Waiting for Wednesday

boots by the front door. She took the door key from the
hook and then was out into the darkness, cool April breeze in her face, the hint of
rain. Frieda stared around the unlit little cobbled mews, but there was no one there and
as fast as her sore body would go, she half hobbled and half ran out on the street,
where the lamps threw long shadows. She looked up and down it. Which way would he have
gone: east or west, north or south, towards the river or up into the maze of streets? Or
was he standing in a doorway? She turned left and hurried along the damp pavement,
swearing under her breath, cursing her inability to move quickly.
    Coming out on to a wider road, Frieda saw
something in the distance – a bulky shape moving towards her, surely human but larger
and stranger than any human could possibly be. It was like a figure from her nightmares
and she pressed her hand against her heart and waited as it came closer and closer, and
then at last resolved into a man slowly pedalling a bike, with dozens, hundreds, of
plastic bags tied to its frame. She knew him, saw him most days. He had awild beard and glaring eyes and cycled with slow determination. He
wavered past, staring blindly through her, like Father Christmas in a bad dream.
    It was no use. Dean Reeve, her stalker and
her quarry, could be anywhere by now. Sixteen months ago, she had helped unmask him as a
child-abductor and murderer, but he had escaped capture and killed himself. Two months
ago, she had discovered that he had never died: the man who had hung from a bridge on
the canal was in fact his twin, Alan, who had once been Frieda’s patient. Dean was
still in the world somewhere, watching over her, protective and deadly. It was he who
had saved her life when she had been attacked by a disturbed young woman with a knife,
though Mary Orton, the old woman Frieda had come to rescue, had died. He had slid out of
the shadows, like a creature from her own worst dreams, and hauled her back from the
darkness. Now he was telling her that he was still watching over her, a loathed
protector. She could feel his eyes on her, from hidden corners, in the twitch of a
curtain or the chink in a door. Was this how it would always be?
    She made her way back to her house, unlocked
the door, and stepped inside. She picked up the envelope once more and went with it into
the kitchen. She knew she wouldn’t get back to sleep so she made herself tea, and
only when it was brewed did she sit at the kitchen table and run her finger under the
gummed flap. She drew out the stiff paper inside, and laid it on the table. It was a
pencil drawing or, rather, a pattern. It looked a bit like the mathematical rendering of
an intricate rose, eight-sided and perfectly symmetrical. The straight lines had
obviously been done with a ruler and, examining it more closely, Frieda could see marks
where mistakes had been rubbed out.
    She sat for some time, staring down at the
image that layin front of her, her expression stern, then she
carefully slid the paper back inside the envelope. Rage crackled through her, like fire,
and she welcomed it. Better to be burned by anger than drowned by fear. So she sat in
its flames, unmoving, until morning came.
    Many miles away, Jim Fearby poured himself
a glass of whisky. The bottle was less than a third full. Time to buy another. It was
like petrol. Never let the tank get less than a quarter full. You might run out. He took
the old newspaper clipping from his wallet and flattened it on the desk. It was
yellowing and almost disintegrating after all the foldings and unfoldings. He knew it by
heart. It was like a talisman. He could see it when he closed his eyes.
MONSTER ‘MAY NEVER BE
RELEASED’
JAMES FEARBY
There were dramatic scenes at
Hattonbrook Crown Court yesterday as convicted murderer, George Conley, was
sentenced to life imprisonment for killing Hazel Barton. Justice Lawson told Conley,
31: ‘This was an atrocious crime. Despite pleading guilty, you have shown no
remorse and it is my belief that you remain a danger to women and may never be safe
to be released.’
    As Justice Lawson ordered Conley to
be taken down, there were shouts from the victim’s family in the public
gallery. Outside the court, Clive Barton, Hazel’s uncle, told reporters:
‘Hazel was our beautiful young treasure. She had her whole life in front of
her and he took that away from her. I hope he rots in hell.’
    Hazel Barton, a blonde
eighteen-year-old schoolgirl, was found