Stalker Read online

  Stalker

  Gemma Rogers

  For Mum

  My first fan

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  More from Gemma Rogers

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  1

  Saturday 27 January 2018

  I’ve never been in trouble before. Not the sort of trouble that brought me here. Freshly painted, stark white walls surround me; their toxic scent lingers in the air. A fluorescent glow from strip lights so dazzling they must be there to desensitise the occupants. Everything is white or chrome, like I’m on the set of a futuristic movie. I swing my legs, which dangle over the edge of the bed, not quite reaching the floor. I do this for a minute to keep warm. Despite the blanket around my shoulders, I can’t help but shiver. It’s late and they didn’t bring my jacket. I guess it’s been taken away as evidence.

  The woman in front of me is standing too close, hot breath on my arm. It makes me squirm and I fight the urge to yank my hand away from her grip. She’s holding it like I’m a china doll, fragile and easily broken. I dislike the invasion of my personal space. It’s something I’ve learnt to tolerate over the years. I was never a big fan of being touched, shrinking away if someone brushed past me or stood too close on public transport. I’m not a hugger either – no one was in the house where I grew up. After tonight, I can’t imagine I’ll let anyone touch me again.

  Her name is Doctor Joyce Hargreaves, she told me as we entered the victim examination room. Her job, she said, was to collect evidence from me, which is why she was wearing a paper suit, so there wouldn’t be any cross-contamination. She hasn’t picked up on my anxiety, the tremor in my fingers; she’s too busy. Brows furrowed, eyes focused as she peels the plastic bag away from my bloodied hand to collect scrapings from my skin and beneath my fingernails. The tool she uses makes me nervous.

  ‘Is that a scalpel?’ my voice barely a whisper.

  ‘No, it’s a scraper. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. This is just so I can make sure we collect any skin cells that may be buried underneath the tips of your nails. I’m afraid I’ll have to give them a trim in a minute too.’ She wields the scraper with care and it’s true, it doesn’t hurt. Physically I’m okay, except my throat is on fire and the ringing in my ears is deafening, timed perfectly with the throbbing of my face. I have a feeling I might feel worse once the adrenaline leaves my system.

  When she finishes with my hands, she pulls the fallen blanket back over my shoulders and offers a kind smile as she pushes her glasses up her nose. I can see strands of greying hair trying to escape by her ear, exposed beneath the coverall hat. She wears no jewellery and her face is free of make-up. Was she on duty or has she been called out of her bed to attend to me? Would we recognise each other in different circumstances? Probably not, I must be one of many people that pass through this room every day.

  Joyce delicately inserts each of the specimens into small tubes before labelling them to be sent for analysis. I don’t know why? I’ve told them what happened. Soon she’ll want to examine me thoroughly. Internally. Until there are no more swabs left to be taken.

  She glances at me, knowing what is coming, what she must ask me to do. Her eyes are full of pity. I must look a mess. Dried blood on my face and chest is beginning to flake away, like charred skin falling into my lap. My cheek is puffy and the vision poor on my left side. I wish I could stop shivering. They said it’s shock and provided me with a mug of hot, sweet tea after the ambulance checked me over. They wanted to make sure the blood I am doused in isn’t mine. It isn’t.

  2

  Sunday 24 September 2017

  The attack lasted just seven life-changing minutes. The same amount of time it took the tattooist to ink my skin earlier this year or the minutes I’ve spent in a supercharged sunbed. It was strange how the same amount of time could feel so different. I was no longer someone who thought bad things happened to other people. How many times had I walked home from clubs alone in the early hours of the morning, still buzzing from the evening’s events, oblivious to my surroundings. Too desperate to climb into bed to stand in line for a taxi. Those were the nights I made it to my destination unharmed. I never realised how lucky I was.

  The plan was to catch the 8.55 a.m. train from Carshalton to London Victoria, which would get me in to meet my oldest friend, Jane, at 9.30 a.m., outside WH Smith’s. We’d been to high school together, bonded over our mutual love of Eminem and stayed friends ever since. Work had been crazy for both of us and it had been a month since I’d seen her last. As a nurse she’d been doing loads of overtime at St George’s hospital in Tooting, saving as much money as she could to go travelling next year.

  We’d planned a joint birthday celebration, my twenty-fifth had passed in August and hers was coming up in mid-October. I’d booked tickets for the London Eye at half past ten, which is why we were keen to meet up early. It wasn’t far to go: a tube up to Green Park and then back down to Waterloo. I’d been once before, with my ex-boyfriend, Dean, but it was Jane’s first time. As soon as I’d told her about the amazing views across the city, she’d been desperate to book a ‘flight’. We’d chosen to have lunch afterwards at the Rainforest Café at Piccadilly Circus, which looked exotic and fun. Choosing the restaurant took up most of our half-an-hour phone call as we discussed our plans for the day.

  I’d been looking forward to our trip all week but had slept through my alarm so was in a rush to get to the station, a twenty minute walk away. It was becoming a bit of a habit, that I’d lie awake at night worrying about things, usually about how I was going to pay the bills. I’d end up watching the sun rise before passing out and waking in a panic. Thankfully, I’d chosen my outfit the night before, so after my five minute shower, I threw on a white and orange striped shirt with jeans and headed out of the door. It was going to be a beautiful day for our ‘flight’, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  I cut through Grove Park, passing a dog walker on my way in. An old boy with a white and tan terrier who tipped his cap at me and smiled. They both seemed to be enjoying their early-morning stroll around the park. All was peaceful; the Sunday bustle didn’t normally start until
around half nine. It was usually my favourite time of day for a jog, before everyone else stirred from their lazy mornings.

  Digging my headphones out of my bag, I selected a playlist on my phone and headed across the field. It was a large expanse of open space, where children’s football matches were played on Saturday mornings. Two rusty goalposts adorned each end of the pitch. Black crows gathered at the centre spot, feasting on what looked like a leftover kebab. To the left of the field stood a children’s playground, fenced in, with brightly coloured swings and slides. On the right was a small yellow café with a mini crazy golf course at the front. The exit to the park was at the far end, two streets away from the station. Shaving around five minutes off my journey.

  I felt buoyant, the sun shone overhead, and above the volume of Bastille’s ‘Pompeii’, I could hear the birds chirping in the surrounding trees. As I neared the café, I could see its grey anti-vandalism shutters were down, covered in tags of local graffiti artists. A sign on the front indicated it didn’t open until 10 a.m. I checked my watch. It was 8.35 a.m. Bugger, I’d hoped to grab a coffee for my journey as I’d missed breakfast.

  Gravel underfoot shifted behind me, but before I could turn, I was slammed into the wall of the café. Stunned, I twisted my head and caught a glimpse of a black wool balaclava and a flash of ice blue eyes over my shoulder. Cold and emotionless. My breath caught in my throat and my limbs froze. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t breathe. Pressed up against the yellow faded bricks, unable to move. The only sound I could hear was my heart beating in my ears.

  A small, sharp penknife waved in front of my eyes, reflected the morning sun and blinded me momentarily.

  ‘Scream and I’ll cut you,’ he whispered just behind my ear, his breath rippling strands of my hair. A sweet citrus smell mixed with coffee emanated from him. His voice was unnerving; soft and non-threatening, yet in complete control.

  He gripped my shoulder and shoved me a few steps to the rear of the café. I resisted, legs rigid, stumbling over the contents of my bag which had spilled out onto the ground during the scuffle. The designer purse Jane bought me last birthday lay amongst the dirt. It registered with me that money wasn’t what he’d come for and a feeling of dread seeped into my body. Behind the building was a narrow concrete walkway, hidden in the shadows and shielded from the view of the field and path ahead. The back door to the building was old, its green paint flaking off, a tiny padlock entrusted with keeping thieves out. Next to it was a large black lidded industrial bin, surrounded by cigarette ends. It smelt of chips and oil and attracted the flies.

  Terrified to look back, but the fear of not knowing greater, I swivelled my head, getting another glimpse of his face. I couldn’t see much, the majority covered with the balaclava, his lip turned up into a snarl. Hostile, close-set eyes stared at me with an emptiness that made my blood run cold. A flash of anger passed across them before he smashed my face back to the wall, scraping my cheek. I let out a whimper, a metallic taste pooled in my mouth.

  He dragged me over to the bin, pressing his body against mine, using his weight to keep me still. His right hand resting on the lid, the knife on display. A silent warning to comply. I could hear him panting and felt the length of his erection pushed against me. Adrenaline and panic coursed through my system and the thud in my chest hammered my ribcage like it wanted out. My eyes began to well.

  ‘Please. Don’t,’ I wailed, trying to work up the courage to scream, but he pushed against me harder, enjoying the power.

  ‘I know you want it.’

  My legs crumpled like they no longer belonged to me. My eyes strayed to the ground; he wore plain black trainers and jogging bottoms, gathered at the ankle. I prayed someone would walk past or a dog would find us, sniff us out and raise the alarm.

  My right arm was wrenched behind my back, almost pulling my shoulder out of its socket. Pushing his cock into my hand, he forced my fingers to wrap around it. My stomach plummeted to the floor and I fought the urge to urinate. His erection felt strange in my palm, not natural. Was he wearing a condom?

  In a split second, I chose to be compliant. I was too frightened to scream or fight. I just wanted to live through whatever was happening to me. Tears ran down my cheeks as he groaned in satisfaction, moving my hand back and forth to pleasure himself until I’d got the rhythm. I could feel my throat closing up, the bile rising. Eyes focused on the brickwork, anywhere but my hand.

  Suddenly he’d had enough foreplay and strong arms reached around my waist to the front of my jeans, where fingers fumbled to pull open my button and zip before he wrenched them down my thighs.

  ‘Be a good girl,’ he panted, the knife inches from my eye.

  I swallowed hard and managed a strange squeak of submission. The cold realisation of what lay ahead dawning on me, powerless to stop it.

  ‘No. Please.’ I begged.

  Grabbing my hair, he forced me down, over the top of the bin, the lid compressing my chest, and kicked my feet as far apart as my jeans would allow. I felt the rip of my knickers and tried to cry out, but no sound came. He groaned as his gloved hand thrust between my legs, exposing my vulva. He spat on his hand and wiped himself before roughly pushing his erection inside me, penetrating my core. The sudden burning sensation from below was excruciating, firing all my senses and nerves to red alert. Biting on my hand, I squeezed my eyes tight as warm urine dribbled down my legs. Violated in the worst possible way, I focused on the rhythmic shuffle of the bin across the concrete ground, inching forward with every thrust as my hip bones slammed remorselessly into it. The intensity of his rhythm grew. Each thrust getting harder and deeper, skin slapping against skin. My breath being sucked and pushed out of me. As his grunting pitched higher, he pulled on my hair, snapping my head back, and with one final thrust his body went rigid.

  Finally, his body slackened with the release and then his weight lifted. My ribs felt crushed, I was sure the imprint of the bin would be visible on my chest. Seconds later, I heard the elastic of his waistband snap back into place. Leaning over, he used the thumb of his gloved hand, still wielding the knife, to stroke my cheek. My stomach heaved at the intimacy. He’d just violated me, yet he touched my face like we were a couple in love.

  ‘You are perfect,’ he whispered, his breathing laboured.

  I tasted bile and fought hard not to vomit. I remained, splayed out over the bin, exposed to the elements like a rag doll, too distraught at what had just taken place to move. In that moment, I just wanted to curl up and die.

  Seconds stretched out in front of me. I could hear no background noise at all. It was deathly quiet. I waited for something, a fist or a blade slicing my skin. Something to end my ordeal, but it never came. Was it over? A hollow silence filled the gap. I hesitated, unsure what to do.

  After what seemed like the longest time my legs gave way and I slid to the floor; daring to turn around, to face what was coming. When I did, the space was empty. He was gone.

  3

  Sunday 28 January 2018

  I’ve been moved to a cell. Names of former occupants and unimaginative insults have been scratched into the walls. It’s a waiting room, a holding pen. There’s a weird odour, a combination of piss and bleach, irritating my throat. I’ve been processed through the system and all evidence stripped from my body. Clothes were peeled away and dropped onto the sheet on which I stood to catch every fibre, every hair, every skin cell. Before moving to a shower, where they collected the diluted blood that ran off my skin. Photos were taken of my injuries, then fingerprints and a saliva swab before I got my phone call. The paper suit I have been given to replace my clothes does little to ward off the chill in the air. Although they let me keep the blanket. The suit crackles when I move, so I’m trying to remain still. I like the quiet.

  Minutes feel like hours. The bench is hard, and my backside numb. I can add it to my list of complaints. My left eye is almost swollen shut now and my cheekbone feels like it’s pulsating, a constant internal thud, like th
e bang of a drum. I’m glad I took my contact lenses out before it got too painful to touch. I got rid of them before the ambulance arrived.

  It’s impossible to get comfortable, my neck hurts in every position I try, the bruised skin tender. I curl my legs against my chest, with my chin on my knees, trying to keep the warmth in. I’m being watched. There’s a camera in the corner of the ceiling and I lower my head for a while, so my face is out of view. There’s no chance of sleep, not with fluorescent lights flickering and the noise. Shouting radiates through the walls. The custody suite is busy tonight as I guess they are every weekend; the drunk and disorderly, the domestics and assaults. I hear the banging of metal on metal and the constant clicking of viewing hatches.

  I need to stay calm; if I tell the truth I’ll be fine. Part of the truth anyway. It must be about two in the morning by now, my eyes are stinging. Tears blur my vision, but I let them come. I am the victim here. They’ll want to speak to me soon. Make me go through the events of tonight. I don’t think they quite know what to do with me yet, but we’ll see how switched on they are. I’m not going to make it easy for them. How long will it be before someone connects the dots?