Where Have All the Boys Gone?. Jenny Colgan
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I have a knife. Or a gun. Or something really bad. And you look like a nice person.’
Katie stared at him, frightened beyond belief.
‘I – I am a nice person,’ she said, her voice two octaves higher than normal. ‘Can you let me go?’
‘I can always tell,’ said the man. ‘I only go for nice people.’
Oh fuck oh fuck. She was going to get raped or killed or kidnapped or tortured. The worst, the most awful thing was happening. Oh God. She was in the middle of one of the most crowded cities in the world. Where the hell were all the people? Oh no. She was going to be left for dead in an alley. She wondered how they’d describe her in the papers.
‘Show me your phone,’ said the man gruffly. He took her by the arm – Katie flinched and started shaking like a foal – and led her to the dark side of the road. They could have been a couple talking.
Her phone. Of course. If she were an actress in 24 she would have thought to have done something useful with that. But she knew from her trembling fingers she’d have been incapable of pressing the tiny keys as she drew it out of her bag.
‘This is a shit phone,’ said the man, staring at the cheap little black handset.
‘Yeah,’ said Katie. Everyone kept telling her it was a shit phone. Maybe that would save her life – or make him kill her out of sheer disgust at her poor taste.
The man dropped it on the ground and crushed it under his boot. ‘You should be more stylish,’ he said. ‘You should have a better phone.’
He carefully took her bag from her and started rummaging inside.
‘And look at this mess. What a mess. How can you ever find anything in here? It’s full of tissues and lipsticks.’
‘It’s to deter muggers,’ said Katie. She still couldn’t get a look at his face, but for a murderous rapist, he didn’t seem very interested in her. In fact, he was looking at her lipstick with more interest.
‘You have a boyfriend?’
‘What?’
‘Yes, I think you have no boyfriend. You should ditch the orange lipstick. Orange, not good for you. Maybe why you have no boyfriend.’
‘Are you going to make me up like your dead mother and rape me to death?’ asked Katie in a panic.
It was dark, but she could catch the incredulous glint in his eye.
‘No!’ he laughed. ‘I’m going to take,’ he emptied out the coin section. ‘Twenty-four pounds and nineteen pence. And these cards, for about half an hour. Don’t worry. They’ll give you the money back, so it’ll be fine. Except for the twenty-four quid. Sorry about that.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ said Katie, furious. ‘Don’t do it!’
‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘No. I’m going to do it.’
He handed her back the bag.
‘That’s a messy bag. You should have a stylish bag. Don’t you have anyone to look after you?’
‘Shut up!’
‘Nice girl like you. Should have a nice man to look after you. Buy you nice bags.’
He looked regretful. ‘Well. Thanks. Have a safe trip home. Have you got a travel card?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. OK. Be safe. Bye!’
Katie turned around to stare at him as he dived off, quick as a cat. Her heart couldn’t quite take in what had happened and kept whumping away, and she suddenly found it difficult to get her breath. She leaned against the wall.
‘Fuck,’ she heaved.
The drunk man wobbled over.
‘Hello darlin’!’
‘Where the fuck were you?’ she shrieked at him. ‘I could have been killed!’
He straightened up and managed to focus for a second.
‘Sorry love,’ he slurred. ‘I’ve already got a girlfriend.’
And he wobbled off.
‘Don’t worry love,’ said the policeman.
Louise, who she’d called in from home, was hanging about worriedly.
‘I mean, he didn’t, like, touch you up or nothing, did he?’
Katie looked at him hard. Was this the new, softer, intouch policing she kept hearing so much about?
‘No,’ she said calmly. She was feeling a lot less shaken up now than when she’d stumbled into the police station at Covent Garden. In fact, after a couple of cups of tea, she was actually feeling strangely embarrassed about the whole thing, as if she shouldn’t have bothered troubling anyone for something as clearly unimportant as a non-rape/murder-related mugging. Outside a car alarm was blaring away, but nobody was paying it the least attention.
‘He just jumped me, took all my stuff and scared me half to death.’
‘Yeah,’ said the policeman, as if he’d just been told one of his shoelaces was untied. ‘That happens.’
‘Go find him and put him in prison,’ said Katie. ‘Now, please.’
The policeman looked down at the blank sheet of paper on his desk. ‘It’s just, we’re not doing too well with the witness description.’
‘Black hat pulled down over his face. Foreign accent.’
‘Oh, him,’ said the policeman. ‘He shouldn’t be any trouble at all.’
‘Do you work late?’ said Louise, batting her eyelashes.
‘Louise, would you kindly shut it?’ said Katie.
Louise shrugged. ‘Sure, sure, just…’
‘I work shifts,’ said the policeman, bluntly appraising her. ‘Often up late, know what I mean?’
Katie quickly spotted the wedding ring and raised her eyebrows.
‘Do you…come and go in the night?’ said Louise lasciviously.
‘Actually, now I come to think about it, I hit my head on the pavement and now have concussion,’ said Katie crossly.
‘Depends if it’s an emergency,’ said the policeman over her head. ‘You know…if you really really need me.’
Katie stood up from the dingy grey plastic chair. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting a lift home in a police car while it’s going “nee naw nee naw” is there?’
‘Maybe,’ said the policeman, still looking at Louise. Louise coloured.
‘I’ll just take the form for my insurance, thanks.’ Katie snatched the banda sheet away from him.
‘There’s no need to be like that,’ he said. ‘You’ve just described something that happens a thousand times a day in the West End and you’ve given us nothing to go on. We’re really sorry.’
Katie harrumphed. ‘Well, it shouldn’t happen at all. Anything could have happened.’
‘Yes, trust me, you’re not the type. Can I offer you some victim support?’
‘I’m not the type???’
‘Shh,’ said Louise. ‘He probably just meant you don’t look like a soft target. That’s good, you know. You look like a proper Londoner, not a rube.’ Louise brushed down her micromini thoughtfully.
Katie grimaced. ‘I don’t think that at all. I think I’m…I think I’m getting tired of this stupid city, you know.’
‘Shh,’