Cut You Dead (Dr. Samantha Willerby Mystery #4) - A J Waines Page 0,8

up like a thug.

I toy with the idea of breaking into a run, but I’m wearing the wrong bloody footwear. Besides, it’s chucking it down and I’m bound to go flying and muck up the new Max Mara coat I snapped up in the sale. I can’t afford to be a mess when I get to work. Not today. Not when I’m showing a couple from New York around a property at nine o’clock. I need to look my best.

The buyers are only in London for a few days and they’re interested in the five-bed property with the swimming pool. It’s really posh and absolutely top-end for Dentworths. I can’t stuff it up.

I’m tempted to walk straight past the bus stop, but I’ll be late if I don’t catch the first number forty-six. Sure enough, it comes round the corner and I have no choice. I have to get on in full view of you.

The umbrellas go down in the queue around me and I bunch up behind people, but you’re not fooled. I hurry to the back behind a tall bloke and slide down in the seat. I’m hoping you won’t see me, but you walk straight down the aisle – your face turned away as if I’m of no interest whatsoever. You slip into the seat directly behind me. I make a move to get up, but there are so many passengers that the aisle is full and there’s nowhere for me to go.

It’s two stops to the tube, the next bit of my journey, and I pray the crowd will thin out, so I can move to another seat. I cringe and sink lower as I feel your stinky hot breath on the back of my neck. I pull the scarf up to my ears to block you out. I want nothing more than to turn round and punch your friggin’ lights out, but I don’t want to get arrested. Certainly not today, when a hefty commission with my name on it is hanging in the balance.

I watch the raindrops dribble down the glass in crooked lines. The windows are steaming up with commuter breath and I’m feeling trapped. Pukey too. I want everything to stop. Do you have a knife in your pocket? Or scissors like I thought I saw last time? Surely, with so many people around, you wouldn’t dare touch me. Why can’t you naff off and leave me alone?

Finally, it’s my stop and I get up. I keep my head down and shunt my way through the crush to the door. Once on the pavement, I jerk my head round to look back. I scan the figures who got off and you don’t seem to be one of them. I can’t quite believe it. I punch the air. The bus chunters off down the road and you’re nowhere to be seen.

I walk to the escalator with a spring in my step and can breathe again. Anyone watching me would think I’d won the lottery.

By the time I get to Dentworths, the rain has dropped off to a needling drizzle and everything seems as it should be. I’m more alert than normal, my ears pricked up for the slightest sound behind me, my eyes primed for any sudden movements in my peripheral vision, but I’m fine. And alone.

I shake my wet coat off at the door and peel the scarf away from my neck. Carol brings a coffee to my desk and she’s telling me about her new pet rabbit. I listen to her soothing voice, every word sounding like it’s coated in buttercream now I’m safe. Then, between her cute anecdotes, I wonder where you went when I got off the bus and whether you’ll be waiting when I leave work tonight. Maybe it isn’t over.

Carol drops a plastic lid into the wastepaper basket behind me. She says something and giggles nervously as she straightens up.

I snap round at her. ‘What did you say?’

‘Hazel, your hair! What have you done?’

I reach up with both hands and run my fingers through the back. ‘What the f–!’

I stand up straight, then buckle, right there in the middle of the office, bile burning my throat. I have to reach out and grab the chair to hold myself upright.

Carol is already searching in her bag for a mirror and a group of colleagues have formed a small circle around me. They’re gawping at me as though I’m one of those baboons with a red arse in the