As a reporter, it’s my job to be suspicious, so I guess I was taking my mother’s advice when she said, play to your strengths. It had always been in my nature to question everything! To never take anything at face value, to always wonder what someone was up to, what was in it for them.
So when I started to wonder why I was seeing this guy’s face every time I looked up, suspicion was just par for the course. I wasn’t being paranoid, I was doing my job. We’d never met, and yet I could recognize him on sight. At the park, at the coffee shoppe, at the grocery store, even at the Delicatessen near my office.
It wasn’t until he tried to join my Kendo class that I became truly paranoid. I watched the guy go through a challenge round with the sensei, proving himself to be the worst swordsman in the world. There was no way this guy actually thought he was up to snuff for this level of the class. It was at this point that I came to the conclusion that he was in fact following me.
So, as he licked his wounds on the bleachers, I continued on with my lesson, and plotted my confrontation.
“So, what category do you fall under?” I demanded, letting my backpack fall to the bleachers with a clatter.
“Excuse me?” he looked cornered and confused.
“Creepy stalker guy, competing journalist, P.I., or something else entirely?” I elaborated, arms crossed, waiting for an answer.
“Ah.....Umm, that would be the latter,” he admitted, his fingers fidgeting before his chest, looking like he was ready to fend off a blow.
I quirked an eyebrow in a manner that invited him to go on.
“Ehm, I’m just an observer, really. Rather, an onlooker, a spectator if you will!” He sounded desperate to assuage my mounting hostility.
“You make my life sound like a sports match,” I commented, dryly.
“Oh, nothing as barbaric as all that,” he said with disdain, his nose crinkling with distaste.
Again, the look that invited a more in depth explanation.
“Ah, well, you see...” I could see that he was thinking on his feet. The question was, was he making it up all together, or just trying to tell me enough to keep his skin in one piece while still keeping whatever secret it was that he was obviously trying to keep.
“You’ve got that look about you that says ‘you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you’,” I commented, unfolding my arms and leaning against the back of tier of bleachers in front of him.
“Um, yes. It’s something like that,” he admitted, reluctantly.
“Try me,” I offered, my voice flat, but my tone slightly less hostile than previous.
He stood bolt upright at that. “Fancy a pint? Or a cup of tea perhaps? Tanic. Good for the blood, that! Nice stiff cup of proper English tea. Just the thing for instances such as these!” He was babbling now, nervous. Perhaps working up the courage to open up to me. I decided to switch tactics, treating him like a source that I wanted inside information from. I cracked a seemingly reluctant smile. “Ya, alright then. There’s a pub up the way that serves a mean chicken pot pie, and has decent enough tea,” I allow. “Shall we change into our street clothes and meet in the lobby?”
He looks at my Kendo duds, and then down at his own, ruffled garb. “Ah, yes! This won’t do for the pub!” he exclaims, sounding more than a bit obvious. I’m beginning to wonder of the man is thick, or perhaps touched in the head.
We part ways, and I wonder to myself as I rinse off in the showers what it is that I’m getting myself into. I send a quick text off to my editor once dressed, just in case. It pays to be cautious when one’s job is to be nosey. <Seem to have a shadow. Male. Have confronted. Coffee at the Dancing Dino pub in Langley. Will advise.> The reply is immediate and to the point. <Ten four. Proceed with caution.>
I rejoin the gangly little Brit in the lobby, and wonder what far fetched explanation he could possibly have for his shadow act over the last several weeks. The trench coat he’s wearing has several bulging pockets, which are red flags to my cautious instincts. However, knowing what I carry in the bowels of my purse, I can’t rightly judge a jacket by it’s bulkiness, now, can I?
“Ah! There you are! Shall we then?” He proffers his arm, like a proper gentleman, or someone that I might be well acquainted with. I’m not sure whether to chalk this up to his own oddness, or just being British.
I take the proffered arm, and we carry on down the street. Little do I know that I am taking the first steps leading to a whirlwind of adventure.
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