Miss No One, Mark Ayre [romantic love story reading .TXT] 📗

Abbie's view. Black. On the other side would be a second door. The door Abbie could see had stuck to it or stencilled on it a white stick man. The door on the other side, Abbie had no doubt, would have upon it a stick woman. Same colour.

Employees working on behalf of the local council had stuck the stick people to the toilet doors. Surrounding the stick man were numerous pieces of graffiti. Some of it artistic, most of it vile. The scribes had a preoccupation with their acquaintances' mothers and sexuality. The council had not commissioned these scrawls and diagrams. Helpful citizens had added them, completely pro-bono.

Leaning against the brick wall around the corner from the black door in Abbie's sight was a hooded person in grubby jeans and falling apart white trainers. One hand was in his pocket. The other held a cigarette or a joint. Abbie would have to get closer to find out which.

Luckily, get closer was precisely what she intended to do.

A tingle of anticipation ran down Abbie’s spine. There was nothing about the hooded man to indicate he had anything interesting to say, or that he was involved in anything of note. Quite the opposite.

But Abbie knew this would not turn out to be the case.

The battle at the dealership had marked phase one of Abbie’s mission to save the innocent child she had described to Christine.

That battle was behind her, and here was a hooded man with a cigarette or a joint.

Which to Abbie meant one thing.

Phase two was about to begin.

Seven

Abbie hesitated a moment, then left the path along which she’d been weaving, stepping onto the grass. The uneven surface was not good for her ankle, which still ached, but she put the pain from her mind. Not easy, but she’d had plenty of practice, so doable. And once it was done, she focused on the focal point of phase two. The target.

Bowed as the guy's head was, with his hood pulled right down, his peripheral was close to 0%. In fact, he likely wouldn't notice any suspicious behaviour in his vicinity unless his grubby trainers started playing pranks on his tatty jeans.

This made approach simpler, but Abbie believed, as ever, in caution. She put herself at an angle whereby the lanky guy would need to twist his head round almost as far as could an owl to see her. And the closer she got to the building, the harder it would be. Soon enough, he'd have to turn the corner of the block to spot her. As long as she was quiet, there was no reason for him to notice her until she was practically at his side.

If he was smoking weed rather than a cigarette, he might not even notice then.

Abbie had cut the distance in half before the guy shouted. By this point, the toilet block shielded half of him from her, as it would have shielded half of her from him, even if he turned her way. In fact, as the lanky guy shouted, he turned in the other direction. A second later, Lanky started to move away from the block, and a second after that, the building stole him from view.

Abbie didn't stop. She sped up a little and worried less about the sound of her boots in the damp grass. It probably would have been inaudible, even if she'd ran, and if the guy had stayed leaning against the toilet block. Now he was moving away and calling to someone; there was almost no chance he'd hear her coming.

"Hey man.”

This was his opening gambit. The toilet block prevented Abbie seeing whoever was approaching Lanky. This was good news in that it meant the approacher had almost certainly not seen Abbie either. Bad news in that it meant she had no idea with who she was dealing. It was even plausible she was dealing with multiple newcomers, although she doubted it. Unless they were walking in single file, they would soon have shown around the edges of the toilet block as Abbie approached.

"Let's talk about this."

Lanky's words were indicative. He knew whoever approached. More, he knew he'd done something wrong—at least in the eyes of the person to whom he spoke. He was in danger. And he was afraid.

That was interesting.

"Man, why ain't you talking? If I can just—“

Abbie reached the toilet block as the newcomer cut Lanky's sentence off with a fist to the face.

With a cry of pain, shock, embarrassment, Lanky spun, went to the ground. He must have fallen onto his front. Abbie could hear his knees and palms dragging in the grass as he pushed onto all fours, preparing to rise.

"Hey, dude, you don't have to—“

Another attack ended another sentence. This one sounded like a well-aimed boot to the gut.

Lanky rolled over. He was lying in the grass, clutching his stomach, panting. He was shaking his head; his eyes were watering. Abbie didn't need to see the unfortunate soul to know this. There were only a handful of ways people responded to being kicked in the stomach.

Though Abbie knew nothing about Lanky—he might well have been a serial arsonist and child molester—the fear he had displayed upon approaching his attacker made her want to intercede on his behalf. Besides, she believed, to a degree, in innocent until proven guilty. She had no way of knowing if Lanky was guilty of anything, so he was innocent, and the innocent needed protecting.

Regardless, cold calculation and judgement overruled emotion. Abbie stayed put, hidden by the toilet block, as the attacker landed another brutal kick. This time to what sounded like the hip.

Lanky screamed.

Still, Abbie waited. She waited as Lanky suffered another kick to the side, though she wanted to rush around the block and offer her assistance.

Why? Because her random wanderings had led her here from the altercation at the dealership. In Abbie's experience, that meant the conflict between Lanky and his attacker, taking place on the other side of this block, would prove to