Eight months I’ve been seeing her now. She likes the Italian place on Victoria.
The way she moves, sensual and catlike, but never forced, pure class, natural. You’ll see some walking like supermodels on the high street. But watch them long enough until they’re tired, or rushing, or drunk, or just when town is empty - the whole act disappears. Not my Dianne, even when she’s tired she moves the same, only she tilts her head to catch the sky in her eyes and air in her mouth.
The first time I seen her she was on the verge of being attacked. I had clocked an ex con, a known nonce stalking her through the town centre, towards the boundary. The boundary is the limit of our vision. It is where the linked cameras end and the privately owned take over.
The nonce had a distinctive way about him before striking. I’d seen it before. Sometimes we are shown the rapists on re-runs to get a feel for potential attacks. He showed all the signs, eager and psyched.
I didn’t let the police know I was calling on a hunch. I wasn’t taking chances. But the town was quiet, and they responded in good time.
I watched the nonce approach her from behind in silence. He gestured for the time and began making polite conversation. She continued on, checking her watch into the distance and beyond the screen.
I stayed beyond my time until I could get feedback from the police that she was ok. I barely slept for days after. Then I saw her on a Tuesday, walking, elegantly, beautiful. When she was gone I’d search for the nonce. McVicar was his name. I got his details and address. If I see him go after her again it would be his last time.
May I ask why you shortened the piece? 
The sun never shines on closed doors
