Every step you take, p.17
Every Step You Take, page 17
Pressing one ear into her shoulder, she uses her free hand to depress the handle, but the door doesn’t budge. She tries it again, but the door seems to be stuck in place.
This isn’t happening!
With both hands, she pushes the handle down as far as it will go, and pulls with all her might, but the door remains closed. She steps away, covering her ears once again. It doesn’t make sense. The door can’t be opened from outside without a key, and doesn’t lock from the inside, so there is no logical reason why it shouldn’t open. Removing the keys from her pocket, she searches for somewhere she can insert them into the door handle, but there’s no mechanism for a key.
Beyond the door, she can hear other residents grumbling as they make their way along the corridor. She thumps her balled fists against the door and yells for help, but either they don’t hear her, or choose to ignore her, as nobody responds.
‘Help me,’ she yells. ‘I’m trapped in here.’
Nobody stops or offers help, and she attempts to open the door again without success. The alarm must have been sounding for at least a minute now, though it feels longer to Molly as panic starts to tighten its grip. The fact that the alarm has yet to be reset suggests it’s been caused by more than another resident having a crafty cigarette.
Molly knows she needs to get out of the flat one way or another, and as the door is jammed, she crosses to the window, and stares out at the growing mass of people in dressing gowns, gawking back up at the building. Although they’re at eye-level, they’re all gathered near the entrance, and nobody appears to be looking in her direction. She bangs on the glass, waving frantically, hoping just one person sees her and realises she’s trapped inside. One good thing about being on the ground floor is that if she can get out of the window there’s no dangerous fall to worry about.
She needs to get the window open, but when she checks the small pot on the windowsill, the key is not inside where it should be. She lifts the pot to check beneath it, and then runs her fingers over the threadbare carpet in case it has somehow fallen out, but there’s no sign of it.
She closes her eyes and counts to ten, trying to calm herself long enough to remember the last time she saw the key or opened the window. It’s been months due to the cold wintery temperatures. She opened it the day she moved in to try to clear some of the musty smell, but she can’t remember a single time she’s opened it since. So where did she leave the key? She would have put it back in the pot where it came from, surely?
Straightening, she tries to turn the handle of the double-glazed pane in case it is still unlocked, but it’s as stuck as the door. She thumps her hands against the pane, desperately signalling the group of thirty or so people who are staring back up at the building. Surely, someone will realise not everyone is accounted for? Doesn’t the building have some kind of fire marshal who would check?
She’s made no effort to engage with any of her neighbours, so there’s every chance they won’t even realise she’s missing. But even if they did, they might just assume she’s staying somewhere else for the night.
She pulls out her phone to check the time – not yet 2 a.m. – and then realises the phone is her key to freedom. Checking her recent calls list, she stabs a finger at Jamie’s name, and presses the phone to her ear. She can barely hear it ringing over the cacophony of the smoke alarm, and when the ringing stops, she starts shouting into the phone.
‘Jamie, you’ve got to help me. I’m trapped in my flat, and there’s a fire—’
She stops when she hears the robotic voice of the answerphone system. She hangs up and tries Thea’s number next, but it goes straight to answerphone, suggesting the phone is switched off.
Banging her hands against the glass again in frustration, she searches the dimly lit flat for anything she can use to break the window. It’ll mean losing her security deposit, but she has no other choice. But there’s nothing big enough or strong enough to break glass. She spies the toaster on the side, and in desperation, unplugs it and throws it with all her might towards the glass; it bounces off without making an impact.
Flashes of blue light up the windows of the building across the road as a fire engine honks and battles around the narrow road. This is when Molly realises that a fire engine would only be called if the block was actually ablaze. Her panic grows.
Grabbing the cord of the toaster, she slams it repeatedly against the glass, but all she achieves is a dented and broken toaster.
Will the firemen see her trapped? Nobody else has noticed her signalling efforts, so what chance do they have?
Abandoning the toaster, she can now see a trail of smoke seeping in beneath her door. Hurrying to the bathroom, she douses a towel in water from the sink, and pushes it up against the gap, coughing as she does so. Pinching herself to check it isn’t a nightmare, she hurries back to the window, but the fire engine is still trying to get close enough to the building to be able to tackle the blaze.
She limps back to the door, and pulls down on the door handle one more time, and this time it opens a crack. She’s so surprised that she lets go of the handle, before quickly scooping the sodden towel from the floor, and putting it over her head and shoulders. The door opens easily, no longer stuck, and she ventures out into the smoke-filled corridor, a robe pulled tightly around her pyjamas. Keeping herself bent over, she hurries along the hallway, out past the mail lockers, where a fireman spots her and drapes an arm around her shoulder. He hurries her away from the building to where the crowd is gathered.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks over the din of voices and alarm.
She tells him she was trapped, but is okay, and he tells her to wait for an ambulance to arrive to be checked over. She agrees and he hurries away, but she doesn’t see where he goes. Daring to turn back and look at the building, she sees bright orange flames dancing in the window of a flat on the top floor.
The fire engine pulls to a halt behind the crowd, and one of the firemen dismounts and hurries to the front of the group, telling them to move away from the building. She follows the flow, but can’t help wondering why the fireman who led her out of the building didn’t do the same. And then she wonders how he got into the building ahead of his colleagues.
The hairs on the back of her neck stand, as she senses someone watching her, but as she scans the panicked faces around her, she can’t see the figure who led her to safety. Shivering in the early-morning breeze, she can’t help wondering whether the fire was deliberately started, and if he was there in the corridor the whole time, preventing her door from opening.
31
NOW
21 April 2024, Shadwell, London – Mile 14
My stomach turns as I stare at the topless image on my phone’s screen, and the message beneath it.
QUIT THE RACE OR THESE GO PUBLIC.
My skin crawls at the thought of somebody maliciously taking the picture and then deciding to threaten me with it. I’m not doing anything wrong in the image, but I don’t want the world to see me exposed in this way. And the message suggests this is just the tip of the iceberg; what other pictures have they taken that they also intend to share if I don’t quit? And more importantly, who in the hell is doing this to me?
The camera angle is acute, indicating the picture was taken from above, which suggests whoever took it was in the cubicle beside mine, rather than poking a camera through the curtain. My eyes are closed, my face pointing towards the stream of water. This isn’t the shower in my flat. This was definitely captured at the Team GB facility, but there’s no date stamp, so I can’t tell how recent it is.
My eyes mist over, and I just want to scream out. This isn’t fair! I have trained hard, and battled to be here today, and this person – or these people – are doing everything within their power to throw me off course. But why me? What did I do wrong to warrant this level of attention?
I can’t see how Bistras could have got past the security desk at the Team GB training centre, unless he posed as a cleaner and snuck his way in. But I’m sure they must do due diligence on any staff, so surely he couldn’t have slipped through the net? I know he has form for misdirection – he posed as a fireman, after all – but it would have taken months of planning to get into the building undetected. And even if he had got past security, I’m not sure how he would have managed to get into the female changing rooms to take the picture.
So, if not Bistras, then who?
Someone with access to the building and changing rooms.
An image of Jamie’s face forms in my head, and I picture him in the building, telling me to make a pass at Finn. He had signed in and been given a visitor’s pass that day, but did I ever see him leave the building? What if he’d hung around, snuck into the changing rooms, and taken the picture? But to what end? It isn’t in his best interests for me to quit the race, is it? I mean, me not finishing the race because of my stalker would increase the drama for tomorrow’s interview, but surely it makes more commercial sense for me to finish the race despite the presence of the stalker? Nike and Adidas aren’t going to be offering money to an athlete who failed to qualify for the Paris games.
It can’t be him. But who else would have access to the facility and motive for wanting me to withdraw?
My eyes fall on the back of Kat’s hot-pink vest ahead of me, and my heart skips a beat. It has to be her!
Unable to control my rage, I reach out and pull on her shoulder. She yelps, but I persevere, accelerating so that I fall in line beside her.
‘Is this you?’ I demand, waving my arm towards her.
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ she grizzles back.
I stab a finger towards the screen. ‘You sent me this picture to try and get me to quit the race.’
She tilts her head slightly to look at the screen, before bunching her nose in disgust. ‘You’re out of your fucking mind,’ she says, pulling free of my grip, and powering forwards.
‘You’re the only one who could have taken it,’ I yell out, forcing my legs to increase my own pace to try to keep up. ‘I’m going to report you to the committee for what you’re doing to me.’
She doesn’t respond, pushing on again, and waving her hand dismissively. I try to chase after her, but every time I get close, it’s as if she has been given a fresh shot of adrenaline and manages to evade my reach.
I take a screenshot and forward it to Zara so she can see what’s happening, but I’m frustrated that she still hasn’t got back in touch.
I can’t understand how or why Kat would be working with Bistras, but I can’t see how it could be anyone else. The messages have all come through from the same withheld number; the same withheld number that has been phoning with that stupid robotic laugh, so they are connected even if I can’t yet see how.
What I do know is that they’ve overplayed their hand by sending me this picture. Showering at the Team GB facility was a necessary requirement after training, and I nearly always showered at the end of the day, so all I’ll need to do is let the committee know all the times I was there and they’ll be able to prove that Kat was also there at those times. It’s not exactly a smoking gun, but maybe they’ll be able to check CCTV to see who went in and out of the changing rooms when I was in there showering. There can only be a small number of potential suspects, and Kat is going to be top of that list. Gloria Hutchinson won’t be happy to learn that she’s acted this way.
I glance back over my shoulder to fall in line with Thea, but suddenly my foot catches on something, and then I’m rapidly flying forwards, my pulse racing as my mind instantly prepares for impact. My arms shoot out to protect my face, and as I see the concrete racing up to meet me, it’s my right knee that connects with it first, and I yelp as I feel a burning sensation tear through my flesh. I scream out in agony as the runners behind do their best to hop, jump and skip around me, so they don’t join me in a heap. I don’t attempt to stand until they’ve passed, and wince as I bend my right arm to examine the bloody gash on my elbow. I blow at the grit, and use the bottom of my vest to dab it clean.
I see race stewards approaching and Thea appears at my side, offering to help me to my feet, but I tell her to keep running. She looks pained to leave me, so I force a smile and tell her I’ll be fine.
I wait until she’s moved on before turning over to examine my knee. The sweat on my legs has already made the blood run down to my sock, and the air blowing against the open wound makes it sting.
The two race stewards ask me if I’m okay, and whether or not I bumped my head. I assure them that I didn’t, but one of them is keen to call a paramedic to my aid. I tell him I don’t need attention, but as they try to lift me to my feet, I can’t help but cry out. I’m grateful there are no spectators in this part of the race, so they won’t have witnessed the embarrassment of my fall. I look down to try to see what caught me, but there are no obvious obstacles in the road that my foot could have connected with. I guess maybe one foot struck the other because I wasn’t paying attention, but I really don’t know.
The stewards escort me to the side of the road where there are security barriers despite the lack of crowd.
I can still just about make out Thea and the others further up the road. The longer I stay here, the less chance I’ll have of getting back to their pace. This fall and injury really is the last straw. I have spent the day battling against fate, but maybe it would just be easier to give in and admit defeat.
I’m about to relay this message to the race stewards when I hear someone calling my name.
32
BEFORE
Monday, 26 February 2024, Brixton, London
Molly stifles a yawn as the tube train reaches the station and the doors beep open. She scans the faces of the passengers in her carriage, checking for the final time that none of them look familiar or are paying her undue attention, before turning and exiting the train. The air is warm and humid on the platform, but she takes a seat on a bench, and waits until the rest of the alighting passengers have headed for the exit sign before she tightens the pack on her back and limps towards the escalators up to street level.
It’s been four days since her tight calf muscle forced her to stop training, and although she’s supposed to be laid up in bed resting it, the fire at the flats this morning has given her a new mission. It took the fire brigade until 8 a.m. to extinguish the flames and another hour until the building was declared structurally sound, and the residents allowed to return. Those on the top floor, closest to where the fire began, have been told to collect valuables and relocated to temporary accommodation until a cleaning crew can put in necessary fixes.
The whole place smelled like burnt toast, and any desire to return to sleep was quickly dispelled by the sound of everyone else having to get ready for work. Having been on edge for six hours, certain her stalker was the one who led her from the building, Molly opened her laptop and began searching for the doorbell camera’s footage of the night’s events. It was what she found that had her begging Detective Zara Freeman for an urgent meeting.
Freeman said she would be at court first thing, but told Molly to come to the station just after lunch. So, with her laptop in her backpack, she took the two trains to get to Brixton, but the strapping around her leg is doing little to limit the pain, and so her trajectory up to street level is slow and laboured.
She messaged Finn to explain she wouldn’t be able to make it to her physio appointment until later this afternoon due to a personal issue, and without delving into the detail, he promised to pass on the message. He probably thinks she’s trying to avoid bumping into him after her attempt to kiss him last week, and maybe on some subconscious level he’s right. He hasn’t attempted to discuss the incident with her, and maybe that’s because rebuffing the advances of his athletes is commonplace for him. Making the first move certainly isn’t routine for Molly, and she’s still not over the pain of his rejection. She understands that there are rules in place, but surely if they were discreet, they could get away with it? Unless, of course, he just isn’t interested in a relationship with her, and blaming the rules was his way of trying to let her down gently. She hadn’t thought of it like that before, but is now convinced that’s probably the more likely reason.
Either that, or he’s already embarked on something clandestine with one of the other athletes, or Thea’s coach even. She was certainly being a bit too friendly, even flirtatious, with him. And yet Thea and Jamie both suggested that Finn was into her, so either they’re both off, or he really is just keeping her at a professional arm’s length. Ultimately, he didn’t say he didn’t want to kiss her back, so maybe there’s hope for something more once the Paris games are complete; assuming she makes it that far.
Reaching Brixton Police Station, Molly has a knot in her stomach that she can’t ignore. She reported fake-Oppenheimer to the police weeks ago, and despite her obvious fears – it’s clear he knows where she lives – they’ve done nothing to stop him. And last night he was close enough to her that he could have done anything and nobody would be any the wiser as to his identity.
She needs to share the camera footage with them. This isn’t a movie, and she doesn’t have the resources to catch this guy on her own.
As she heads in through the door, she recognises the young officer behind the windowed desk from when she was here over a month ago. If he recognises her, he doesn’t show it. She explains she has an appointment with DC Freeman, and he asks her to take a seat while he lets Freeman know she’s arrived. Ten minutes pass, and then Freeman appears at the secured door, beckoning Molly to follow her through.
