I stood watching as he crossed the forecourt and got
into his van. It was only once he’d driven off that I realized how tense my body was. I breathed out hard, forcing
myself to relax.
It was hard to know what to make of the man. Maybe he
was genuinely concerned rather than creepy. Most people
thought it was wrong to have a nineteen-year-old female
here alone at night, but the late shift paid more than days,
and I needed the extra cash.
It was almost 2 a.m., so I forced the man from my mind,
and began to go through the process of closing up. I put the
meagre takings for the night in the safe out the back, and
then shrugged on my jacket, grabbed my bag, and made
for the door. I paused for a moment, my nose pressed against
the glass as I peered out into the darkness, alert as a gazelle
in the Serengeti. I couldn’t see anyone lurking in wait, so I
fliipped the light off . The station plunged into darkness, the
forecourt lit only by the fluorescent glow of the sign that
loomed out near the road. I pulled open the door and
stepped outside.
The smell of petrol hit me along with the cold night air.
However long I worked there, I never could get used to the
odour. It seemed to get everywhere, seeping into my clothes
and skin. After a shift, I’d always spend ages in the shower,
scrubbing away, but I still couldn’t seem to get rid of it.
I had the huge set of keys for the shop in my hand, the
correct ones already picked out for a quick getaway. There
were two locks, plus a padlock, and I had the whole process down to thirty seconds. At the end, I gave the padlock chain
a quick tug to make sure it was all in place, and then I
dropped the keys into my bag and headed off into the night.
As I crossed the darkened forecourt, I stayed on high
alert, watching the shadows for movement. It was only once
I reached the main road that my heartbeat eased. Most
people considered this part of East London to be a no-go
area, but I never minded walking home alone at night. Even
though Tower Hamlets had notoriously high crime and
poverty rates, I’d never had any trouble. I think it’s because
I managed to give the impression of being pretty tough.
Even though I wasn’t physically intimidating – only five
foot six and naturally slender – in my standard uniform of
dark jeans, biker boots and bomber jacket, I didn’t look like
someone to mess with. Plus with my short dark hair jammed
under a beanie hat, I could pass at first glance for a boy.
I set off along East India Dock Road, away from affluent
Canary Wharf, and towards less salubrious Plaistow in
Newham, where I lived. Usually there were gangs of youths
gathered round the kebab shops, but tonight the streets were
pretty much deserted. It was late September, there was
already frost on the ground, and no one was hanging around
outside without good reason.
A couple of girls my age were huddled by the 24-hour
convenience store, counting out money for cigarettes. In
crotch-skimming dresses, they looked like they were on their way back from clubbing. It was hard not to envy their
carefree demeanour. I glanced into the shop as I passed,
nodding at the assistant inside. The place was a rip-off , but
late at night it was the only way to get the vodka that my
mother craved. They’d got to know me far too well over the
years.
A sudden blast of sirens broke the silence. Instinctively I
looked round, and watched as two fire engines raced by,
followed by an ambulance. Five hundred metres ahead, the
vehicles turned right, onto my street.
My first thought was: Oh, Mum. Not again.
Then I broke into a run.
