Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

tramlines formed one side of the square and walked up the ramp to a tram stop, closing her umbrella as she gained the shelter of the canopy. He hung back until she’d chosen her spot on the platform, then daringly walked right up behind her. She didn’t even glance at him as he approached, head down against the weather. It amazed him how these women walked in the world with no understanding of the threats that were everywhere. Sometimes he felt he radiated power as tangible as the heat rising from a log fire. How could they be oblivious to him? Dogs bared their teeth at him, cats hissed when he held out his fingers towards them. But women were so out of tune with their environment, they just didn’t pay attention.
    She’d pay attention to him soon enough, he promised himself that.
    Now he was so close he could distinguish each blonde hair on her head. Sufficiently close to tell that she was a natural. No tell-tale roots here, which was as it should be. If he’d been betrayed by the thinnest line of brown, he’d have walked away. Because he was only interested in perfect matches. He wasn’t some kind of inadequate who would settle for second best. He’d been deprived of what was rightfully his, but that didn’t mean anything would do.
    The tram glided into sight, the rain making its blue-and-claret livery gleam under the street lights and restaurant neon of the square. She’d chosen her spot perfectly, right opposite one of the opening doors. He stepped in behind her. She turned left, he turned right and slipped on to a jump seat where he could see her but she couldn’t see him unless she turned her head. He sighed in satisfaction. Soon he’d know everything he needed to.
    She didn’t have a clue.

    Marie Mather congratulated herself on getting a seat on the tram. She’d spent just over eleven hours inside Tellit Communications. For a first day, she reckoned that showed more than willing. It would probably be gone seven by the time she got in. But unlike most working women, she wouldn’t be dashing home to put dinner on the table. Marie was lucky enough to be married to a man whose Italian mother had compensated for her lack of daughters by teaching Marco everything she knew about cooking. He mostly worked from home these days, designing furniture for an online retailer, so Marie came home to freshly prepared dinners that made her feel cherished every time.
    It would be something special tonight, she was certain of that. Perhaps Marco would have splashed out on a leg of lamb or a steak. Or maybe even a truffle to grate over a risotto or a pasta dish. Her mouth was watering at the thought.
    She spent the twenty-minute tram ride turning over the day’s encounters in her mind. All in all, not a bad start to a new job. She knew she was there to shake things up and already she could see possibilities for change. But Marie had no plans to rush into anything. She’d feel her way in gently, get under the skin of the organisation and then start a quiet revolution that would leave them reeling. Oh yes, she had plans for Tellit.
    The tram drew into the terminus, its electric motor making a sound like a soft moan of contentment. There were only a handful of travellers left on the tram, bunching together by the doors till the tram came to a smooth halt. And then she was off down the platform, heels clattering on the concrete. The rain had finally stopped, she realised as she reached street level. The air still felt thick with damp, but there was no need for an umbrella now.
    Marie hurried down the street, her mind on her job, her sense of self-preservation entirely asleep. Then, struck by a sudden desire to finish the evening with a box of chocolates in front of the TV as she passed the newsagent on the corner, she wheeled round to return and almost cannoned into a man who was only a few feet behind her, his head down and shoulders hunched against the cold. Her heart leapt in shock. She’d had no notion anyone was that close.
    He barged past her without a word and she was surprised by her relief when she entered the shop. Silly woman , she chided herself as she left a few minutes later, reassured by the empty street and the box of Ferrero Rocher tucked into her bag. Nothing more than a typical bad-mannered city encounter; what could be more normal than that?
    She rounded the corner into the street where she and Marco lived, completely unaware that the man she’d almost bumped into was standing in the shadow of