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7
Ipromised Amy I won’t let Derek hurt her, and he’s been walking around the streets for two days. All I want to do is talk to him, but the kind of conversation people like him need to have should be done in dark places – out of sight. After two days of stalking around his neighbourhood and streets trying to remain undetected, I have been unable to find any blind spots, which is why I have resorted to this.
The public telephone booth smells of piss made more sour by the stifling heat. It’s one of the few coin-operated ones still remaining in the city. Mobile phones eviscerated the need for them and they have been vanishing over the years. I think the city leaves a few around for nostalgic reasons and the tourists. The handle is slimy. I stare at amateur ‘artwork’ carved into the plastic with a knife, slot the coins into the narrow opening and dial.
“Hello?” a gruff male voice answers on the other end.
“Hello, Derek.”
“Who is this?”
“I’m a friend of Amy’s.”
He scoffs into the phone, “She doesn’t have any friends.”
“Well, I’m her friend.”
“Didn’t take her long, did it?”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“I have a few things to say to you.”
“I doubt it.”
“She told me what you did.”
“She’s a lying little bitch. You have no idea what you’re involving yourself in. Walk away while you still can.”
“I think you’ll find you’re the one who needs to walk away and stay away.”
“Look, I’m warning yo—”
“Don’t threaten me.”
There’s a short silence on the other end before he sucks in a deep breath. “It’s not what you think.”
“Why don’t you enlighten me?” I hiss through gritted teeth, “I’ll be at the Ready Money Drinking Fountain, at Regents Park, at 11 p.m. I suggest you be there too.”
I hang up, wiping my hands on the back of my pants and wishing I had somewhere to wash them. I have two hours to get to the location; more than enough time.
I pull the cap further down over my face and make my way back to the tube station. Twenty minutes later I’m in another borough and making my way out of the city.
* * *
Another drop of sweat slides down the side of my face as I wait. It licks its way down my neck and buries itself in my already soaked shirt. The heat of the day has soaked into the ground, and it rises from the dark path, heating my body. I can smell myself, the musty rancid stench of anticipation pooling in my armpits. I wish I had my car. The limping air con would still have been better than this muggy, oppressive heat. The warmest summer since records began, they said. It sure bloody feels like it.
I keep watching the path. A few late-night joggers and a couple have walked by during the hour that I’ve been waiting. I keep second-guessing myself, wondering if the guy will come. But then again, they always come. They want to protect themselves, buy themselves out of a situation, smooth things over with anyone that might interfere. It’s a power play – making me wait. It makes him feel like he’s in charge, the most important piece, the one that ultimately finishes the puzzle, but he’s wrong.
Just after midnight, a figure walks towards me. He keeps looking over his shoulder every few paces and stops about five metres away from me.
“You’re late.”
“You should be grateful I’m even here.” He looks behind him again like paranoia is biting at his shoulder. “Is she here?” His eyes sweep the dark park.
“No.” I take a step forward. “In fact, that’s the reason I’m here.”
