his wet self around her, as if she’d saved him from drowning. She felt his tears,warm against her cheek. He sobbed quietly at first. Water everywhere. As if a damhad burst inside him.They showered, made love and slept for a couple of hours. On awakening,Amber sensed that the atmosphere in the flat, like the weather, had worsened, theyspent much of the afternoon like characters in a Bergman movie. Staring outdespairingly as the wind howled spitefully, the rain continued its vicious andrelentless assault on the windows and the sky darkened like Stan’s mood.She returned from the hairdressers on Thursday afternoon hoping tosurprise him. He’d had the same idea. He’d left no note, taken no clothes and asit soon became clear, there were no such cousins in Bournemouth.In the days following the assault, they’d lost their home, former lives,selves and finally each other. A year had passed. She wondered how Stan would markthis day. Men were hardwired to forget significant annual events, but this wouldbe different.Should people send cards with tacky badges on the front? ‘Best victim inthe world!’, or that maggot-ridden chestnut, ‘lucky to be alive!’ Because, ofcourse, she should be grateful that her life had been spared. A life which, byimplication, she didn’t have the same God-given right as everyone else to own. No.She’d worn that badge for long enough. She was a survivor and it was that verythought that had propelled her from her bed at four o’ clock this morning.Another deep breath. She could smell the wild ramson, hear the birdsongabove the faintest whisper of traffic . She didn’t glimpse beyond the long grass,the bluebells, the brawny oaks, didn’t see the man stood, twitching in their lea,his eyes never leaving her. To her left, lay dense woodland, providing effective cover, shegathered, for no small amount of dogging, cottaging and general, non-specificbuggery that went largely unpunished. She’d also heard that they still snaredrabbits around hereDuring a different season, or at a different hour of the day, the woodscould be dark and uninviting, anything but benevolent. Yet today it would yield agift. She made a connection, the thought more organic than conscious: wild flowers-- the savage beauty of life. Bluebells. Her favourite.She considered it a brave move, walking into the woodland alone.Especially since she had left the flat in the preceding few weeks only foressentials (semi-skimmed, Silk cut and chocolate) and yet she wasn’tcongratulating herself. Already she’d wandered further into the woods than she’dintended, drawn in by a now unconvincing stillness. Every step, taken with alittle more apprehension than the last.She came to a stop. A childlike irrationality gripped her. Thatillogical sense that to go back could do her more harm than good. That whateverlurked; hiding, watching, that’s how it got its kicks: It didn’t just snatch youoff the path when you least expected it (grown-ups knew otherwise). It fed offyour fear. It wanted only to take you at the peak of your terror. The samescenario, the same primeval fear, read quite differently from an adult standpoint:The moment you turned, in blind panic, to flee, whatever, whoever stalked you,would have to take it’s chance. You were at a massive disadvantageShe’d followed this line of thought for longer than was good for her.The noise tore through her senses. She stumbled, choking in air. Sherecognized immediately the early signs of an anxiety attack and acknowledged itscruel inevitability.As she pulled the from her bag, fumbling she felt it tumble from hergrip. Then she realised: it wasn’t her phone that was ringing.Movement behind her. Flushed, dizzy with fright, she scooped up thephone. One thought: Run!Shades of green spun around her, a carousel of twisting, spindly limbsstretching out to her. Blindly she ran on, staggering, swerving, falling heavily.
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