Three Steps Behind You Read Online Free PDF Page B

Instead, I will do some more research. Some writers just sit at their desk, making up words, characters, scenes, but I know better. I know I need to live first. Writing is the after-life. I walk down the road to The Garden Gate pub.
    I ask for a Jäger Train. I’ve never had one, but I’ve seen people having them, enjoying themselves. The barman suggests that I might prefer one of their fruit beers. I tell him I would not. He confesses they don’t cater for Jäger Trains at 3 p.m. on a Monday afternoon. So I order seven glasses of elderflower pressé and seven shots of Courvoisier brandy: the Hampstead equivalent. I order some lobster-tail scampi with it. Luke is no novice. He knows that eating is not cheating. The barman gives me a flower in a vase to signify my order. It is a rose.
    While I’m waiting for my scampi, I line up my glasses and shots on the bar. I saw Adam do this once, at his first stag do. Or rather, he got a waitress to it for him: she just flicked her pen, and the shot glasses dominoed perfectly, nesting the shot glasses of Jägermeister into the amber of the Red Bull.
    I am not inclined to ask the barman to flick his pen – as he may take it the wrong way – so I will need to do this myself. Or rather, Luke will do it. Because one night, I can imagine Luke going out to the bar with his City mates, his objective being to get very noticeably drunk. Far too drunk to drive. Whether he’s drinking to forget, or to give himself liquid courage for something happening that night, I haven’t yet decided. But he needs to drink. And so, therefore, do I. I do it with great devotion for the next five hours.
    ‘The sky is so bright and blue and Hampstead is so pretty – ooh! Bus! Mustn’t be squashed!’
    ‘Pond Street, Pond Street, I’ll get a bus from Pond Street!’
    ‘The bus will take me to my love, and my love roses I shall give!’
    No, no, no. What am I thinking? Luke must run! Run with the roses! Scampi power legs, brandy power legs – zoom! Blood and thorns, blood and thorns. Excellent – Jesus, place your crown upon me!
    My legs will take me to my love, and my love roses shall I give. His wife’ll think I’m a murderer as long as she shall live!
    It’s dark outside Nicole and Adam’s by the time I get there. And I’m starting to get a same-day hangover. I contemplate knocking on the door, but it won’t help. Instead, I let myself through the side gate and stand in the back garden, looking up at the house. I identify Nicole and Adam’s bedroom.
    ‘Nicole!’ I shout. ‘I brought you flowers!’
    There is no reply. It occurs to me the house is dark. I look at my watch. Only 9 p.m. Even they can’t be in bed now. Perhaps they’ve gone for dinner. I contemplate doing a quick search round West Hampstead eateries to find them. I’m tired, though, after my run. Better perhaps just to wait for them inside. I go back round to the front of the house, take out my emergency key and insert it in the lock. Odd. It won’t go in. I try again. Must be the drink, making my hands unsteady. I try to force it, but still it won’t go – the hole is the wrong shape, my key doesn’t match it. They’ve changed the locks.
    This is Nicole. I know this is Nicole. Adam wouldn’t do this. He knows I need access, he knows I need to rescue him, in an emergency. Say the house was burning? Amber flames, grey smoke, trying to crisp him away. I’d need to be there to save him.
    And what if Luke needed to get close to his beloved?
    Luke punched the glass. His fist would not go through. Harder, harder, he needed more force. He must ignore the resistance, punch right through it. He tried again, raised his fist, squared it to the window. Smash! There, and he was in. Now he must make the hole bigger, deeper, so that he could get fully inside. Ignore the pain, keep powering through. He’d haul all of himself through until…
    … I am sitting on the carpeted floor surrounded by glass and blood. And the rose.
    Safely