“Alex,” I say, “You're really starting to freak me out. What's going on?”
“Amy, just tell me where you are in the house.”
“I'm in my bedroom.”
“I want you to go to the window and look out at the street. Tell me if you see anybody there, okay?” His voice wobbles.
“Okay.” I swing my legs around until they hit the carpet, and step out of bed. The autumn chill hits me. I walk half a dozen steps to my window and pull back the corner of my curtain. Though it's dark, the streetlights illuminate the concrete paving slabs. There's not a soul to be seen, not even the she-fox who seems to delight in wailing like a baby most nights.
“There's nobody there,” I say.
“Okay, good. You definitely locked the door, right?”
“Yes,” I reply, patiently. “I locked the door and I saw him walk away. He's gone, Al.”
“For now,” he replies, dully.
It's like a light flicking on in my brain. “Do you know this Digger guy?”
“I'm... I'm not sure. But if it's who I think it is, he's a nasty piece of work.”
“Who do you think it is?” I persist.
“Look, Ames, I don't want to scare you unnecessarily, and I don't want to say anything until I've talked with Mum. But if this guy comes up to you again, you scream and run, okay? Then you call me and I'll be over like a shot. In fact, I should come over now.”
“Don't be stupid, I'm in bed. There's nothing to see here.” I say it lightly, as if I'm joking. “I'm pretty sure he won't bother me again, but if he does, I promise to let you know.”
“And run,” Alex repeats.
“And run,” I confirm. “Or at least kick him in the arse.”
“I'm not kidding, Amy. Don't do anything to antagonise him.”
“I'm not stupid, Alex.” Nor am I a baby, I remind him silently. Sometimes I think he and Andie forget I'm twenty-three years old.
“I know you're not, kid. But this guy—if he is who I think he is—he's not right in the head. And I don't want you to get hurt.” His voice breaks on the last word, and in that split second I go from exasperated to emotional.
“I won't let him hurt me, I promise. I love you, big brother.”
“I love you, too, Ames.” That's something great about Alex, he's never afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve. Where some men might shy away from their feelings, he positively embraces them. “And you take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will.”
When I hang up, there's a smile on my face. Not because I feel safe, and definitely not because I feel happy. My lips curl up because I feel loved and taken care of, and that's good enough for now.
* * *
When I wake up the next morning my body feels as though it's been through ten rounds in a boxing ring. My back aches, my muscles throb and there's a shooting pain on the left side of my brain that makes me wince. Somehow I drag my sorry self out of bed and into the shower, leaning against the cold tiles as the water cascades down.
In the kitchen, Mum is sitting at our old oak table, a half-drunk mug of coffee in front of her and a cigarette balanced between her finger and thumb. The ashtray is filled with smoked-to-the-stub fag ends, as if she's been chaining them all night.
“I thought you'd given up.” I take the milk from the fridge, splashing it across a bowl of muesli.
“I did.” She takes another drag. Blue-grey smoke curls from between her lips. “I'm just having a few. I've not started again.”
She's wearing her pink, tatty bathrobe, belted tightly around her waist. Her hair is falling out of a bun that probably looked neat last night. I'm not sure if she's been to bed, or if she's been sitting here all night, which is strange, because unlike me she's usually a good sleeper.
“It's not good for you.” I scoop a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. “Remember what the doctor said?”