‘Nat, stop. Please. I’ve got a stitch, I can’t run any longer.’
Nat looked behind her, and saw Sam bent double, in obvious distress. She shook her head. ‘He’s still following us.’
‘Please,’ Sam began, but Nat stopped her.
‘He’s gonna catch us, Sam, so we have to keep going. We have to run, Sam. Fucking hell, come on, or he’ll catch up with us again.’
The Saturday had started brightly enough, two foolish fifteen-year-olds determined to track down their favourite comedians in a local café they were said to write in. They had a vague idea where they were going, but they never expected to find themselves stood across the road from the High Tea Café, staring through the window at their idols as they drank tea, riffed ideas, and remained oblivious to the two amateur stalkers outside the glass.
How different things would have turned out, if they’d looked up just then, and saw two foolish fifteen-year-olds trying to barricade themselves into the telephone-box, as two men banged the door, asking for their names, telling them how sexy they were.
How different, if they’d looked up to see two fifteen-year-olds rushing from the telephone-box towards the high-street, tears streaming, as two men chased them.
Would it have inspired a sketch if they’d seen one of the men get knocked flying by a mobility-scooter, presumably driven by a guardian-angel?
Unlikely they’d have found much to laugh at had they seen two fifteen-year-olds wedged behind a rusting car in a side-street garage stinking of piss; Nat with her hand over Sam’s face to try and quieten the panting and sobbing. Two fifteen-year-olds watched, more afraid than they’d ever been before, as the psycho’s shadow passed by, almost out of sight. And then paused, and walked back towards the garage-door.
Selected - Weekly Write - Week 11
Published in Issue #27