Graffiti

Prologue

The meter winked up another twenty pence. Tracey held her breath and willed the traffic lights to stay green but, as they neared, the lights turned amber and the taxicab slowed.

“You could have made that” she screamed inwardly. As if hearing her, the driver glanced in his rear view mirror, his eyes appearing narrow in the reflection.

“Good night?” he asked

“Alright,” she said vaguely.

She dropped her gaze and opened her pink clutch-bag, pulling out a matching purse. There was only loose change inside and she swore quietly, realizing that she had spent more than she had intended. Her mum always gave her money for the cab home and every time she promised not to spend it on anything else. But tonight, she and her friends had ended up at a new club where the drinks cost double the price they did anywhere else. Even though she had only brought a couple of Bacardi Breezers, it meant that she was now short.

  She sighed and without looking, reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a mobile. There was one missed call. Home. She thought about phoning back, asking for some more cab money even. But then she would have to explain why , and her mum would guess that she had been drinking. She would go on and on and there would be a big screaming match and Tracey would end up being grounded for a month. They always argue. Tracey was sixteen, for God's sake. She should be allowed to do whatever she wanted. But no, her mum always made her promise to be back by 11pm “ Else you're not going at all” , she could hear her mum's familiar voice screeching in her head. So, instead, she scrolled through the menu to the Text icon and began to thumb a message: In cab now. C u soon. Luv Txx. She pushed “send”, and felt a little easier, hoping that her mum would take this as a signal to go to bed, and that she would be able to sneak into the house without being noticed.

  The lights changed and the cab sped up again. Ss the city blurred past, her head began to spin and she felt nauseous. She hoped she would not actually be sick, and tried to focus on something else. The driver's ID badge was stuck to the glass panel that separated her and the driver. It read “William Atkins”. There was a long number after it and a photograph. She looked at the red digits of the meter again. She had to get out. Her skin felt warm and prickly and her bare legs had stuck to the leather surface of the seat. She peeled them off one at a time, as if she was carefully removing a plaster, pulling down her mini skirt as far as possible and leant forwards.

“Anywhere here, please” she called through the opening in the glass.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, here's just fine” She gave the cab driver a weak smile, got out a packet of Lambert and Butler from her bag and shook the box in the mirror for him to see indicating that she wanted a fag.

“If you're sure…” he shrugged.

The driver pulled in to the curb, brakes screeching as they stopped. “That'll be five twenty, love,” he said, turning to face her.

Tracey looked at him briefly. He did not look anything like the picture on his ID card but she supposed it was just an old photo. Tipping the change into her hand, she counted out the exact money. The taxi's engine chugged patiently over.

  When she had paid the driver, she climbed out of the cab and slammed the door shut. It was cold, and she pulled her denim jacket tight round her and began to walk down the hill. She took a cigarette out of the packet and a lighter from her pocket. Stopping for a moment, she held her coat open to shield the flame from the wind and sparked up. As she lit the cigarette, she heard a noise behind her. She jumped and looked round as a cat ran out from behind a wheelie bin and across the road. Tracey turned quickly, she tried to extend her stride, but found it difficult in her tiny kitten heels.

  Just after the railway station, she turned off into Bridge Road . It was a road she knew well, having walked it every day for the last five years, but, even so, the dark shadows made it unfamiliar and threatening. It was quiet, no traffic.

  Nearly home, she thought. Then she began to rehearse an excuse as to why she was late. “Mum I couldn't get a cab” No, hang on a minute, she had used that one last time. “Mum,, I…”

It was then Tracey heard the noise a little way ahead It was a metallic rattle, followed by an intermittent hissing. As she passed the footbridge that crossed the railway line, she saw a figure crouching down in the stairwell. He was spraying something on the wall.

The figure stood up and she felt a shot of adrenaline shiver up her spine.

“Got a light?” came a deep, gravelly voice. He was silhouetted by the amber glow of the street lamp, so she could not see his features.

  She stopped, feeling as if someone had dropped ice down her back. The glowing cigarette was still in her hand, clearly visible. Never one for thinking on her feet, she just mumbled.

“Err, yeah.” Her throat was dry. She could not move.

“Well, can I borrow it then?” he said, in a teasing growl.

The street was deserted. Tracey began to run.

He caught up with her in a few yards, grabbing her shoulders and dragging her back to the stairwell. She kicked out blindly. Her heel made contact with his leg, but there was no power in it.

“Haven't you heard,” he whispered in her ear, “that smoking kills?”

She tried to scream, but her cry was gagged as he put a thick, gloved hand up to her throat and began to squeeze.

“Quiet now,” he hissed.

In the street light, Tracey caught a glimpse of the man's face. The last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was his grotesque, twisted smile and the cold glint of a steel knife.