Unveiled
Page 59
I start forming a plan in my head, plotting and scheming trying to figure out how best to get a few moments alone in Tesco so I can buy what I need to either put my mind at rest or send it into a faster tailspin. There’s only one way.
After Miller parks and we’ve collected a trolley, we get swallowed up in the chaos of Tesco. We make our way up and down the aisles, me armed with the list that Nan wrote, Miller looking all stressed. I can only conclude that the chaos of our surroundings is the cause. There are abandoned trollies everywhere and the shelves are a royal mess. I inwardly laugh, having a mental bet with myself that he’s fighting the urge to tidy all the shelves. But when his mobile rings from his inside pocket and he takes it out and scowls harder at the screen before rejecting the call, I think maybe it’s not just the pandemonium of Tesco that’s bothering him. I don’t ask who’s calling him because I don’t want to know, and, in fact, I’m still mentally plotting our separation.
‘I need to get Nan some bits from the toiletries aisle,’ I say, feigning casualness to within an inch of my life. ‘You take this and get the last few bits.’ I hand him the list that I’ve cunningly added some items to – items at the opposite end of the supermarket.
‘We’ll go together,’ he replies without hesitation, scuppering my plan.
‘It’ll be quicker if we separate,’ I say offhand. ‘I can see you hate being here.’ I tactically use his discomfort to my advantage and head off before he can come back at me, glimpsing over my shoulder to check he’s not in pursuit. I find him staring down at the list with the biggest scowl of all.
Rounding the corner, I take off fast, looking up at the signs above the aisles to find what I’m looking for. It’s only a few moments of scurrying until I land in the correct aisle and I’m staring at box after box of pregnancy tests – all locked away in individual Perspex outer boxes – a stupid security measure. ‘Great,’ I grumble, reaching for the first that guarantees a rapid and accurate result. Flipping it over, I scan the print as I start to walk away, but gasp when I collide with something.
‘Sorry!’ I blurt, the box tumbling from my hand. The plastic casing creates a deafening clatter when it meets the floor, the box jumping around at my feet. And another pair of feet, too. Feet I don’t recognise. I don’t like the chill creeping up my spine, nor the sense of vulnerability that suddenly engulfs me.
‘My apologies.’ The man’s voice is posh and he’s wearing an expensive suit. He’s bending down to pick up the box before I can register his face, and he spends a few seconds resting on his haunches, looking at the pregnancy test, spinning it in his hand repeatedly while humming his interest. I haven’t seen his face yet, only the back of his head as he remains crouched at my feet. I definitely don’t recognise the grey-flecked hair, yet something is screaming that he knows me. He had every intention to be in this aisle with me – the aisle mainly full of women’s toiletries. I may be in a busy supermarket, people everywhere, but I can feel danger thick in the air around us.
The stranger lifts his face as he rises. His eyes are bordering black and harbouring all sorts of unspoken threats. He has a scar that runs from the centre of his right cheek all the way down to the corner of his mouth, and his thin lips curve into a fake smile, deepening it. It’s a smile that’s intended to lead me into a false sense of security.
‘I believe this is yours.’ He hands me the box, and I will my hands to stop shaking when I take it. I know I’ve failed in my attempts when he raises a sharp eyebrow, still keeping a hold of the box as I accept, probably absorbing my trembles.
My eyes drop, no longer able to meet the harshness of his stare. ‘Thank you.’ I gulp back my fear and sidestep him, but he moves with me, blocking my path. I clear my throat, anything to get the strong assertiveness I’m desperately searching for and that I desperately hope fools him. ‘Excuse me.’ I step to the other side this time, and so does he, letting out a little chuckle.
‘We don’t seem to be going anywhere fast, do we?’ He moves in, getting way too close to my personal space, doubling my fretfulness.
‘No,’ I agree, attempting again to dodge him and, yet again, getting blocked. Taking a deep breath, I reluctantly lift my eyes until they meet his face. He’s the epitome of evil. It’s screaming from every single fibre of his ominous being, and it has me wilting on the spot. He smiles down at me and reaches out, taking a stray tendril of my hair and twirling it in his fingers. I freeze, immobilised by terror.
He hums thoughtfully . . . darkly . . . sinisterly. Then he dips and brings his mouth close to my ear. ‘Sweet girl,’ he whispers. ‘We finally meet.’ I jump back on a gasp, my hand flying to my hair and brushing away the traces of his breath while he remains slightly dipped, a malevolent sneer pulling at the edges of his thin lips as he regards me closely.
‘Olivia?’ I hear my name being spoken in the distance, unease in the familiar tone, and watch as the stranger straightens and casts his eyes over my shoulder, that smirk widening. Spinning on the spot, every breath leaves my lungs when I see Miller striding quickly towards me, his face straight but a wealth of emotion in his clear eyes – relief, fear, caution . . . anger.
‘Miller,’ I breathe, energy surging through my dead muscles and firing my legs into action, taking me a few paces forward until I’m hiding in his chest, my arms bunched between our bodies. He’s quivering. Everything about this situation is shrieking hazard.
Miller’s chin is resting on the top of my head, one arm holding me tightly against him, and there’s a stone-cold silence amid the hype of activity around us, like we’re stuck in a bubble and no one except the three of us are aware of the peril and hostility polluting the supermarket air. I don’t have to look to know he’s still behind me; I can feel his presence as well as I can feel Miller trying to squeeze some comfort into me, and the hardness of Miller’s tense muscles against me is a clue. So I remain concealed in my comfort zone.
It feels like a lifetime before I feel Miller relax a little, and I chance a peek, looking over my shoulder. The man is strolling down the aisle, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets, browsing the shelves like he frequents the supermarket daily. But just like Miller, he looks out of place.
‘Are you OK?’ Miller asks, placing me at arm’s length and scanning my blank face. ‘Did he touch you?’
I shake my head, thinking it very unwise to tell him anything that could set my human bomb ticking. I don’t think I need to, anyway. Miller knows that man and he knows what I’ve just encountered without my confirmation. ‘Who is he?’ I finally ask the question that I really don’t want to know the answer to, and if I go by the pained look on Miller’s face, it’s clear he doesn’t want to tell me. Or confirm it. He’s the immoral bastard.
I’m not sure whether Miller sees me make my silent conclusion or whether he simply doesn’t want to settle it, but my question goes unanswered and he’s quickly pulling his phone from his pocket. One push of a button and a few seconds later, Miller’s talking down the line. ‘Time’s up,’ he says simply, before hanging up and making a grab for my hand.
After Miller parks and we’ve collected a trolley, we get swallowed up in the chaos of Tesco. We make our way up and down the aisles, me armed with the list that Nan wrote, Miller looking all stressed. I can only conclude that the chaos of our surroundings is the cause. There are abandoned trollies everywhere and the shelves are a royal mess. I inwardly laugh, having a mental bet with myself that he’s fighting the urge to tidy all the shelves. But when his mobile rings from his inside pocket and he takes it out and scowls harder at the screen before rejecting the call, I think maybe it’s not just the pandemonium of Tesco that’s bothering him. I don’t ask who’s calling him because I don’t want to know, and, in fact, I’m still mentally plotting our separation.
‘I need to get Nan some bits from the toiletries aisle,’ I say, feigning casualness to within an inch of my life. ‘You take this and get the last few bits.’ I hand him the list that I’ve cunningly added some items to – items at the opposite end of the supermarket.
‘We’ll go together,’ he replies without hesitation, scuppering my plan.
‘It’ll be quicker if we separate,’ I say offhand. ‘I can see you hate being here.’ I tactically use his discomfort to my advantage and head off before he can come back at me, glimpsing over my shoulder to check he’s not in pursuit. I find him staring down at the list with the biggest scowl of all.
Rounding the corner, I take off fast, looking up at the signs above the aisles to find what I’m looking for. It’s only a few moments of scurrying until I land in the correct aisle and I’m staring at box after box of pregnancy tests – all locked away in individual Perspex outer boxes – a stupid security measure. ‘Great,’ I grumble, reaching for the first that guarantees a rapid and accurate result. Flipping it over, I scan the print as I start to walk away, but gasp when I collide with something.
‘Sorry!’ I blurt, the box tumbling from my hand. The plastic casing creates a deafening clatter when it meets the floor, the box jumping around at my feet. And another pair of feet, too. Feet I don’t recognise. I don’t like the chill creeping up my spine, nor the sense of vulnerability that suddenly engulfs me.
‘My apologies.’ The man’s voice is posh and he’s wearing an expensive suit. He’s bending down to pick up the box before I can register his face, and he spends a few seconds resting on his haunches, looking at the pregnancy test, spinning it in his hand repeatedly while humming his interest. I haven’t seen his face yet, only the back of his head as he remains crouched at my feet. I definitely don’t recognise the grey-flecked hair, yet something is screaming that he knows me. He had every intention to be in this aisle with me – the aisle mainly full of women’s toiletries. I may be in a busy supermarket, people everywhere, but I can feel danger thick in the air around us.
The stranger lifts his face as he rises. His eyes are bordering black and harbouring all sorts of unspoken threats. He has a scar that runs from the centre of his right cheek all the way down to the corner of his mouth, and his thin lips curve into a fake smile, deepening it. It’s a smile that’s intended to lead me into a false sense of security.
‘I believe this is yours.’ He hands me the box, and I will my hands to stop shaking when I take it. I know I’ve failed in my attempts when he raises a sharp eyebrow, still keeping a hold of the box as I accept, probably absorbing my trembles.
My eyes drop, no longer able to meet the harshness of his stare. ‘Thank you.’ I gulp back my fear and sidestep him, but he moves with me, blocking my path. I clear my throat, anything to get the strong assertiveness I’m desperately searching for and that I desperately hope fools him. ‘Excuse me.’ I step to the other side this time, and so does he, letting out a little chuckle.
‘We don’t seem to be going anywhere fast, do we?’ He moves in, getting way too close to my personal space, doubling my fretfulness.
‘No,’ I agree, attempting again to dodge him and, yet again, getting blocked. Taking a deep breath, I reluctantly lift my eyes until they meet his face. He’s the epitome of evil. It’s screaming from every single fibre of his ominous being, and it has me wilting on the spot. He smiles down at me and reaches out, taking a stray tendril of my hair and twirling it in his fingers. I freeze, immobilised by terror.
He hums thoughtfully . . . darkly . . . sinisterly. Then he dips and brings his mouth close to my ear. ‘Sweet girl,’ he whispers. ‘We finally meet.’ I jump back on a gasp, my hand flying to my hair and brushing away the traces of his breath while he remains slightly dipped, a malevolent sneer pulling at the edges of his thin lips as he regards me closely.
‘Olivia?’ I hear my name being spoken in the distance, unease in the familiar tone, and watch as the stranger straightens and casts his eyes over my shoulder, that smirk widening. Spinning on the spot, every breath leaves my lungs when I see Miller striding quickly towards me, his face straight but a wealth of emotion in his clear eyes – relief, fear, caution . . . anger.
‘Miller,’ I breathe, energy surging through my dead muscles and firing my legs into action, taking me a few paces forward until I’m hiding in his chest, my arms bunched between our bodies. He’s quivering. Everything about this situation is shrieking hazard.
Miller’s chin is resting on the top of my head, one arm holding me tightly against him, and there’s a stone-cold silence amid the hype of activity around us, like we’re stuck in a bubble and no one except the three of us are aware of the peril and hostility polluting the supermarket air. I don’t have to look to know he’s still behind me; I can feel his presence as well as I can feel Miller trying to squeeze some comfort into me, and the hardness of Miller’s tense muscles against me is a clue. So I remain concealed in my comfort zone.
It feels like a lifetime before I feel Miller relax a little, and I chance a peek, looking over my shoulder. The man is strolling down the aisle, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets, browsing the shelves like he frequents the supermarket daily. But just like Miller, he looks out of place.
‘Are you OK?’ Miller asks, placing me at arm’s length and scanning my blank face. ‘Did he touch you?’
I shake my head, thinking it very unwise to tell him anything that could set my human bomb ticking. I don’t think I need to, anyway. Miller knows that man and he knows what I’ve just encountered without my confirmation. ‘Who is he?’ I finally ask the question that I really don’t want to know the answer to, and if I go by the pained look on Miller’s face, it’s clear he doesn’t want to tell me. Or confirm it. He’s the immoral bastard.
I’m not sure whether Miller sees me make my silent conclusion or whether he simply doesn’t want to settle it, but my question goes unanswered and he’s quickly pulling his phone from his pocket. One push of a button and a few seconds later, Miller’s talking down the line. ‘Time’s up,’ he says simply, before hanging up and making a grab for my hand.
