Go take a running jump

Am I being followed?

No, that’s crazy. It’s the first proper warm day of spring and there are hundreds of runners like me jogging beside the river (not to mention the cyclists and dog-walkers). It’s simply someone running at a similar speed to me.

It’s just that he’s been there forever, always too far back for me to slow and let him pass, too far back to get a proper look at him. Yet I hear his feet pound, pound, pounding behind me as I run and the heavy rasp of his breathing, like an elderly dog on a hot day.

I look over my shoulder, trying to catch a proper sight of him, but he’s just an anonymous figure at this distance; a man in a dark tracksuit, dark hair, no distinguishing figures.

It reminds me of the stalker I had when I was 17. Well, stalker wasn’t a term that existed then, he was just some creepy kid from school who used to hang around outside my house. He never spoke to me, avoided me if I tried to speak to him, but he was always there. He followed me a few times, probably more than I was aware of. I remember coming out of the cinema once to find him standing there, as if he’d followed me and just waited outside for three hours.

I was relieved when he stopped, when he just wasn’t there one day, nor the next. He wasn’t at school either. I hoped he’d moved away. It wasn’t until he wasn’t there that I realised how much he worried me, how much the fear had been eating into me. I had no idea what was going through his head, what he might do. I hadn’t, I realised, slept properly, eaten properly, I’d had a half-life all the time he was there, skulking outside, saying nothing.

I found out later that my then boyfriend had given him a beating. A proper beating. The reason he’d disappeared is that he’d been hospitalised. The police spoke to me, and to my boyfriend, but nothing was ever done. When I did see the kid again, about a year later, he was walking with a limp and went out of his way to avoid me.

This isn’t a stalker though, is it? I’ve not noticed him before and I run two or three times a week and there’s been hardly anyone else out running all winter. Surely stalkers don’t just come out when the sun’s shining?

Oh thank god. He’s overtaking me at last. I slow to half pace and let him pass. He sprints past and is soon a long way ahead. If he runs that fast why on earth was he trotting along behind me for so long?

Pound, pound, pound. The footsteps are still there, ever-present. I turn and stare, he’s still there. It must have been his twin that ran past, or just another anonymous middle-aged guy.

It’s no good, this is just freaking me out. I stop. I take out my water and do some stretches. I’ll let him pass me, not worry about my time. I deliberately avoid looking behind, I won’t let him know he’s won, I’m just a runner taking a break. I take on board some more water, do some more stretches.

Any second now he should pass me and I’ll be able to continue in peace. I allow my eyes to scan behind me. Fuck! He’s come to a stop too. Even though I’m on a busy footpath in broad daylight I feel fear flooding through me. It takes me back to the time of that creepy kid hanging round outside my front door.

I start running. I don’t turn, but I listen intently to check whether he is following. I can hear the swish of paddles in water and the grunts of rowers as a boat passes. I can hear the screams of children annoying cows on the bank opposite. I can hear the distant hum of a canal boat out for its first adventure of the year. I can hear pound, pound, pound.

I can’t stop again, not so soon, what would it achieve. If he stops too I’ll have gained nothing. I speed up, even though I’m sure he can outrun me. I put everything into it though, a real burst of speed, as if I’d spied the finish line at the end of a long run. If the guy is just running at a constant pace that happens to be the same as mine I’d be out of sight by now, if he’s deliberately following me then he’ll still be there.

Again I’m afraid to turn. I listen.

Pound, pound, pound.

As I thought. I can’t outrun him, I’m just not fast enough.

A group of three men run towards me. I think of stopping them, asking for their help. But what would I say? Do I really believe it myself? There are, after all, so many runners out by the river today, why shouldn’t one be running at my pace.

The runners pass. I’ve missed my chance, though there will be other runners I can stop for help if I really want to. I don’t. I decide to confront him myself. Well, not confront him, but find him out. After the next bend, I decide, I’ll turn round and run straight back at him, see what he does. At the very least I’ll find out what he looks like, whether I’ve seen him before.

The bend approaches. Pound, pound, pound. I get all the way round, until I’m hidden from view by the trees, then turn and sprint back. ‘I’ll stare you out’, I think, ‘dare you to turn and follow me’. And if you do, then, and only then, I’ll scream for help.

I tear round the corner and … and nothing. He’s not there, not even in sight. He must have turned round a while ago. He was just a runner out for a run.

I relax. I’ve cut my run short by a mile or so, but that doesn’t matter. I can enjoy the rest of the run without him, just enjoy the sunshine, the absence of cold.

My enjoyment is cut short. A shiver runs through me. I hear the sound of footsteps behind me. Pound, pound, pound. The desperate breathing, like a dying dog struggling to stay alive.

I recognise him now. He has, I realise, been running behind me all my life. He is my shadow, my curse, my doom. I know for certain that I will never be able to shake him off.