The Stalker

 
'Oi, you’ ' I turned to see him emerge from the dark doorway and advance towards me; he looked menacing. His great head was covered with a dark balaclava. The chill wind flapped his overcoat about his legs and the lone street light threw his shadow long on the wet pavement.

It was nine pm. and the business district was deserted. I cast about for a taxi, a car to flag down, anything to get away from the approaching spectre. On he padded closing the distance between us slowly, inexorably.

My knees turned to jelly and I backed away only to find myself cringing in the corner of an unlit bus shelter. I was utterly trapped.

I could his face now, his huge hooked nose broken and off-set. Stumpy yellow teeth showed through his straggly beard. His eyes were two black mesmerising pools that transfixed me. I began to wet myself.

I’d been working overtime most nights desperate to pay off my rent arrears. It now looked like walking home to save the taxi fare would be my undoing.

He stopped two feet away towering over me his foul body odour and stale tobacco breath were nauseating. I whimpered in abject terror.

‘I watch you most nights from that doorway pretty lady’ he said his voice dull and expressionless. ‘I follows yer most nights, too.’

‘Oh, please, please’ I gasped ‘I've,... I've got some money. Take it, please.’ I fumbled in desperately my pockets.

‘I don’t want yer money Missy’ he said in the same emotionless monotone as his hand reached out slowly towards my breast. I felt myself about to vomit.

‘Anyway, you haven’t got any money ‘cos you dropped this when you left your office.’

I tore my eyes away from his hypnotic gaze. He was holding out my purse. ‘I follows yer to see you gets to the busy streets safe Missy.’ Without waiting for thanks the old homeless man put the purse into my trembling hand. Turning he shuffled back to his doorway.

‘G‘night love’ he called.

 P.S. A purse in Britain is a wallet in the USA