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After a couple of hours on the sofa she began to wonder why she had missed TV at all. He had every channel going of course, but nothing really caught her interest. The soap characters still seemed to be having the same crises, the politicians she saw on the news channels were still arguing over the same issues and there was still a strange preoccupation with buying and selling antiques on most of the other channels.

She leant back into the soft cushions of the sofa and closed her eyes. She felt exhausted again, having spent the past few weeks running on nervous energy and little food or sleep. It was strange she felt so safe here in a stranger's house, but, she reasoned, if he was going to do something unpleasant, he would already have done it.

"Unless he's like the witch in Hansel and Gretel," she mused, her half-asleep mind beginning to wander down strange paths, "trying to fatten me up before he eats me."

She fell asleep, but her dreams soon became troubled, haunted by the dark figure of the man that had chased her through the streets that night, but this time he was calling out to her, his voice carried on the wind, strangely familiar. At first he was coaxing, complimenting her, making her promises, but her fear consumed her and she continued to run. Then he became desperate, pleading with her before he descended into anger, making threats and shouting abuse, but all the while wanting only one thing, that she stop running and come to him.

She glanced behind her, he was still there, though whilst she seemed to be running as fast as she could, he seemed only to need to walk to keep up with her. A slow, plodding walk, that somehow meant he was catching up to her. Her chest ached, but still she ran through a dark, deserted cityscape, an amalgamation of all the places she had drifted through these past few weeks, until she ran straight into him. Martin. Just standing around in his leather jacket. He grabbed on to her shoulders. She tried to explain, explain that the man was coming after her, that they had to keep running before he caught up, but Martin wouldn't move, he just stood, gripping her shoulders, refusing to let her go. Panic overtook her and she lashed out at him, hitting and kicking but his grip remained the same. He didn't even seem to acknowledge the blows she was raining down on him.

Suddenly she froze. Her stalker was right behind her, so close she felt his breath on her neck.

"There you are." he said, "We've been so worried."

Martin let go of her shoulders, he seemed oblivious to the apparition behind her, just as he had been oblivious to her only moments before. She couldn't run this time. She was too afraid, and he was too close. She felt him reach out for her, to spin her around to finally face him, but just as his hands were about to make contact with her shoulders she jerked awake, and found herself once again on Martin's sofa.

But whilst the terrifying figure from her dream had gone, the panic he had caused remained, and she obeyed her natural instinct to run. Unfortunately, she forgot about her ankle, and for the second time in only two days she fell hard, ending up unconscious on the floor.


Cold rain was pelting the back of his neck as he fumbled with his keys, slipping down inside his jacket collar and making him shiver. He certainly never missed the English weather when he was away.

"Good thing Angela isn't out in this." he thought to himself as he finally got inside and was able to shut the harsh wind out. He rubbed his hands together, warming them, and tried to imagine her small figure huddled in a doorway somewhere, wrapped up in her old brown overcoat. It just didn't seem right somehow, not that anyone living in that state was right, but there was something more going on that he didn't understand. He hoped she would tell him eventually, just so he could do something to help her. Despite their agreement that she would stay only as long as it took her ankle to mend, he had no intention of allowing her to leave his house to end up back on the streets.

It was then he realised he had been standing in the hallway for nearly ten minutes, gazing blankly at the wall. He roused himself and walked through into the living area.

At first, he thought she must have gone upstairs, but as he moved further into the room to get a much-needed cup of coffee from the kitchen he caught sight of a leg sticking out from behind his sofa. He covered the distance in a couple of paces and found her lying face down on the floor, out cold.

He panicked slightly, all sorts of worries rushing through his mind - she must have done some permanent damage to her head this time. He shook her gently and she gave a groan probably not unlike the kind he gave when someone tried to wake him after a night of overindulgence.

"Angela...Angela..."

He must have been there for five minutes just calling her name. At first there was no response, but slowly she started to come round, more groaning at first, before eventually trying to form words. He couldn't make out what she was saying clearly, but she sounded frightened.

"Angela, please, come on, come back."

She began to move around now, still mumbling, but he caught part of it this time.

"Not you. Not you."

And suddenly she was awake. Her eyes flew open, as she tried to recognise where she was, quickly scanning the room before falling on Martin's concerned face.

"Are you OK? I found you on the floor. What happened? Can you move?"

"Just a minute." There were too many questions and her head was spinning. She closed her eyes and tried to focus, ignoring the sharp ache that she felt in her forehead. It was the dream, the horrible dream, as she remembered it the fear swept up through her body even stronger than before. It was too hot, she needed to get out, to get away from him.

He arrested her feeble attempt to get up and run and laid her back down on the rug, her hair splayed out beneath her head, which was sporting a second huge bruise from where she had hit the floor. He could feel her shaking, but he didn't know what had her so terrified.

"What happened?" his eyes darted over her trying to find some clue, before a sickening thought grabbed him. "Did someone get in here? Did something happen?"

Weakly, she shook her head.

"I fell asleep...When I woke up I forgot about my ankle again and I fell."

He knew straight away that she was lying. Or that he was only getting half of the story, but he didn't think interrogating her in her current state would be a good idea. He stared down at her for a long minute, her face contorted as she winced from the pain in her head and her abused ankle, when suddenly her whole body convulsed and she clapped a hand to her mouth.

"You feel sick? Hold on."

Without really thinking he scooped her up, her still trembling form was worryingly limp in his arms, and rushed up the stairs, depositing her in the bathroom.

She hunched over the toilet, gripping on to it to support herself, her body spasming again. She looked up at him with pleading eyes, and he quickly mumbled an apology, darting outside the room and almost closing the door.

He leant heavily against the wall, letting out a long slow breath as the worry of the moment faded. Eventually he heard her stop heaving and the sound of the toilet flush, and pushed his head round the door. She was where he had left her, even limper than before if possible.

"I'm going to move you, and put you in the spare room, OK?"

She made a small noise that he decided to interpret as agreement before he lifted her up once again and carried her along the hallway.

Everything had fuzzy edges now, and she was swimming on the edge of consciousness, sounds fading in and out as she felt herself being eased on to something soft and warm. She sighed in contentment. This was bliss. The ache in her head had vanished somewhere and all she felt was warm and comfortable. Someone was saying something, but he was too far away to hear, it was just a mumble, but it sounded nice, it was relaxing, and she let herself just drift away on it into blackness.