Doctor Who_ Psi-Ence Fiction - Chris Boucher [86]
'I know. It's in the file.' Bartok's plump face was creased with genuine worry. 'An official warning, Sarge? He makes any sort of complaint and you're history.'
'He wont. And if he does I'll make sure your name's not in the frame.'
'It's not that,' Bartok protested. 'I'm not bothered about that.'
'Yes, I know.' Simpson patted him clumsily on the shoulder. I appreciate it, Constable. Let's forget about it shall we, it's not a problem.'
They walked on in silence for a while, then Bartok said, You think he did it though.'
'I know he did it,' Simpson said expressionlessly. 'And sooner or later I'll get the bastard for it.'
Chloe sat on one of the eight connected benches surrounding the lime tree in the middle of the octagonal space that acted as a linking hub for the main campus walkways. She had chosen this spot because it was busy. It was one of the few places she could think of where she could be sure she would not be alone. Unlike the student bar or the library or the cafeteria, all of which were equally busy, this space did not have any dark or shadowy corners. You could see every part of it clearly and brightly. It was essential that she be able to see every part of it clearly and brightly.
Obviously she could not see all of it all of the time. Since she did not have eyes in the back of her head, there was the simple physical problem that she could not see behind her. She had found a way to cope with this problem, though. Occasionally - she hoped it was so occasionally that her behaviour wouldn't look too bizarre -occasionally she would move to the next bench round. This shifted her sight lines and allowed her to watch a slightly different area of the octagon. In the course of the two hours she had been there, she knew she had made at least three complete circuits of the tree; possibly more than three. Possibly a lot more than three.
As well as moving round the benches, she found it necessary to glance behind her from time to time. Actually she wasn't doing this from time to time, she knew. She knew she was doing it often. She knew she was doing it pretty much constantly in fact. She realised that to anyone who was watching it must look like a nervous spasm of some sort. To anyone human who was watching.
She couldn't think of what else to do. She was trapped there. If she ran she knew she would never be able to stop running. She would just keep on running until she died from the sheer exhaustion of it. She was trapped there. But she couldn't think of what else to do. And what would happen when it got dark? What would happen when she wasn't able to see every part clearly and brightly? She couldn't think about that. She mustn't think about that. She would run if she thought about that. She couldn't think of what else to do.
Death had followed her and now it was watching her and waiting. She was trapped there. It seemed as though death might be the only way out for her.
She might have to die simply to get out of there. She might have to die simply to get away from it.
She knew the shrouded figure was there even though she hadn't been able to see it properly. She knew it was there. It had followed her from the cemetery. It was watching her now. She couldn't look at it directly. It wouldn't let her see it directly. Perhaps she would only be able to see it directly at the end. Perhaps only at the moment of death would it let her see it. For the time being she caught only glimpses out of the very corners of her eyes.
She knew it was standing and waiting and looking at her. She knew if she sat in one position for too long it took advantage of her stillness to move closer. It had come from the cemetery, following them back in the darkness. But it wasn't the others it wanted. It was her it wanted. It had picked her and it was waiting to to what? Not knowing what it wanted was almost as terrifying as knowing it was there.
All around her there was bustling and life but she felt as if she was already dead. She was frozen in the middle of it, like in one of those TV ads where the character