Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Until I hear something behind me.
I look over my shoulder, scanning the space, but I’m the only living soul around, my steps the only ones in the snow. I peek up at the lamppost, seeing more snow falling. My footprints will soon be a perfectly even sheet of snow again.
Dropping my eyes, I reach into my bag for my phone when I hear it beep, looking back over my shoulder again, certain I can hear crunching footsteps behind me. But . . . nothing.
I turn right at the end of the street and pick up my pace, an odd shudder reverberating down my spine as I open the message from the unknown number.
Should I expect you home this evening?
I frown, my brain on the lag, but then click, laughing. “Silly old man,” I murmur. “Unfortunately, yes, you can expect me home.” I type out a reply and save his number before I pocket my phone.
A collection of dull thuds sound behind me, and I look back over my shoulder once more, slowing to a stop when I find the street empty again. I don’t like the ice that glides down my spine. “Hello?” My eyes scan the deserted street, my shoulders naturally bunching up around my ears as I back up, slowly turning around and increasing my pace.
It comes again, thudding, as if someone’s jogging in the snow. I swing around.
I don’t see the hand sailing toward my face until it’s too late.
The force jerks my head violently, and I stumble into the road, my landing soft, cushioned by the snow.
“Hey, you! Attack!” someone yells, a woman.
“Fuck,” I curse, blinking the black dots from my vision, my cheek exploding into angry flames. Realisation hits me as hard as the back of whosever hand that was, and I frantically scan around me, my heart catching up and commencing a panicked banging in my chest. The street’s empty, no one in sight. I spot my bag a few feet away, buried in the snow, and my phone buried a few feet the other side of me. “What the hell?” I whisper, struggling to my feet, my legs like jelly. “Shit.” I wince, feeling at my cheek, my cold hand freshly unburied from the snow actually soothing it.
“Hey, are you all right?” A woman appears in a cardigan and leggings, her feet in UGG slippers.
“I’m fine.” I circle on the spot, searching, shaken. Nothing. No one. But when I look closely, I see a second set of footsteps heading around another corner. And on even closer inspection, I figure whoever was following me was walking in my footprints—the bigger feet swallowing up the imprint of my smaller feet. “Thank you for scaring them off.” I smile, and it’s strained.
“I was hanging out of my window smoking.” She comes closer, and I catch a waft of nicotine mixed with the cold, fresh air. “Oh, that looks like a stinger.”
“It’s not so bad.” I cover my cheek and gather my things. “Thanks again.” I head the opposite way, my eyes darting constantly.
“You should call the police!”
And tell them what? That some random person—I’ve no clue who—attacked me on a public street. And I have no clue why either?
I hold a hand up, waving her off, and pick up my pace.
Home. I need to get home.
I don’t hang around for Mr. Percival to find me, letting myself in and bolting the door—something I have never done. An inspection in the mirror tells me I’ll be sporting an impressive, bruised cheek in the morning. “Great,” I breathe, my face bunching as I gently pad at it with a cold press. It just seems to get redder by the minute, probably now I have some blood circulating in my face. I sigh, wedging my palms into the edge of the sink, done with trying to stop it bruising. The whack was too hard—connecting perfectly. I suck in air past my teeth as I feel at it. My poor cheek has been abused, the nick from Mum’s swiping hand only just faded. Were they opportunists? But they didn’t take my bag or mobile. Because they were disturbed?
I make my way back to the kitchen and call Mum’s care home to let them know I won’t be in this evening, then toss my compress in the bin and go to my bed, dropping to the mattress. Dec doesn’t call me, and despite being disappointed, I’m also relieved.
I don’t want to tell him about this evening.
It would just be another silent lie.
December 15th
The snow has melted a bit. We shouldn’t get too caught up in our freedom again, according to the weather reporter. He predicts a couple days of higher temperatures over the weekend before they plummet on Sunday evening, and a second wave of snow hits the UK. It’s a record. There will be more snow this December than in ten years put together. It’s unprecedented. And really fucking inconvenient. The kids, however, are loving the endless ammunition and school closures.