Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [67]
‘We need to call the police,’ I said. The problem was, we had no phone and in order to get outside to the call box we’d have to get past that madman’s front door.
Fortunately there was building work going on in the block next door and it was covered in scaffolding, so Simon, a natural where climbing was concerned, said, ‘I’ll jump over there and get help.’
That was a brilliant plan. But then, just as he was about to jump across, I said, ‘What if he comes back? I don’t want to be on my own!’
So in the end I went. I must have stood on that window sill for five minutes before I felt brave enough to swing across. Eventually I banged on the caretaker’s door and he called the police, who arrived in minutes. After they’d interviewed me and Simon, they went to talk to the neighbour.
So what happened? Absolutely nothing. He denied all knowledge and the police said there was no evidence. They asked if I could identify the weapon, but it was a kitchen knife. There was no law about having one of those on the premises.
The only positive to come out of it was that we showed the neighbour we were prepared to call the police. He never bothered us again, but life there was ruined. I couldn’t walk down the stairs without feeling sick at the thought that he might come out. And every morning we would find both our motorbikes kicked over in the street. It had to be him.
It wouldn’t take a genius to draw the parallels between entering that building and coming home to Preston Park or one of our old flats, with that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, worrying if those men would be there or not. I thought I’d put those days of fear and intimidation behind me. I was wrong. So I had to act.
I can’t live here, I realized. But with no money and no job, where could I go?
The only saving grace in those days and weeks after the downstairs druggy incident was the Hungry Years. Ever since I’d first stepped through the door, as an illegal fifteen-year-old, I’d had this sense of déjà vu. Then, out of the blue, it came to me.
Mum used to bring me here.
I didn’t know why I hadn’t remembered earlier, but it was true. I was taken there as a toddler, allowed to wander around the bar while strangers attempted to amuse me. Mum drank snowballs. Even though I didn’t know what it was called back then, I could still clearly picture the yellow Advocaat and remembered thinking how ladylike she looked holding it.
It gave me a little fillip, realizing Mum and I had the same tastes. Maybe I blocked them on purpose, but any other emerging parallels between our lives did not enter my mind. If only they had, I could have done something about it . . .
The Rising Sun crowd were a big, brash mob. Your classic biker gang, I suppose. They played drinking games in the car park at Box Hill. Blokes would ‘accidentally on purpose’ spray beer over women’s tops so they had to whip them off and it was all a great laugh – and probably scared the bejesus out of old ladies on occasion, by looking like the tabloids’ version of typical two-wheeled trouble-makers. But they were nice guys really.
Nothing gave me greater pleasure than playing pool all night – winner stays on – and drinking and giggling with everyone and making them all listen to ‘Oh Carol’ on the jukebox. I couldn’t get enough of their company and, because they were so much older than me, everyone seemed so exotic. On reflection, most probably had day jobs in banks and things and only let their hair down at weekends, but as an impressionable teen, I just thought they were all so worldly and experienced in things I’d never understand.
Of all the characters there, one guy began to emerge more than others. As I’ve said, no one really led the group. Members came and went and the faces changed quite regularly. But during that first summer as an independent woman, I realized I was seeing one face more and more often.
The first time I saw him I was playing