Page 43 of A Secret Escape

Something about walking around the aisles together with a trolley puts a silly grin on my face that I can’t seem to move.

This is something couples do – couples who live together and do the shopping together.

Couples who aren’t on the run from a murderer.

It’s cosy, and comfortable, and I keep glancing at Marcus by my side, a giggle rising to my throat every time I see him, still unable to believe that this is truly happening.

That this gorgeous, incredible, perfect man, is here, with me, and that this morning wasn’t a dream, and that he did actually make me come what must have been at least five fucking times.

Winding up and down the aisles, I’m surprised to see how much someone’s shopping habits tell you about them.

I learn that Marcus’s favourite meal is a steak sandwich, and that he doesn’t eat pudding or chocolate much, which makes sense given the fact that he probably has no more than about two percent body fat on him.

Meanwhile, Marcus finds it mad that I start almost every day with a kale-banana smoothie.

Neither of us remembers seeing a blender in the cottage, and buying one just for a few days seems excessive, so I pick up some corn flakes instead.

Marcus tells me he enjoys cooking and says he often cooks just for himself, but will also often have his friend Mike and his wife over for a meal.

Meanwhile, my extent of cooking consists of chopping up a salad, boiling some pasta or putting a pizza in the oven.

And even that doesn’t always go according to plan.

We both like apples, but Marcus likes the tart green ones and I like the sweet pink ones. I love avocado, and I laugh when Marcus says he doesn’t really “get it.”

I like browsing the aisles to see what there is, whereas Marcus prefers to start with the meat and then get what he needs for specific meals to go with it.

We agree on white wine, although Marcus prefers red with red meat, so we buy both.

And of course, we stop in the pharmacy aisle to get shampoo, conditioner, and condoms. Marcus picks up one box of twelve, holding it up for approval, and I grab it, throwing it in the trolley before adding a second box off the shelf and adding it in as well, laughing when his eyes grow wide and he pulls me in and kisses me in the middle of the aisle.

It's hard not to imagine doing a weekly shop together for years to come, and I try to tell my heart to stop jumping to conclusions, but it’s already in far too deep.

Although Marcus offers to pay, I insist he lets me cover it. Not wanting to make a scene, he agrees with the condition that he cooks the meals .

Obviously. As if I’d risk burning the place down.

Back at the cottage, Marcus cooks his favourite steak sandwiches for lunch.

The aroma fills the air and the sizzle of the meat on the pan makes my stomach rumble.

I watch with rapt fascination as he mixes a few ingredients in a bowl to make a sauce which he spreads over two ciabatta slices and serves the thin cut steak onto them.

“Mmm,” I moan, taking my first bite, and Marcus laughs, not taking his eyes off me as he perches on the stool beside me. The steak is perfect and delicious and juicy.

“That - is amazing,” I mumble between mouthfuls.

“See, I told you,” he says with a wink, biting down into his own sandwich. “Oh, God, yes, that is what I’m talking about!” he exclaims, and I can’t help but laugh.

I love watching him eat, learning his mannerisms, getting to know the kinds of things he likes.

We seem so removed from the real world suddenly, as if this crazy insane thing happened, and now we’re somehow in a secluded cottage in the middle of the woods, with the man of my dreams who is cooking for me , and who is by far the best sex of my life. How is this not a dream?

My insides tighten again as I think back to this morning.

Watching his tongue run along his bottom lip as it catches a drop of sauce, I have to cross my legs tightly in response to the arousal that is quickly re-emerging despite my entire downstairs area feeling sore as hell.

“What?” he asks, suddenly looking up as he notices I’ve stopped eating. “What’s wrong?”

I smile, shaking my head. “Nothing. Just dazed off for a moment,” I say, bringing myself back to the present .

He smiles back at me, finishing off his sandwich with one final delicious bite.

After lunch, I wash up the plates and sit down on the sofa next to Marcus, who has turned on the TV and is flicking through news channels, though nothing relevant appears.

The only talk on all the news channels is the usual political chaos of Westminster, as always.

I focus on the scrolling headlines across the bottom of the screen as Marcus lingers on one of the channels, listening to the report.

Government faces backlash over emergency cost-of-living support delays.

Heavy snow and sub-zero temperatures bring UK travel to a standstill.

Israel-Palestine tensions flare as ceasefire talks stall.

NHS under unprecedented pressure amid winter surge in admissions.

Energy bills to rise again as wholesale gas prices climb.

Then back to the cost of living again. Nothing about a murder.

I wonder if a drug-related stabbing would even make national news. Probably not. I don’t even know how often things like that happen.

As Marcus keeps watching, I pull my phone out to see if anything had been shared across any social media sites or local pages, but there’s nothing there either.

Opening Google, I type in “Manchester stabbing” and the first article at the very top of the page instantly catches my attention. I look at the date. 25 th January. That was yesterday.

“Marcus, look,” I say, leaning into him as the Greater Manchester Police website loads up on the screen.

He leans over to look as I read the article out loud.

“Detectives are appealing for information after a stabbing in Salford, Greater Manchester. At around 9pm Friday 24 th January, Greater Manchester Police were called to reports of a homicide on Chando’s Grove.

A 19-year-old man was pronounced dead on the scene from injuries caused by a bladed weapon.

This is believed to be a targeted attack.

The suspects are believed to be two white males ages 21 to 30.

They are believed to have been driving a black BMW with tinted windows.

Enquiries are ongoing at this time and officers are keen to hear from anyone who was in the area at the time of the incident and may have vital information to assist with the investigation in identifying suspects.

Senior Investigating Officer John Torres of GMP Salford said: “We understand that this will be a worrying incident for those in the surrounding area but please be assured that officers are working tirelessly to track down the culprits and we continue to increase our patrols as a result to offer visible reassurance. We urge anyone who may know the culprit or have any mobile, dash cam or CCTV footage of the incident to come forward in confidence.”

I put the phone down in my lap and look at Marcus. “They seem to know it was a black BMW, which is more than we were able to tell them, so that’s something.”

I think carefully back to the car parked outside the coffee shop earlier. “Do you think the car in town was a BMW?” I try not to panic as I try to picture the car again in my mind, but I can’t visualise the logo.

“No, that was definitely a Range Rover,” he assures me.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Images of the attack formulate in my mind as I try to search for answers.

“Do you think it was a BMW at the scene?”

“That was the only one I thought it could have been at the time, but I couldn’t say for certain. ”

I start to relax slightly. Maybe the car in town wasn’t related after all. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Lots of people drive Range Rovers.

Marcus turns off the TV and swivels to face me, his hand resting on my leg. “Do you think we should do an anonymous call and tell them his name?”

“No,” I say, probably a little too quickly.

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no guarantee they’ll get him, and if he sees his name being revealed, he’ll know it was me, and then he really will come after us.”

“But he doesn’t know where we are, or he would have been here by now.”

Although he makes a good point, I still don’t feel good about it.

“I just don’t think we should,” I say. “I think we should wait.”

Marcus is silent for a moment, turning his head away from me. His hand slips off my leg as his gaze focuses past the TV and out the window.

“Are you sure you don’t still have feelings for this guy?” he asks a moment later, his voice quiet, almost under his breath.

“Yes!” I exclaim, turning to look at him.

God, he can NOT seriously be thinking this!

“Absolutely sure! Marcus, I swear, I haven’t even thought about him once, in like, seven years!”

“Alright,” he says slowly. “I believe you.”

“Good,” I snap.

I’m fucking terrified of a murderer coming after us and threatening our lives, and his implication that I might be wilfully choosing to protect someone who killed an innocent person, someone who means literally fucking nothing to me, is insulting, and for the first time with him, I feel slightly hurt.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Thanks.”

I slump down into the soft cream cushions of the sofa, thoughts swirling around my mind like a hurricane.

The murder happened Friday night. It’s currently only Sunday afternoon.

There’s still time. They’ll get him. They have to get him.

“Do you still have the detective’s card?” I ask.

Marcus reaches into his back pocket and pulls it out. I glance at the name. SIO John Torres - GMP Salford. I’m not sure why, but it’s reassuring that it’s the same detective quoted in the article as the one who had come to see us.

I start to think that maybe Marcus is right, that we should report it.

I open my mouth to say so, but a darker thought cuts in before the words can form.

Would reporting it make me look guilty by association?

Would they think that I intentionally withheld information when they spoke to us at Marcus’s house?

My rational brain is saying to call and tell the truth, but fear stops me.

The thought of my flat back in Manchester stops me.

The way the air itself had felt threatening the moment I walked in.

I can see the knife marks slashed across my sofa and my bed, tearing through the space like it means nothing.

Marcus was right. It wasn’t random. It was a warning.

And suddenly, the idea of telling anyone feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and willingly stepping off.

Marcus reaches out and takes my hand. “Are you alright? ”

I shake my head. “I’m scared. As much as I love being here with you, which literally feels like a dream, I wish it didn’t have to be in this…

circumstance. I don’t know what to do. I keep watching the door, listening for any sound of a car outside.

I just… I don’t know.” I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye, suddenly feeling all the emotions of the past few days bubbling up to the surface.

“Come here,” Marcus says, pulling me in closer. He wraps his arms around me in a big, warm hug and kisses the top of my head.

“It’s going to be alright,” he says, rubbing my arm reassuringly. “I promise.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. He doesn’t know where we are. As long as we stay quiet, don’t post anything online, don’t tell anyone anything, we just wait here until the police have caught him. They’ll do their job,” he insists. “They’ll find him.”

I can’t help but wonder if Marcus is trying to convince himself as much as me.

“Everything will be okay,” he says. “I promise.”