The Violation

His hand is on her shoulder. A rough hand with dark crimped hairs and short stubbed fingers. A slim neat scar runs the length of his knuckles. Her coat is green tweedy wool flecked with red. The colour of sphagnum moss after weeks of rain. Wool that looks soft and deep. Wool you’d like to lay your cheek on.  George Street is almost empty in that dark, eclipsed time between closing shops and beckoning bars. A group of tourists wearing pink disposable rain ponchos straggle a crooked line outside the Assembly Rooms on the other side of the street.

       ‘Excuse me,’ he says to her. She starts, her mouth opening. Her black umbrella swings down from above her head, caught by the wind and the sudden intrusion. ‘I need to tell you something,’ he says. She pulls away from him. Leaves his hand spare and loose in the air, his fingers dangling. She wields the umbrella, now a turbulent barrier between them.  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he says. Her head twists from one side to the other above the umbrella. She’s searching the street.

        She manoeuvres the umbrella back up above her head, pulls her large leather shoulder bag in close to her side and moves away from him. Checks the road for traffic. Left, right, left. She crosses, her steps a sharp staccato. She doesn’t look back. He follows her. He’s a good ten years younger than her. Perhaps thirty. Holed up in an olive green parka, the fur rimmed hood dropped over his face. The hems of his jeans are wide, wet and torn. Dirty cotton threads trail over his trainers. ‘You need to check your bag.’ He is calling after her with twisted vowels and smoke-tarred edges. He may be foreign.  Her pace quickens. Her thick red heels startle the gloom of the pavement. Rain spatters her calves, tracking up the pale tan of her tights.

         He stays a few paces back. ‘It was when you were putting up your umbrella outside the shoe shop.’ His voice is raised against the wind. She is almost running now, pulling the umbrella hard down over her head, pushing her legs through the thick pleats of her coat.  A young couple, arms wrapped around each other, splutter out of a bar a few doors ahead of her. She waves her free hand at them.

         ‘Wait,’ she calls. ‘Wait!’ They look at her, soft-mouthed with matching kohl-lined eyes. The boy hails the black cab that has slowed in front of the bar. The couple slide into the back seat and slam the door. As the cab moves past the woman, the girl’s face is pressed to the window. The girl smiles and waves. And then they are gone.

        The man catches up with the woman. Pulls his hood down. Holds his hands out, his palms open, catching the rain. ‘I just want to tell you what I saw,’ he says. The umbrella tumbles from her hand. She pulls her bag across her front, shields it with both hands. The man and the woman both look at the bag. The open zip. ‘Get away from me,’ she says, ‘or I’ll call the police.’ The man drops his hands to his sides. ‘I was just trying to help you,’ he says. The woman’s eyes narrow. Her lips thin. She may be about to spit. ‘Help me?’ she says. ‘A man like you?’ He shakes his head, opens his mouth and shuts it. He looks at her wet red shoes. The spots of muck on her legs. He pulls his hood back over his head and turns his back on her. ‘You’re not even from here,’ she says. His shoulders slump. He stands still for a moment, working his fingers, then walks back towards the way they came.