jude. So does my underwear.

‘Oh no!’ I groan aloud, covering my face with my hands.

‘What’s up?’

My blood chills as I recall I’d borrowed her knickers the day before too. What was I thinking of? They’d still be there, in the apartment, together with my own discarded pair from the day before that. When I tell Jem, unbelievably he laughs out loud.

‘So what? Worried they’ll have your DNA on them? They’re never going to be able to trace you through a pair of dirty knickers!’

‘Don’t be so gross!’ I look at his mocking face and I want to slap it. Hard. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

‘What?’

I shake my head, speechless with shame. All I want to do is crawl into my bed, pull the duvet over my head and never get out again. I stand up abruptly. My chair clatters to the floor and the filthy old guy jumps out of his alcoholic stupor as I rush out of the door.

It’s Art, first period. I’m the first one there. It wasn’t even eight when I got to college. Breakfast was on in the canteen but I couldn’t face it. Plus I don’t want to see anyone, looking like this. So I sit on my own in the Art room for an hour, dizzy with tension and regret. By the time Bill Thomas walks in and comes to an abrupt halt, my head is thumping and I have a raging thirst.

‘Tell me I’m dreaming!’ he says, slapping his hand to his head. ‘Anna Williams is here before me, raring to go.’

‘Ha, ha!’ I say drily, hoping against hope that he won’t perch in front of me with his legs splayed for a chin-wag but, of course, he does.

‘How’s it going, Anna?’

‘Fine.’

He gives me the benefit of one of his intense looks over his specs and says, ‘Hmmph!’ as if he doesn’t believe me. ‘Get your homework done last night?’

‘Yep.’

‘Like me to take a look while it’s nice and quiet?’

‘If you want.’

I dig into my bag and manage to locate the History of Art homework among the stuff I’d crammed in there in the dark a few hours earlier. Mr Thomas takes the crumpled sheets and makes a play of smoothing them out and starts to read. After a while he says, ‘Hmmph!’ again and stares at me morosely.

‘What?’ Even to me, my voice sounds sulky.

‘Not good enough, Anna.’

Shit. I lighten my tone. ‘Give it to me straight, why don’t you?’

But he’s not playing. ‘If I gave it to you straight, I’d suggest you go back and start A-level Art all over again. This is not worthy of you. Plus, I took a look at your portfolio yesterday. It’s not up to much, is it? As far as I can see, it’s just full of graffiti.’

I feel as if he’s punched me in the stomach and I can’t breathe. When I’d told my dad I’d chosen Art as one of my A-level subjects, he’d said, ‘What for? Anyone can draw and splash paint on to paper.’

Wrong again, Dad. Wrong on so many counts.

I can’t. I can’t do anything right any more.

How did I get to this?

I stand up.

‘Where are you going?’

I don’t answer. I don’t know.

‘Anna, come back. We need to talk about this.’ Mr Thomas sounds anxious now, but it’s too late. As the bell goes and people start to pour into the Art room, I barge straight past them, shouldering my way through the door.

I didn’t know I was holding my breath until suddenly I take two ugly, rasping gasps and tears start rolling down my cheeks. I hold on to the rail outside the Art block to stop myself falling blindly down the steps. People are looking at me but I don’t care. A couple of girls stop and say, ‘Anna, are you OK?’ and I say, ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ and they move off, whispering.

Soon the yard empties out as lectures start and I’m left on my own. I sink down on to the steps, and hug my knees to me, head bent, and give myself up to despair.

‘Anna? What’s happened?’

It’s Ben. He crouches down beside me, pushing my hair away from my wet face.

‘What’s wrong?’ he says and I turn into him. His arms go round me and I sob my heart out.





OK, she was upset now but she’d be fine when she’d calmed down. He loved her, he’d never stopped loving her, he never would.

He would be there for her.

Always.