7

       Amy

       Sunday, 21 July

      ‘Becky?’

      Amy yelled her sister’s name then jumped up from the desk chair and ran into the hallway, almost falling over her boots, which she’d taken off hours before. The front door was open an inch, but as she reached it she heard footsteps pounding in the opposite direction.

      ‘Becky!’

      She yanked open the door and ran out of the flat. Someone was hurtling down the stairs. She chased after them, down one flight, skidding and almost tripping in her socked feet, grabbing hold of the rail to steady herself, her heart leaping into her throat. As she reached the first floor and started to run down the next flight of stairs, the outside door slammed below her.

      She raced out and stood in the street, looking left and right. There was no one in sight. Her heart hammered in her chest. She called Becky’s name again, but with less conviction. She ran along the road to the left, wishing she’d never taken her boots off, but there was nobody to be seen apart from an elderly black woman who eyed her suspiciously.

      ‘Did you see anyone run this way?’ Amy asked.

      The woman scowled and hurried on.

      Thanks a lot, Amy thought. It was no good. Whoever had opened the door to the flat was long gone. But who had it been? Becky? If it had been her, why had she sprinted away upon hearing Amy’s voice? And if it wasn’t Becky, then who was it?

      She shivered.

      She headed back inside after a final look around, and knocked on Gary’s door. No answer. She pressed her ear against the wooden panel but couldn’t hear anything. Pulling out her phone, she pressed Becky’s name in the ‘Favourites’ folder of her address book, but nothing had changed. The call still went straight to voicemail. After a moment’s hesitation, she called Gary instead.

      He answered on the fourth ring.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Gary, it’s Amy. Are you in?’

      ‘Eh? Oh – no. I’m still at the pub. Everything all right? Has Becky turned up?’

      ‘Somebody just walked into her flat. They had a key, Gary. When I called out they ran off.’

      ‘Are you still there?’

      ‘Yeah – well, I’m in the hallway, outside your place. Just been knocking at your door.’

      ‘Right, well, get back into Becky’s, lock the door, and I’ll come straight back.’

      ‘You don’t have—’

      But he had disconnected.

      She wandered back to Becky’s place, shaking with adrenaline and unable to stand still. She paced around the living room, frequently looking out the window. She felt sick. If it hadn’t been Becky, then did that mean it was whoever had sent the email? Oh, God … What if they came back? She went into the kitchen and slid a knife from the block.

      Five minutes later, someone knocked on the door. Her stomach lurched.

      ‘Who is it?’ she called, holding the knife with a trembling hand.

      ‘It’s me, Gary.’

      She went to open the door but had second thoughts. ‘How do I know it’s really you?’

      ‘Er – don’t you recognize my voice? OK. This morning, when you knocked on my door, I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I just spoke to you on the phone and told you I was in the pub.’

      She opened the door. Gary looked as if he’d had a few drinks.

      ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, sending a blast of beery breath in her direction.

      She nodded. ‘I’ve calmed down a bit now.’

      ‘I got back as quickly as I could. You look like you could use a drink. Why don’t you come to mine?’

      She was relieved to get out of Becky’s flat. Moments later, she sat on Gary’s leather sofa, gripping a glass of whisky.

      ‘My dad bought me that whisky,’ Gary said. ‘Can’t stand the stuff myself.’

      It felt good going down, spreading warmth through her throat and chest. Gary sat down in the armchair opposite. He was more sure of himself on his own territory. A strong smell of fresh sweat came off him, mingling with the beer. Masculine smells. Not unpleasant.

      She told him what had happened.

      ‘That’s fucking scary,’ he said. ‘What did the footsteps sound like?’

      ‘Um … they sounded like footsteps!’

      ‘No, I mean, did they sound slower and heavy, like a big man’s, or fast and lighter, like a woman’s – like Becky’s would be?’

      ‘Good point.’ Amy tried to remember. ‘But I don’t know. I’d say somewhere in the middle – heavy but fast. That’s not very helpful, is it?’

      Gary smiled faintly at her. ‘Did you call the police?’

      ‘I called them earlier but they said they’d call me back. That was hours ago.’

      Gary took out his phone. ‘Let’s do it now.’

      ‘I really need to get back. Boris has probably chewed the leg off the dining-room table by—’

      ‘Now. Why are you so reluctant to keep calling them?’

      ‘I’m not.’

      He looked at her sceptically. ‘You could have fooled me.’

      Irritated, she stood up, almost spilling the remains of the whisky, and grabbed the phone out of his hand. ‘The only reason I might have reservations is because they’re useless and won’t listen to me.’

      ‘Well, your decision, I guess.’

      ‘Oh, all right, I’ll call them.’

      She ignored Gary’s smirk and crossed to the window to call the police station for the third time. It had been a really long day and she ached with exhaustion, the adrenaline deserting her body, leaving her feeling cold and depleted.

      ‘Well?’ Gary asked.