He was there again. She could see him. At the corner of her street. Always at the corner. She shivered. Reported this to the police, she did. They knew her now. She had complained so many times. They wouldn’t do anything. She sighed. she would have to take matters into her own hand. She risked a glance out of the window again. Yes, still there. Dark overcoat, dark trousers. Camouflage in the dark. Crafty he was. No one could see his seeking eyes, searching her out, playing with her mind. She blamed herself really. A trip into town and she didn’t take very many of those. Too many people around. too much noise. walking with her head down as usual. She ploughed right into him. Or he into her on purpose. She was never sure of that fact. Very pleasant, he was. Apologised sincerely. assisted in picking up her meagre shopping. Enquired after her welfare, did she need to sit down. Did she need a glass of water. Too solicitous, she thought. She had hurried away, head down, arms tucked tightly by her sides. Shuffling as fast as possible. Away. Away from him.

She could still smell him on herself when she got home. Sweat, cheap aftershave and smoke. Horrible addiction, smoking. She always had a glass of orange juice if she was stressed. She had one then. She was having one now.

She noticed him the first night after that chance encounter. At the corner. Hovering. watching. Sometimes, if it was raining he would hold a large, black umbrella over himself. Protecting himself. No one to protect her. This was the fourth night, the fourth sleepless night. She almost ran over to him one night. Not to accuse but to protect. She’d seen a woman approach him, say something and he pointed up the road. Was he meeting her later? Somewhere dark and deserted. A quiet place to carry out his wicked will. She wanted to warn her, to help her. But she was terrified. He would recognise her. She would be the one in that barren place. The one he attacked and maybe murdered. No. She couldn’t do it. She had watched as the lady stayed beside him. Why didn’t she move? Run. She went into the kitchen  for a glass of juice. When she came back they had both gone. She worried so much about that. Was the woman alright? Did she manage to get away? Or was she lying somewhere hurt or dead? There was nothing she could do. Where would she start looking?

She’d had enough now. Time to take back her life. Time to free her imprisoned spirit. To cast aside her fear and make the world that little bit safer for her kind.

The knife weighed heavily in her trouser pocket. She didn’t mind. She was doing a good thing. He would be gone.  She slipped down the steps of the flats and waited. As he turned his head to glance down the road once more she ran. Straight to him. The corner wasn’t far you see. Slow motion. That’s what it felt like. Intent on her target, no other thought entered her head. She reached him just as he turned back round. Plunged. That’s what she did. Right into his chest. Through the dark overcoat, dark suit. Didn’t protect him now, did they? He stared at her in recognition, for just a split second. Then he fell. On the wet, muddy ground. Red rain flowed onto the road, like a river. She heard the noise. loud, engine noise. She heard the scream. A woman’s scream.

She saw the bus. Saw the people staring at her. Heard them cry out.

“Angie’s husband. He meets her every night at the bus stop. Never fails. Always there.”

” Jack. Oh, Jack.”

She cradled him, this woman. This woman she was trying to protect.

“Help me. Please someone help me. My husband… Oh, My God, my husband”

The woman looked up at her.

“Why.”

She had been mistaken. Her mind played tricks sometimes. She should have been taking her medication. Paranoid schizophrenic. She didn’t believe that. She was just so attractive. Men hit on her no matter where she went. Followed her. Stalked her. Just like him. She didn’t need doctors. She slowly turned away from the sobbing woman. And with the bloody knife held loosely in her hand she shuffled home. For now.