Stitch-Up Read Online Free PDF Page B

beautiful night. The full moon shone on the water, shaping a silvery superhighway. I sucked a deep breath of night air down into my lungs. My blood felt charged up, as if I’d bungee-jumped right down from the stars.
    A driver honked his horn and I swore under my breath as I watched the car’s red tail lights glide off into the night. A taxi cruised by with its for hire sign lit up. My hands twitched in my pockets. I balled them and carried on walking.
    I’d just passed a single red phone box when I heard footsteps approaching at speed. I glanced back, half expecting, half hoping to see Big Stevie. Instead I saw a scruffy man in a T-shirt and trackie bottoms. His face split into a leer, and then he broke into a run.
    Heart rocketing, I was running, too, but my heels were slowing me down. Without looking round, I could tell he was gaining on me, because I could hear his trainers pounding the pavement in long strides while, in contrast, the tickity-tack of my stiletto steps were small and uncertain. And all I could think was, Oh my God! What the hell am I going to do now?
    Although I knew I’d lose valuable seconds, I pulled offmy heels, fumbling and fluffing, and nearly falling over in my haste. Then, clasping a shoe in each hand, I surged forwards, like an Olympic runner sprinting from the blocks. The cool pavement felt good beneath my feet. My Dior bag bumped against my hip, unbalancing me. I used my shoes like paddles, pushing them through the air, ramping up my speed. I concentrated on planting my feet in the centre of each paving stone, forcing myself to take them two at a time, stretching myself to the limit and building up a rhythm which would propel me forwards. In my head, I was certain he would catch me if I accidentally trod on a crack.
    Seeing a sprawling estate – a junk space – to my right, I thought about heading in, but picturing dead ends, poor lighting, hood-rats, I kept on running. About five hundred metres up the road, Chelsea Bridge’s lights were twinkling, which meant Scarlet’s Gate couldn’t be more than ten minutes away. But before that I had to negotiate an underpass beneath a railway bridge, its lights smashed out by vandals. I estimated twenty metres of dimly lit terrain. I dug deep for a final spurt of energy and raced in.
    The creep’s stride lengthened, too. Seconds later, his footsteps were reverberating around the railway bridge. The sound of his piggy breath swallowed me up. In the distance, I saw a set of traffic lights change to green.
    Go! Go! Go! A voice screeched in my head.
    He was on me in three steps.
    â€œGot you!” A wet slap of a whisper.
    His breath smelled like road kill.
    His hands gripped my shoulders, and then he was pushing me down towards the pavement. His lips were right next to my ear, and he was calling me baby.
    No way , I thought. This wasn’t meant to be happening. Everything is going to be all right . I repeated the phrase in my head, picturing the phrase lit up on Tate Britain in neon lights. The rhythm of the words calmed my mind. Suddenly a part of me was floating a few feet above the scene, directing my earthbound self to relax. Obeying orders, I went limp, which threw the creep off balance, and then I rammed my stiletto heel up into his armpit with all my strength. Cussing loudly, he grabbed hold of my face with a sweaty hand and turned my nose like a key in a lock. Spluttering for breath, I pushed the shoe in harder. He loosened his grip. Squirming free, I spun round to face him. Then, pointing the heels of my stilettos at him as if they were blades, I started edging away, never once taking my eyes off him, so that when he lunged towards me, I danced out of reach with ease. Then I rushed at him, stabbing the heel into his face. When he staggered backwards clutching his eyes, I started sprinting for the traffic lights.
    From behind, I heard running footsteps, a thud of fist on flesh, a groan, followed by the crump