Chapter 2

We sauntered to the pub with a spring in our stride. After a good rehearsal, our moods would always be brighter, and though there was still a lot to overcome, things were looking great for the future of Edward Stone. We joked about each other's performances and tentatively suggested new lines and stances, talked about how the big moments would leave the audience reeling. With months to go before the play would see the limelight, there was plenty of time to speculate and ponder over our many characters. The journey to The Riser was a quick one.

A strong gust of wind introduced itself as we passed by a large construction site on a street corner, and rain started to drizzle down. Kiani again complained about being cold, but we could see the inviting glow of The Riser further into the town centre, so her complaints were little more than statements of fact. Her thin dress was likely a good reason she was feeling the bitter wind more than the rest of us.

George arrived first at the entrance and pushed on the big black door. Light chatter filled our ears, as did the smell of a montage of beverages. The golden glow of shimmering bronze artefacts was a comfortable token of many public houses, an indicator of a quiet, friendly and drunken atmosphere with friends. We came here often after rehearsals or before a big night out further into the town, whether to prepare for a drink-fuelled marathon or to get suitably plastered. Our normal spot in the far corner beside the roaring fire was left for us. It was like a second home.

It was Oliver's turn to buy in the round. I asked for the regular G & T, the same as Kiani, while the boys took their time to examine what new beer was on tap. George arrived at the table shortly after us, having made his decision, and sat beside me. I was tucked right into the corner, not too close to the fire to grow overwrought by it, but near enough to bask in its glow. From there, I could see the whole room, from the shining glasses that lined the walls behind the bar to the old codgers at the opposite side chortling with their snouts half buried in beer foam.

"Oh, hey Dougie!" Kiani suddenly cooed. Over the lip of the round, beer-soaked table popped up the excitable head of one of The Riser's most popular residents. Douglas the sheep dog was always around, always wagging his hairy tail, and always covered in dirt from the field he was regularly walked in. He craved attention, and we'd never refused to give it, so he came to us more often than not.

"Hey boy!" George said, rubbing at Douglas' head. "You got us a stick?"

He reached below the table, and with a jerky motion, whatever Douglas had brought over went sprawling across the floor. The dog followed with hurried clicking claws. On the way back he almost tripped Oliver, who had just turned away from the bar with four drinks clutched awkwardly in his grasp. "Whoa, hey," He laughed. "Dog's trying to kill me! Who threw the stick?"

"Wasn't any of us." Kiani replied mischievously.

"Sure, sure…" Oliver said, entirely disbelieving. "Is that the thanks I get for buying you all drinks again? A broken jaw? You're all a buncha twats."

We laughed it off as he gave us each our drink of choice. Mine was the rhubarb gin, slightly pink in colour. Kiani had something a little more ordinary, while George and Oliver had settled on some new ale that looked (and probably tasted like) soil. They discussed it like connoisseurs, and it was pathetic.

"You have to admire the acting," I said to Kiani. "They could almost convince you that they know what they're talking about."

"I know what I'm talking about," Oliver defended. "My Dad brewed his own."

"You aren't your Dad." Kiani pointed out.

"It's a genetic thing. Some people have a better taste for this kind of stuff than other people. That's why men drink ale, and women drink fancy water."

"Oh, shut up!" Kiani laughed. "That stuff looks –and smells – like dirt. At least fancy water has taste."

Oliver raised his chin and looked down his nose at her, with a not-so-well-disguised cheeky smile. "Your taste simply isn't as refined as one's own."

"Well, you are about as refined as a misshapen dick."

"Misshapen dick?!" George spluttered in amusement.

"She's seen her fair share of those," Oliver jested. "Ever wondered why she always leans to her right side in class?"

Kiani rolled her eyes. "It's because you're to my left."
George winced humouredly. "Ooh, brutal…"

Defeated on this occasion, Oliver gulped down a large portion of his ale and wiped at his lips with the back of his wrist. When his hand dropped back down, it found Douglas' head, and he commenced the scratches behind the ears that the pet so loved. His tongue lolled contentedly from the side of his panting mouth.

The action drew my attention away from them for just a moment as I indulged in my own drink. Over the rim of my glass, the front door to The Riser came into view when it opened. From behind the imposing black door stepped a man in a dull grey jacket and loosely-held red tie. He must have been in his fifties, and he looked ragged and hunched as he scuttled towards the bar. Overweight and gormless in the face, he nevertheless looked shifty and insincere. He looked like a man up to no good. And I had seen him many times before.

We'd never spoken, never interacted or uttered even a grunt to each other as we'd pass by in the town. However, I would always catch him glancing at me, whether it's from across a busy street or, as it was tonight, within a small public room. Those empty, dull eyes would always be sneaking in a look or two.

It was about two or three months ago when he started appearing. It was the same attire every time, no matter where I'd spot him. I'd passed him several times in the town centre at all times of the day, spotted him in the park and on the university grounds where he seemed completely out of place. The strangest? I caught a glimpse of him while taking a coastal walk at Charmouth, a town many miles from here. It was a split second, but I was sure it was him. Same red nose, same droopy jowls.

The occurrences felt much more than coincidence, which I put it down to at first. This creep had been following me, and following me for quite some time. I felt cold when I saw him this time, even as the fire roared close by and Douglas buried his skull into my side with a plea for attention. I stroked at his neck slowly, watching the stalker as he climbed heavily onto a bar stool, mostly hidden by another man.

"Amy?"

I heard George and darted my eyes to him. "Uh… Oh, yeah?"

He must have asked me a question. He raised an eyebrow at me, suspecting something wasn't right. "Are you okay?"

"Yep! I'm okay. Sorry, Douglas was distracting me." I ruffled the dog's hair, whose head was rested on my thigh.

"I was just asking," He started to ask. "You want to sign up for the Joseph production?"

"Which Jose-" I recalled the poster in the arts school we'd seen before we left for rehearsal. "Oh! Oh, that one. Sure, why not?"

"That narrator role is mine," Kiani said nonchalantly. "I used to sing those songs all the time. I could match Linzi Hately note-for-note."

"Well, who would she play?" Oliver asked, referring to me.

"Pharaoh's wife. You know, the one who seduces Joseph?"

"We all know who's playing Joseph then."

George smiled, but shook his head sheepishly. "You know I can't sing. I don't do musicals, mate."

"Can you sing?" I asked of Oliver.

We'd never heard him sing before. Kiani was fantastic, I was skilled but nothing special, and George was useless. Oliver had never sung a note that wasn't delivered as a drunken roar.

"Well, I don't like to blow my own trumpet…" He sniggered. "But I've been compared to Freddie Mercury."

"In what way?" I asked.

Kiani suggested an answer for him. "You're gay?"

"Um, no."

"HIV-positive?" George followed-up.

"No!"

"Who even told you that, anyway?" I giggled, suspecting the answer.

Oliver shrugged. "Does it matter?"

George provided us with a probable idea. "It was your mum, wasn't it?"

"… Maybe."

Kiani laughed. "I bet she calls you a handsome, strapping young man, too."

"Why, yes she does, actually!" Oliver laughed, stringing himself along with the joke. He'd never struggled to denigrate himself for the purposes of humour. It was one of his more appealing traits.

"Even if you can't sing, you do a pretty good Edward Stone, even though… I think you should grow your sides out a bit," I mentioned, splaying my fingers towards the sides of my own hair. "The moustache doesn't really go with what you've got going on up top."

Perhaps feeling a little insecure, Oliver ran a hand over his thick, black hair. It was indeed very short at the sides, and medium-length on top. Quite a modern haircut, and not quite matching the styles of the early years of this century. "Ahh, come on," He chuckled. "It doesn't look that strange, does it?"

George said, "You come across a bit like a rip-off Friedrich Nietzsche. I think she's right, a couple changes here and there would improve it."

"You can't be serious…" He grumbled, dropping his pint to the table as he'd taken another big gulp. "I like having my hair like this. I look goofy when it grows out."

Kiani laughed, but it was friendlier. "It won't look goofy. Trust us. It looks goofy now when you put that bloody moustache on. We all have to make personal sacrifices to fit our roles!"

"For a small-time play? For Broadway or television, maybe, but who are we expecting to watch Edward Stone? Uni students and the faculty's kids?"

"She's right," I said in her defence. "If you want to become a character, you have to become that character."

"Hear, hear." George added, and rose a half-full glass.

When he pulled it back down, I saw the creep again. His eyes slinked back towards the rear of the bar.

We left The Riser at about 11PM. Safely inebriated, we would slink to our respective flats to recover for the new day ahead. I had classes starting early, so I hadn't had too much to drink and settled for coke after my second G & T. Oliver, as per usual, placed no such restrictions on himself, and was in a very jolly mood as we exited. Kiani went in the opposite direction, so the remaining three of us went back past the construction site and away from the town centre.

Oliver was next to go, but we made sure to take a detour that allowed him to get back home in one piece. After guiding into his student apartment block, George and I continued onwards. We reached his rented property about five minutes later.

"Think I'll take it easy tomorrow," He told me when he took out the keys to enter. "I'm driving back home for the weekend on Friday, and I swear every hangover just gets worse and worse."

"I thought we had another rehearsal on Saturday." I recalled.

"Shit, yeah…" He cursed, shaking his head at his own forgetfulness. "I'll sort something out. My fault."

I rolled my eyes. "I think, for your birthday, I should buy you a scheduling book. You're going senile."

"My head's just full of ideas," He sighed. "My old tutor always told me that forgetfulness was the sign of a head filled with thoughts."

I cocked my head at him, curious. "What sorts of thoughts?"

He paused, and then chuckled. "Nothing interesting. Scripts, mostly."

"Writing your own?"

He almost seemed to blush, only visible by the white glow of the nearest streetlight. "I might be. I wouldn't tell you until it was done."

I smiled. "You should share."

He fumbled his key into the lock of the front door and forced the stubborn thing open. "I'll see you tomorrow, Amy. Good and early."

"Goodnight," I wished him. He closed the door, and left me on my own.

I didn't live too far from him. Only ten minutes or so, so I began the walk with thoughts of what he could have created buzzing through my head. I knew that he'd been writing something, I'd been sure of it. Whether it was any good, only he could know. Nothing had reared its head up yet, so he clearly wasn't too happy with it.

My path home led through a long suburban street lit by orange streetlights. I watched my feet, hands in my pockets as I walked, paying attention to the sounds of the light breeze and the rain that had started to gently emerge again.

I was not alone on the stretch. I could hear distant footsteps behind me, but at first I thought of it just being a local on their way home from some event somewhere. Or another student. There were always house parties going on.

At the end of the street was a junction. My rented house was down to the right, so I crossed the road and gazed down the slight incline that I would take. Only then did the person behind me enter my peripheral vision.

It was him. It was the creepy man, the one I'd thought was a stalker. I could recognise the grey knitted jacket and red tie, and the stumpy, hunched figure behind it. He was following in me, and this time it was far more obvious. He didn't look at me, or give any signs that he feared being spotted. He just kept walking, as if he could just escape my attention.

But that was the last straw. I knew he'd been following me. It was no mere coincidence, and if I were correct then this advance would surely be for something sinister. He could have just been some creepy stalker with a voyeuristic obsession. He could have wanted more. And I was alone.

Stupid man neglected to realise that all around were home, many with lights ablaze inside. So many people and so many of them awake to hear anything from the quiet street. With that solemn comfort in mind, I decided that it was time to do something about this man.

He was still coming closer. I was now on the other side of the street. If he started to cross the road, then there would be no doubt left in my mind. I stood and waited, watching him so that he knew I was aware.

He started to cross. This was it. I had to do something.

"Oi!" I shouted. "Would you stop following me? I know you've been following me, I'm not stupid!"

The man said nothing, and now he was merely a few metres from me and still proceeding.

His eyes looked up for the first time and connected with mine.

"Shit…" I cursed to myself. Okay, Amy, this is a really fucked up situation now. Stay calm. Just stay calm. The guy's a pushover. You could take him if he started anything. "Are you going to answer me?!"

Nothing again. I had the sudden urge to run as he showed no sign of changing his direction. He would walk right up to me, shrouded now in shadow as he passed under the last light of the street. What if he… What if I… Oh god, I wasn't ready for this!

I braced myself for whatever was to come.

And then he stopped.

He must have been two metres from me. Still, he was wordless, but now he looked up at me, and I suddenly got the feeling that this was something I hadn't expected. Then, he lifted a hand and started to reach into his jacket pocket. I stepped back instinctively, not sure what he'd pull out, but when he retracted a folded piece of lined paper, I became more curious than terrified. Of course, some terror still lurked, but his intentions were more of a mystery.

"Take it." He grumbled, impatient at my hesitance.

I stepped forward cautiously and reached to take the paper. As I moved back and began to unfold the paper, I noticed him turn away. He was leaving.

"What in the world…?" I uttered. "Hey! Please explain to me what's going on!"

"Just go where it tells you to go." The hunched old man told, voice full of discontent.

My head was abuzz with questions and not a single answer to them, but in the midst of my inner contemplation I finished opening up the piece of paper and aimed it towards the streetlight to read. The writing was boldly scribbled in pen.

8PM

FRIDAY

18 MEADOWMEAD ROAD

BE THERE.