Swaying her way down the train, Savannah Young felt someone’s eyes on her.
She was used to that. Her job - a fashion model for one of the big design houses - meant her every move was studied on the cat-walk.
But this was a different feeling. Too invasive - sleazy - as though someone were trying to look right through her clothes.
Savannah shivered, glancing over her shoulder.
No-one appeared to be looking in her direction.
The train door hissed open and Savannah stepped out onto the platform, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder again as the train rattled its way out of the platform. Taking quick steps, she moved through the crowd and onto the escalator, lost amongst the thousands of other travellers on London’s underground system that evening.
* * *
On a nice summer’s day Savannah enjoyed walking from the underground station to her flat in Golders Green. Today however she was hurrying, high heels tapping the pavement in a clipped staccato.
Somebody was definitely following her.
She’d caught sight of a shadowy figure out of the corner of her eye when she’d turned the corner onto her street, but when she’d turned back to look - nothing, nobody!
Savannah kept walking, an uneasy tingle tickling the back of her neck. Approaching the small supermarket a few doors down from her flat, Savannah ducked sideways for an instant as she drew level with the entrance.
The plate-glass window gave an excellent view behind her, and there, some metres away, stood a tall thin man.
She was quick when she turned this time, but not quick enough - the man had ducked out of sight again.
Anger surged through her as she hesitated on the pavement, working herself up to having a confrontation with whoever it was.
No, not a good idea Savvy. He was probably some nutter. It would be better to get home. But then —
Savannah turned, heading to her flat at a half-run. Her keys were already in her hand when she reached the door and she was inside in one smooth motion.
Hurrying into the front room, Savannah kicked off her high heels, slipping on a pair of pumps. Changing her coat for a short black jacket, she fished her purse from her handbag and dropped it in her pocket, then ran back to the front door.
It had taken less than a minute.
Easing the letter box flap up, Savannah saw a pair of black shoes and grey flannelled legs.
The man was standing right outside her front door!
She gasped, shutting the letter box flap as quietly as she could with trembling fingers.
How dare he make her feel this way. In her own house.
Hearing a noise, Savannah looked out of the letter box again.
The man had gone.
Grabbing a scarf, she opened the door and slipped out, wrapping the garment around her head, partially covering her face.
Setting off down the road after the man, Savannah gritted her teeth, determined to see this through.
* * *
Savannah was pacing back and forth in front of a blue painted door, struggling to make up her mind.
Should she ring the bell or not?
Having tracked the man back to his lair, it seemed silly not to find out why he’d followed her home the way he had.
She wasn’t frightened anymore. He’d seemed harmless enough when she’d followed him across London to this run-down block of flats off Albany Street.
On impulse Savannah stabbed the bell-push with her thumb, already regretting her action before she’d completed it.
Turning, she started to walk away.
“Savannah?”
Savannah turned back, seeing the shock on the man’s face.
“Who are you!” she demanded. “Why were you following me?”
“I’m your father.”
The words hit her like a punch and she felt the world spin about her head.
“But you died when I was seven,” she whispered, anger overtaking her.
“Apparently not,” he answered, pulling the door further open. “Why don’t you come inside? We have a lot of catching up to do.”