Elizabeth jolts as her daughter jumps at the window. “Charlotte, will you please stop trembling?” Elizabeth snaps, sharp eyes turning. “Nothing will happen to you, do you understand? Nothing!” She slams her hand on the kitchen table, making the cups rattle.
“But Mum,” Charlotte’s voice wavers, her knuckles white on the curtain, “he might be back. Katie from the end terrace said she saw him near the shops yesterday. Asking about us.”
“And what of it?” Elizabeth demands. “Asking isn’t a crime! We’ve done nothing wrong! It’s been fourteen years, Charlotte. Fourteen! You were eighteen then, practically a girl. You’re a grown woman now. It’s time to let it go.”
Charlotte slowly retreats from the window, sinking onto the chair beside her mother. Unshed tears shimmer in her eyes. “Mum, what if he really has returned? What if he’s found out where we are now?”
Elizabeth sighs, pushing her teacup away. Charlotte is thirty-two, yet she still flinches at loud knocks, glances over her shoulder constantly, wakes at night drenched in sweat. “Listen to me,” Elizabeth says quietly, taking Charlotte’s chilly hands. “That was so long ago. We’re different now. You have your job, your life. You must move on.”
“How?” Charlotte wrests her hands free, pacing the small kitchen. “How can I forget what he did? Remember hiding under the bed at night? You changing the locks every month? Even when he was in hospital with a broken leg, we were terrified he’d get out early and come!”
Elizabeth closes her eyes. She remembers the siege mentality, triple-checking every bolt, sleeping in day clothes for a quick escape. The fear, a constant unwelcome guest.
“Mum, remember that constable?” Charlotte sits back, hands pressed to her chest. “He just shook his head. ‘Prove it was him,’ he said. How could we? He was cunning enough to leave no trace when witnesses were near.”
“Don’t dredge it up,” Elizabeth whispers.
“Why not?” Charlotte flares. “Because this terror still lives inside me! I can’t marry, because I’d have to explain. I don’t have friends over, in case he watches and learns something!”
Elizabeth stands, pulling her fragile daughter close. Charlotte feels just as slight as she did back when they hid from Nicholas Stevenson, the neighbour opposite.
He appeared shortly after Charlotte turned seventeen. A man in his late forties, recently divorced. At first, charming, even gallant; holding doors open, carrying shopping, bringing sweets. “Such a pleasant man,” Elizabeth told Auntie June next door. “A rare sort these days.”
Then it changed. Nicholas seemed to be everywhere: the shops, the bus stop, the park. Elizabeth thought it coincidental; Exeter felt small sometimes. Then came the calls. Silent breathing late at night. Elizabeth stopped answering, then unplugged the phone.
“Mum, that first time he hammered at the door?” Charlotte murmurs into her shoulder. “We stayed awake till dawn, listening.”
Elizabeth remembers vividly. They were watching telly when the banging started – relentless, demanding. “Who is it?” Elizabeth had shouted. Silence. Then more banging.
“Open up. I know you’re in,” Nicholas’s voice slithered through the wood. “I need to speak to Charlotte.”
“About what?” Elizabeth retorted. “Go home!”
“I won’t leave until I speak to her.” His voice held an unnerving edge. “Charlotte, I know you hear me. Come out.”
Charlotte, pale as milk, had trembled on the sofa, silently mouthing “Don’t!” at her mother. The banging lasted an hour. When it stopped, Elizabeth felt him lurking. Peering through the spyhole, she saw only darkness – his finger blocking the view.
“And then the notes started,” Charlotte whispers. “Slipped under the door, in the postbox… such filthy things he wrote…”
Elizabeth shudders. She tries to forget those notes – lurid fantasies, threats, demands. “I know your schedule,” they said. “I see who you meet. Meet me, or you’ll regret it.” He promised pain if she resisted.
“I went to the police station,” Elizabeth says. “Remember the welcome I got?”
“‘What’s he actually done?'” Charlotte mimics the constable’s bored tone. “‘Knocked? Maybe he wanted sugar. Notes? Prove it was him. Without a handwriting match…'”
“‘You live close, neighbours fall out,'” Elizabeth adds, recalling the sergeant. “‘Sort it out yourselves.'”
Sorting it was impossible. Nicholas grew bolder, sensing impunity. He lurked by the door, followed Charlotte to the bus stop, mirrored her steps across streets, stood too close in shops, breathing heavily, muttering.
“Mum, the flowers?” Charlotte asks.
“I remember. Red roses.”
“Left at the door with a note. Said it was a ‘final warning’… that I’d regret refusing him.” Elizabeth had flung the roses down the rubbish chute. The note went to the police station. No help came.
“Where’s the note? We need handwriting analysis,” the sergeant said.
“He used block capitals!” Elizabeth explained.
“Can’t prove a thing. No crime committed.”
“Wait until he commits one?” Elizabeth had stormed.
After that, Elizabeth fortified their home: multiple bolts, a new lock, pepper spray.
“Mum, when we moved to this flat, I thought it was over,” Charlotte says. “Remember how happy we were? New neighbourhood, new people…”
“Too soon,” Elizabeth sighs. “He found us within three months.”
They’d moved across Exeter, renting a small flat near the other side of town. Elizabeth got a job as a nurse at the nearby surgery, Charlotte worked in a shop. Life seemed brighter. Until Charlotte saw him, waiting by their new doorsteps one evening. He smiled, waved familiarly.
“I ran like mad inside,” Charlotte recalls. “You got home asking what was wrong. I said: ‘He found us.'” That night, they huddled over tea, wondering where they could possibly hide. “Then the notes started again. The calls. Nighttime knocking.”
“And the police still couldn’t act,” Elizabeth says bitterly. “‘Could be kids messing about. Are you sure?'”
They were certain. Nicholas didn’t bother hiding. He knew they lacked proof. Only the fear grew daily.
“Mum, that day in the supermarket… when he grabbed my wrist?” Charlotte shudders. “I thought it was over.” Elizabeth remembers Charlotte returning trembling. Nicholas had cornered her, seized her, hissed, “How much longer will you run? You can’t hide.”
“I told him, ‘Let go or I’ll scream!'” Charlotte recalls. “He laughed. ‘Go on. I’ll say we’re old friends.’ He let go when people came down the aisle.”
“Constable couldn’t help then either,” Elizabeth states flatly. “No witnesses. Your word against his.”
Life became perpetual tension. Charlotte was afraid to go out alone; Elizabeth escorted her. They stopped going to the cinema, the pub, even shopped far away.
“Remember visiting Granny?” Charlotte asks. “Down to Cornwall that whole summer?”
“How could I forget? We thought he’d never find us there.”
“He did. Turned up a month later. Stayed nearby and walked past Granny’s
Then, with the city lights twinkling outside their Exeter flat, Elizabeth gently wipes Charlotte’s tears away and murmurs, “We’ll report Katie’s sighting to the constable first thing tomorrow, love, but tonight we rest easy knowing we’re stronger than any shadow from our past.”