The crowd parts as I step forward, my minders following in my wake, and head for the exit. The doorman I argued with earlier touches a hand to his earpiece as he unclips the rope.
‘Don’t come back,’ he hisses as I leave. I say nothing. Instead I continue to walk, my head held high, past the queue, down the street and around the corner. Only then do my knees buckle and I slump into a doorway. I sink down onto the step and hide my face in my hands. How has it come to this? Lying to my husband, being laughed at by strangers, humiliating myself in public? What happened to Susan Anne Jackson – respectable forty-three-year-old politician’s wife – and who is this desperate creature, this figure of ridicule who has taken her place? I might have walked out of Greys with my head held high but that didn’t stop me from seeing the horror and revulsion in the eyes of the people I passed. What happened there, Charlotte? Was it as bad as what happened to me? I run my hands over my face. Or worse?
I sit up and look at my watch. It’s past midnight. If I don’t pull myself together I’ll miss the last train to Brighton and Brian will want to know why. I stand up slowly, straighten my skirt, arrange my handbag on my shoulder and set off down the street, my chin pressed to my chest, my arms folded against the cold. Every couple of minutes I wave at a passing cab but taxi after taxi speeds past without slowing. It’s only when I reach the end of the street that I realize I have no idea whether I’m even going in the right direction. I glance around, in search of landmarks but the only thing I can see is the neon glow of a tube sign at the end of a narrow alley that runs between two huge Victorian buildings to my right. I’m too short-sighted to make out the name without my glasses but I assume it must be South Kensington. Maybe if I hurry I can get the tube to Victoria? A cab speeds towards me, half blinding me with its headlights and I throw out a hand but it whizzes past, splashing through puddles, then disappears into the darkness, the ‘for hire’ sign streaking through the night. I look back at the alley and rub my hands up and down my arms. The tube it is.
I set off, tottering as fast as my heels will carry me along the cobbled street, my eyes fixed on the familiar glow of the tube sign in the distance. I keep to the pavement, staying close to the tall buildings on my right and up my pace. I’m halfway down the alley already and now I’ve left the streetlights and cars of the main road behind. Long shadows and looming shapes appear from nowhere. There are no houses, no flickering televisions and yellow-hued table lamps warming curtained windows. Instead bars, boards and shutters creak and slam as I hurry past. The sound of a can rolling down the street makes me jump and I glance behind me to see where it came from. A man has appeared at the far end of the alley. He’s silhouetted against the blurs of cars on the main road, a black shape with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and he’s moving towards me. This isn’t someone on a late-night stroll through London, this is a man trying to move quickly but without attracting attention. I wait for him to change direction, to cross the road so he’s on the opposite pavement – something most men would do to reassure a lone female at night that they had nothing to fear – instead he quickens his pace. I glance at the tube sign. Two hundred metres to go. Two hundred metres to safety. I quicken my pace and start to run. The sound of my heels on concrete echoes through the alley – clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop. Seconds later it’s joined by a new sound – thump-thump-thump – the man has started to run. He’s closed the gap between us. He’s wearing an army jacket, the hood pulled tightly over his lowered face but I can still make out the shape of his jaw. It’s wide, narrowing to a strong chin, clefted in the middle.
I run. The cold night air whips my face and grabs at my dress, pulling me back, slowing me down, as I run as fast as I can, the underground station in my sights. A woman in a baseball cap and denim jacket crosses the road at the end of the alley and I shout, willing her to turn and see me, urging her to help but no words escape from my mouth. The only sound I can hear is the hoarse wheezing of my breathing and thump-thump-thump of my pursuer’s trainers on the pavement. He’s getting closer. I can feel him closing the distance, sense him staring at me, his eyes boring into the back of my head. Not much further, just a hundred metres or so and—
No!
A man in a yellow security jacket pulls the metal grating from one side of the tube entrance to the other.
Stop!
I try to shout, to tell him to wait, to let me in, but he disappears through a side door and slams it behind him. I burst out of the alley and onto the main street. I’m panting, my thighs are burning and cramp is ripping at my side but I continue to run – left, after the woman I saw a few moments ago but now I’m closer I can see she’s got headphones on over her cap. She doesn’t look round. An elderly Asian woman on the other side of the road gives me a curious look then glances away quickly when I catch her eye. I step into the road, to go after her, but a car speeds past and I’m forced to jump back. I’m forced to stop running.
‘Sue,’ a man breathes my name and my body shuts down. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Cars speed past and I wait. ‘Sue.’
Wednesday 12th August 1992
I need to write this quickly because James has popped out to go to the hospital and I’ve got no idea when he’ll be back. It’s become too dangerous to leave the diary hidden in my sewing room so I’ve started keeping it under a loose floorboard in the hallway. That way if anything happens to me and the police search the house, they’ll find it and the truth about James, and what he did to me, will be revealed.