Not Dead Enough

door and on the fire-escape door at the back of the tiny utility room. Any burglar trying to break in here was going to go home empty-handed. No one who wasn’t driving a tank was going to get in unless she invited them.
    But, just in case, as back-up she had canisters of pepper spray in easy reach in each room, a hunting knife and a baseball bat.
    It was ironic, she thought, that, the first time in her life she was able to afford a home large and luxurious enough to entertain guests, she had to live here on her own in secrecy. For however long it took to be free of him.
    And there was so much to like about this place. The dark teak floors, the huge sofas, home-cinema television, the high-tech kitchen, the massive, deliciously comfortable Dux beds, and the even bigger bathroom with the shower which turned into an aroma-therapy steam room, and the sharp, modern art on the walls. It was like living in one of the designer pads she used to covet on the pages of glossy magazines. On fine days the afternoon sun streamed in and on blustery days, like today, when she opened a window she could lick salt off the air and hear the cries of gulls. Just a couple of hundred yards beyond the end of the street and the junction with Kemp Town’s busy Marine Parade was the beach. She could walk along it for miles to the east or west.
    She liked the neighbourhood too. Small shops close by: safer than going into a large supermarket because she could always check who was in there first. All it needed was for one person to recognize her.
    Just one.
    The only negative was the lift. Extremely claustrophobic at the best of times, and recently more prone than ever to panic attacks, she never liked to ride in any lift alone unless she absolutely had to. And the tiny, jerky capsule the size of a vertical two-seater coffin, which serviced her flat and had got stuck a couple of times in the past month – fortunately with someone else in it – was one of the worst she had ever experienced.
    So, up until the past couple of weeks, when the workmen renovating the flat below hers had turned the staircase into an obstacle course, she normally walked up and down, which was fine – it was good exercise, and if she had some heavy shopping bags, well, that was easy, she would send them up in the lift on their own, and climb the stairs – except on the very rare occasions she encountered one of her neighbours and had to ride shoulder to shoulder with them. But most of them were so old they never went out much. Some seemed as old as this mansion block itself.
    The few younger residents, like Hassan the smiling Iranian banker who lived two floors below her and sometimes threw all-night parties – the invites to which she always politely declined – seemed to be away, somewhere else, most of the time. And at weekends, unless Hassan was in residence, this whole west wing of the block was so silent it seemed it was inhabited only by ghosts.
    And in a way she was a ghost too, she knew. Only leaving the safety of her lair after dark, her once long blonde hair cropped short and dyed black, sunglasses on her face, jacket collar turned up, a stranger in this city where she had once been a business studies student, where she had once worked in bars, done temporary secretarial jobs, had boyfriends, and, before the travel bug hit her, even fantasized she would raise a family.
    And now she was back. In hiding. A stranger in her own life. Desperate not to be recognized by anyone. Turning her face away on the rare occasions when she passed someone she knew. Or saw an old friend in a bar and immediately had to leave. Goddammit, she was lonely!
    And scared.
    And not even her parents, brother or sister knew she was back in England.
    Just turned twenty-nine three days ago – and that was some birthday party, she thought ironically. Getting smashed up here on her own, with a bottle of Moet and Chandon, an erotic movie on Sky and a vibrator with a dead battery.
    She used to pride herself on her natural good looks. Brimful of confidence she could go out to any bar, any party, and have the pick of the crop. She was good at chatting, good at laying on the charm, good at playing vulnerable, which long back she had understood was what guys liked. But now she was vulnerable for real and she was really not enjoying that. Not enjoying having to stick on false nails to cover her own, which were bitten down to the quick.
    Not enjoying being a fugitive.
    The shelves, tables and