CHAPTER NINE

They drove silently for hours in Greg's little silver car.

When he first came to her flat to take her, he hadn't bothered to knock, and simply kicked the door open. Molly nearly had a seizure from the shock. Unfortunately, he was too concerned about her to really care about that.

"You all right?" He asked, feeling as though he found his heart haemorrhaging.

Molly stared at him, eyes wide, as she shook her head. "No, not really."

"What happened?"

Picking up her overnight pack and stuffing her laptop into it, grimacing as she did so, she pulled it over her shoulder. "Just get me out of here."

He had nodded, offered to carry her overnight pack, and led her out to his car.

Pulling away from the curb and back onto the proper side of the road, he asked, "All right then, where are we going?"

Molly shook her head, clipping the seat belt, and pulling her shoes off. "Don't know. Please – just away from here. Away from London."

Slightly shocked, he agreed. Since then, silence fell over them as though a toxic fog settled between them.

Occasionally, Greg looked at her through his peripheral. She looked so tiny, so fragile. Her skin sallow and faded out, she looked as though she was made of porcelain. But then, she would shake occasionally, and hug her knees into her chest in the passenger's seat, gazing out the window without really seeing anything.

Whenever they stopped or merged into a new road, however, her behaviour seemed to turn around entirely. Then she looked all about the car, as though trying to make something familiar from it all. She looked panicked, alarmed, and frightened every time the car slowed. Squinting at license plate numbers, trying to make out the people, looking over her shoulder, as though someone waited there with a knife.

When it moved quickly, however, she returned to looking hazy and fogged over.

Greg, while he wasn't sure what just happened, had a few ideas. Possibly she saw someone who likely was her stalker – maybe the man came forward and announced himself. Maybe there was a break-in and she couldn't handle it. Maybe she'd been confronted on the street. Maybe she'd just had a bloody awful nightmare that seemed real. However, it wouldn't do him any good to muddle through the possibilities when he very well knew she'd tell him sooner or later.

Thus, they drove. The only sounds being the vibrating and shaking of the silver car and the blaring of the heater blowing at both of their faces.

He turned towards Trafalgar Square, which seemed to undergo a complete transformation in the transition between day and night. In the day, it was filled with tourists wanting to see the fountain and all the architecture and people bustling to work. Now, as it was early evening, there were maybe half the people in the Square as usual, and none of them stopped to see the fountain gushing in the centre, or to view the statues or buildings. They were all going on with their lives. People did that, go on with their lives, whether or not your own life recently faced yet another tragedy.

They turned down a second road, driving along a row of local shoppes and restaurants, passing by in a blur under the hazy evening. This road was more full than the Square had been. People going on, stepping into shoppes, going out to dinner. Laughing , drinking, telling stories.

That road turned into another, a residential street full of flat complexes and individual houses. Practically dead. Lights were on in some of the buildings. From his peripheral, Greg could make out a family sitting on the sofa, watching the telly happily as the parents sipped a nightcap.

The homeless meandered down these streets, meeting up in the alleyways between flat complexes, sharing tattered quilts and boxed wine. He thought he saw one removing a trench coat from his own back and giving it to a much smaller, frail person. Funny – how those who had nothing seemed most willing to give.

By the time they turned a third time, they were back on a main road. Shoppes and theatres and libraries and banks stood tall against the setting sun, demanding worship for their architectural and economic glory. Cars swerved, darting through lanes. Taxicabs pulled over to assist the lonely or tired or drunk. And people walked on.

Greg made a fairly abrupt turn, almost cutting a bloke off in the other lane, who promptly decided to give him the finger.

Busy London streets were soon replaced by a mass of cars and trucks on the thruway. The sunset blurred the sky, sending a pink tint onto the rest of the vehicles. Greg drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, remembering to have enough tact not to mention how pretty it looked. She didn't look as though she was in the mood for conversation.

By the time he pulled onto M40, the sky was completely black. Street lamps overhead and headlights proved to be the only light source in their line of vision. No moon and no stars decided to grace their presence. And they drove on.

Hours passed, driving up the thruway. They stopped twice. Once to give a toll and once to get gas. Whilst at the station, Molly seemed rendered into a sudden panic. At least, to anyone who knew her at all well. To the passer-by, she might've simply looked bored and anxious to get to the destination. Her eyes, were alight, flickering around, pseudo-calmly, for a familiar car or face she did not want to see. She looked as though she desperately needed a shock-blanket.

Greg returned to the vehicle, after filling it with gas, with a bottle of creamy fizzy drink to calm her nerves, a single-serving bag of crisps, and a small packet of biscuits.

Then, he spoke again. "We'll be another two hours at least."

Molly simply nodded, murmured her thanks, and cracked the fizzy drink open.

The silence settled heavily on Greg's chest, as though something sat atop of it. But, he went on driving on the thruway, watching exit signs and scenery pass in a hazy blur.

He really didn't even know where he was taking them. The plan was to go until Molly looked calmer, or until he grew too tired to drive safely.

The former was not getting better, but the latter was beginning to approach faster than he'd like.

He didn't know how to feel. Molly was obviously fragile, disturbed, or hurt. Or all three. It wasn't a pleasant sight. Actually, it was a bloody awful sight. He didn't like to see her so off. She was normally so kind, sweet, and happy – happy in spite of what she saw all day. He used to think that nothing short of Armageddon would shake her. Either he was wrong or the End of Time was upon them.

England continued to whisk by as they drove onwards. Onwards, without any substantial end in sight. The night grew deeper, the traffic became lighter, until they were one of only a small handful of cars on the thruway.

It wasn't until they passed an exit for Warrington that Molly spoke.

"How long have we been driving?"

Greg shrugged, leaning his elbow against the far window. "About three hours."

Molly blinked, looking at the clock. Surely enough: it was one.

Allowing his eyes to leave the road for a bit, he gave Molly a quick once-over. She looked beaten, tired, drugged. With dark bags under her eyes, she appeared liable to fall asleep that instant, but out of fear, would not allow herself the pleasure.

"If you want," he asked. "We can stop in Liverpool for the night. Get a room. And then go on in the morning."

Molly nodded and resumed staring out the window.

For the next hour, they continued to drive. Cars passed them, they passed cars, in a seemingly eternal game of leap-frog. A streetlight went out from above them at one point, causing Molly to jump. A car cut them off from another lane, speeding ahead – obviously with a very important agenda at two in the morning.

Finally, after what seemed like years, Greg pulled off the exit towards Liverpool. They remained silent as they entered the city.

Greg weighed his luck. It was a bit after two. Most hotels wouldn't let them in at early hours. If he found one over an all-nighter, he might find some luck.

It took some driving, but eventually he pulled up to a little inn with all the lights on.

Soon, they had a small and cheap room for the night. Greg grabbed a blanket from the front desk, and made a small sleeping space at the foot of the large double bed Molly settled into.

After they settled in, bolted the door, and drew the curtains tightly, Greg turned on his side on the blanket.

"So, Molly," He said slowly. "You fancy you could tell me what happened?"

Molly pressed her lips together, but nodded slowly. Instead of talking, however, she reached into her sack and pulled out her laptop. They waited for the machine to power on, and for her to open a few files. Then she turned it and handed it to Greg, pulling her legs back up onto the mattress, hugging her knees.

She watched his expression go from confusion to fear to rage in seconds.

"Christ." He muttered.

"It…it was the first one." Molly said, resting her chin on her knee.

"Well…" Greg shook his head, at an apparent loss of words. "Fuck."

Molly blinked away the burning in her eyes, but then, it just exploded. "He was in my flat! Less than two days ago! I never…I didn't know a thing! My flat, my home. How did he even get in? I didn't ring anybody in. The police were watching! How, then, did he get in my flat?"

She suddenly began to pace frantically. "He could've been coming in ever since this…ever since it started. I never noticed anything wrong…there was never anything…strange. The door and windows were all bolted. I don't understand! But he got in! He got in and – God – I have no idea how he's been doing it or what he's been doing while he's been in there."

Greg stared at her, dumbstruck. That was the most he'd ever heard her talk. It was a shame that it was so panicked, since she had such a nice voice.

He shook his head. There were no easy answers. No words of comfort. He just had to think for a minute.

Sitting there, on the floor, he watched her double over trying to compose herself. She shook her head, shorter hair swaying in rhythm, holding her stomach. Her eyes were shut tight, as though if she only shut them hard enough, she could make it all go away.

After a minute or so, she did return her breathing to normal, and swallowed slowly.

"All right," She said. "What now?"

Greg shifted his eyes from the laptop to Molly. "Well," he said slowly. "From just a professional case-centric standpoint, in the morning, we need to let my team at the Yard know, look at previous emails of the other vict—girls, and figure out who he is before—"

"Before he kills me?"

"I was going to say before he gets more obsessive, but…yeah." He shook his head, slowing his own breathing. "But, from a personal standpoint? We have to shake him. Get you away from this bastard."

Molly agreed. They sat in silence for a while longer, until Molly suddenly let out a lonely, hollow laugh.

"Is it completely mental that I'm knackered?"

"Not at all," Greg said serenely. "Shock, you know? Have a lie down, get some sleep, and we'll contact the Yard in the morning."