Free Nocturne by Graham Hurley Page A

people I chose to come home with? And what, most important of all, might he do next?
    The more I thought about it, the more alarming it became. This lunatic, with his recorded messages about approaching doom, had become my self-appointed keeper. He was standing guard over me. He was watching the street outside. Christ, he might even be keeping a record of my movements, counting me in, logging me out. There was still no sign of violence, no definite physical threat, but he plainly had no qualms about trespass, about letting himself into my flat in the middle of the night and scaring me witless in the process.
    I tried to calm myself, to tell myself that I was unharmed, un- touched, just a bit shaken up, but the truth was that Gilbert had slipped a noose around my life and each time he stepped out of line and did something like this, the noose tightened. Where all this might lead terrified me, but trying to work out what steps to take was far from easy.
    Changing the locks was an obvious move and tomorrow I vowed to do just that. Phoning the police was another option, but the harder I thought about it, the less certain I became. Would they arrest him? Cart him off somewhere and lock him in a cell? Was that what I really wanted? I closed my eyes, trying to stop myself shivering, trying to imagine the inevitable scene, me trying to explain to some hard-faced cop that Gilbert was harmless really, just a bit odd, a bit funny. Where would that conversation take us? Would they really listen if I suggested they just had a little chat with my nocturnal visitor? Told him to behave himself? Told him to act normal?
    I shook my head, knowing it was useless even attempting to explain. The one person who would have listened and would have understood was Nikki, but just now she was on the other side of the world, which left me pretty much on my own. I had other friends, of course - mates from university days, people from work, numbers I could phone - but inviting them into my claustrophobic little world, the on-off saga of me and Gilbert, wasn ’ t a prospect I relished. They ’ d want to get involved. They ’ d batter me with advice and good intentions. And just now, all I wanted to do was stop thinking about it. If Gilbert was a headache, please God for a bottle of Nurofen.
    Full-length on the sofa, huddled under the duvet, I drifted off to sleep. Dawn brought the cough of a car starting in the street outside. Upstairs, I could hear nothing and, after the car had gone, I shifted the sofa and began to creep around the flat, moving very stealthily, the way you might behave if you found yourself locked up with a wild animal. The image was all too apt and I thought about it while I waited for the kettle to boil. It wasn ’ t Gilbert exactly, not the Gilbert I knew and trusted. It was someone else in there, someone I ’ d never met, wholly unpredictable, wholly strange, and wholly capable - as I now knew - of terrifying me. Who was this man who ’ d broken into my flat, and into my bedroom? Who was this man who ’ d stood by my bed knowing, yes knowing , the effect it would have on me? What was his name? And - more to the point - what on earth would he do next?
    I went to work. Brendan, sweet irony, was practically invisible. No surprise meetings outside the cubby hole that served as a kitchen. No chance collisions on the staircase or in the corridor. Not a single phone call about something I might - just by chance - have forgotten to do. By midday, dizzy with exhaustion, I went up to his office. He was sitting behind his desk, Sandra at his shoulder. They were going through some budget or other. I stood in the open doorway, staring at them. I hadn ’ t even bothered to co nfect an excuse for my visit.
    Sandra was frowning.
    ‘ Yes? ’
    I muttered something about one of next week ’ s Members Only guests, turned and fled. I had to get on top of this. I knew I had. No one else would help me. No one could. It was down to me. My