Page 90 of No Safe Place

Sunday | Evening

Andy

Andy tried to describe it to the detectives – that moment on the hill, before it all happened.

He’d almost convinced himself that he was imagining the footsteps, that it was anxiety playing tricks on him, that he was hearing his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

But he’d got up off the bench and spun round and seen the slight figure, hood up, knife in hand.

‘I asked what they wanted,’ he said, looking up at Field. ‘I assumed they were going to mug me. Wanted my phone or something.’

He focused on Field’s stern face. The flecks of grey at her temples, the studious expression. If he listened, and he always listened, he could hear the rustle of her starched white shirt.

‘It was like something out of a film. She circled the bench, and I was edging away—’

‘She?’

He hesitated. ‘I think it was a girl. I mean, it could have been a small guy, but they moved like a woman.’

Field nodded for him to continue.

‘I kept my eyes on the knife and kept asking: “What do you want? What do you want?”, but she didn’t say anything, and then she … ran at me.’

It had happened quickly, and he was embarrassed. Someone his size shouldn’t be scared of someone so small. If he’d had his wits about him, if he hadn’t been so bloody anxious when it happened—

‘She lunged at me with the knife, and she must have cut my arm.’ He held it up, then felt stupid. ‘To be honest, I didn’t even feel it, I just kept stepping backwards and then I tripped and fell and—’

The male detective was taking notes without looking down at the paper.

He needed them to believe him. The story had seemed too strange to report to police, had happened too quickly, and now speaking it out loud it sounded ridiculous, made up.

‘Someone came round the corner, and she ran for it, sprinted past them. I got up and walked away and it was only when I got home that I realised I’d been—’

Stabbed. He couldn’t say the word – it sounded too melodramatic.

‘That I was bleeding.’

The scratching on the paper was distracting him.

He rested his head on one hand, to muffle the sound, an old trick.

An old coping mechanism that only half worked because he could still hear the pen.

He’d done something to try and block the noise out, and because he’d given in to this small action, his anxiety was already tugging at him, trying to get him to do another.

‘The attacker, were they left- or right-handed, Andy?’ she asked.

He tried to picture it. Put himself back in the moment. ‘Left.’

‘Good, well done,’ Field said. ‘So, you got home, and then what happened?’

He could hardly hear the question over the sound of the pen, but then the writing stopped. Andy breathed again.

‘I don’t know what time it was exactly. I tried to sleep, but the bleeding wasn’t stopping. I was awake most of the night, until I decided to just leave.’

When he got home, his main concern was the blood. Not dripping blood on the carpets or leaving smears on the walls. He was confused and upset, and it felt important, so important, not to leave blood anywhere.

‘And why did you decide to go to Brighton?’ the man asked, and Andy sensed his pen hovering above the pad.

He clenched his fists and focused on the question.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘I knew David had been attacked. I saw it in the news. I didn’t know about Sam, not until earlier when they arrested me.’

Sam.

Sometimes, on the ward, it had felt like Lily and Callum and Paige were all so similar, and so exuberant , that he was the outsider. He didn’t mind – it wasn’t their fault. They never left him out on purpose.

But Sam always made sure he was included.

‘But it was like I could feel that someone was coming for us. I was in my room, and I kept hearing footsteps, imagining they were creeping up on me all over again. It felt important to get somewhere they couldn’t find me,’ he said, looking up at them both.

Field had a closed expression on her face, all buttoned-up. He had no idea whether she believed him.