Extract

Chapter One

Nine o'clock. Black sky, grey cloud. The street below Megan Ward's window gleamed ghostly pale after a sudden shower. Cars crammed the length of the street, jostling for space, some with their near-side wheels on the kerb, narrowing the gap between the facing yellow-brick houses.

A man stood on the opposite kerb. He was tall, powerfully built, the trapezius muscles of his neck so thick that his head seemed to be jammed down onto his shoulders. He had been watching the house for fifteen minutes, while Megan watched him from the darkness of her room, her breathing shallow, fearful.

Some youths approached, heading for the pubs in Lark Lane, loud and full of swagger, but as they passed the man they fell silent, taking care to give him space, avoiding his eye.

What did he want from her? She sighed, and it caught on the out-breath. You know what he wants, and you brought this on yourself.

The front door opened and light spilled out from the hallway into the street. Oh, God - Sara!

Megan ran from her study onto the landing, yelling Sara's name. Down the stairs, hearing the chink of milk bottles and the dull ring as one fell over and rolled.

'Sara!' She leapt the last few steps, stumbling and almost cannoning into her friend as she ran back inside.

'Megan, what is it?'

Megan slammed the door closed and stood panting with her back braced against it. 'He's out there,' she gasped.

Sara's hand went to her mouth. Her face, strong and clear-eyed in normal circumstances, looked small and pinched, but her terror was only fleeting. She quickly reached for the door handle, angered by her momentary weakness.

Megan spread her arms wide. 'No. Sara - don't.'

Sara wore her honey-blonde hair shoulder length, curling softly. Now she tucked it behind her ears and tilted her chin. 'You can't let him terrorize you like this, Megan,' she said. 'You have to confront him.'

Megan's eyes widened. 'Please, Sara - ' Sara didn't know - how could she know the danger in confronting this man? 'Don't . . .  ' she said again, hearing the plea in her own voice, feeling tears prick her eyes. Sara's face blurred.

'He's stalking you, Megan,' Sara said. 'You have a right to protection.'

You're wrong, Megan thought. He isn't stalking me, he's watching me. How could she explain to Sara that his blatant surveillance was far more threatening than a mere obsession? She tried to find the words, but could find none. She trusted Sara as she had trusted nobody else in fifteen years, but she knew that Sara would not - could never - understand.

'At least call the police,' Sara said, made impatient by Megan's silence.

'I did, remember? It did no good.'

Sara's hand clenched and released. 'I just - I'm concerned, Megan, that's all.'

Megan knew that Sara believed in due process, in the fairness of the system, the protection afforded by the Law to the weak and defenceless.

Megan said, 'I'll telephone tomorrow - talk to the detective.' The one who was supposed to be handling her case. An exercise in futility. But who was she to challenge Sara's illusions - of safety, of a fair world in which violent men were brought to justice? Sara had relied on her beliefs for thirty-four years of life. They made her strong; her belief that goodness always had the advantage had given her the confidence to rebuild her life after her husband's slow death from multiple sclerosis. It had given her the courage to follow a career in a male-dominated profession, to allow Megan - a stranger - into her home, and to make a friend of her. Megan would do nothing to injure that confidence, or damage their friendship. 'I promise,' she said, 'I'll talk to him.'

Sara released her grip on the door handle and looked into Megan's face. 'Don't let fear paralyse you, Megan,' she said.

Megan knew fear; its terrain, its high crags that sparked energy and possibilities as well as its low silt marshes that stranded you, sucking you down and sapping your strength, turning fear to terror. She also knew how to use fear - even welcomed the familiar thrill of accelerated heart rate, the fast fizz of brain activity, the tunnel vision of an adrenaline high. It could work when, close to a breakthrough in the dead hours of night, exhausted beyond sleep, something clicked and the thick pulse of fear and elation screamed at her to go on or lose the chance for ever. At such times, it was this counterpoint between fear and elation that made her complete the arc, follow the logic through, make the connections when the end point proved difficult - even dangerous.

This time, though, fear made her sick and debilitated; dragging her deeper and deeper as she struggled in a quagmire of indecision. She was ready to give up. It had never been like this before. Sure she had been afraid, but in the past, she had evaluated the situation, basing her decision to go on or abandon the project on the balance of risk versus possible reward. Sara was the new factor in the equation. Though too young to act as surrogate mother, Sara had offered Megan her home and her trust, and with it a different view - one more generous than life had previously taught her, one which allowed the possibility of hope, and brought with it the cancer of weakness.

She kept vigil at her window, planning, dreaming, walking through each possible scenario and working out a course of action. Her face, faintly sketched in profile on the glass, was long and serious, the nose thin, delicate. Her dark hair broke like silk at her shoulders. She watched cars pass, the silences between them growing longer; a taxi rattled to a halt a few doors down and three girls tumbled out, laughing, drunk. Foot-passengers, then late-night drinkers, a dog-walker, patiently stopping at every lamp post, waiting while his terrier marked its territory. Finally the clubbers, paired off after the ritual of dance, booze and sweat. Pheromones and testosterone, the perfumes of sexual adventure.

But the watcher did not return.

Excerpted from Now You See Me, by Margaret Murphy

Copyright © 2005. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.