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.’
‘What?’ He doesn’t ease up on his fierce hold.
‘They’re in the stairwell.’ My words are strained through my breathing, but I fight to spit it all out of my exhausted lungs. I wasn’t imagining it before. Someone’s been following me.
He’s suddenly prising my numb limbs from his na**d body, fighting to free himself. ‘Livy.’
I shake my head into his neck, not willing to let him go. I know where he’ll head. ‘Please don’t,’ I beg.
‘Livy, please!’ he shouts, pulling impatiently at my body. ‘Let go!’ His anger doesn’t deter me, and I grapple at his body, my fear rocketing, but my tenacity is flattened by an irate yell and a fast shift in movement that detaches me from his body. I’m being held at arm’s length in a heartbeat. My eyes are full of terror, his full of anger. ‘Stay,’ he orders, releasing me slowly to ensure I do as I’m bid. Overpowering fear prevents me from doing anything else.
The loss of his hold leaves me unsteady, and I watch through my haze of tears as he stalks to the stairwell. His dignity is concealed only by his boxer shorts, but his lack of cover only enhances the fury emanating from his lean, na**d physique. He’s quaking with anger, the muscles of his back rolling in waves, appearing to be flexing in preparation for what he might find beyond that door. He shoves it open with no caution or care, and passes the threshold, disappearing from my sight quickly. I attempt to get my breathing under control so I can listen, but I can’t hear a thing.
Then life seems to stop as a high-pitched ding rings out in the corridor air.
The lift.
The broken lift.
My heartbeat begins to pulse in my ears as I remain frozen, my eyes casting slowly over to the lift. The doors begin to slide open. I start to back away, terrified.
Then I gasp, my back hitting the wall as a man falls out. It seems to take an age for his boiler suit and tool belt to register in my distraught mind.
‘Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to startle you.’