Follow Me: The bestselling crime novel terrifying everyone this year. Angela Clarke

Her brain was so used to seeing images framed by her phone, it stored it in her memory alongside Beyoncé memes and artful Instagrams of avocado on toast. She couldn’t shake it. @Apollyon.

      ‘Freddie?’

      The lad looked close enough to Ajay’s profile picture: dark hair, which hung in a long asymmetric fringe over his face, kicking out on the ends like he’d used hair straighteners. ‘Ajay?’

      ‘Sup?’ He kept flicking his head to keep his hair out of his eyes. Like a shampoo advert gif.

      ‘Nice jumper.’ She signalled at his 80s knit decorated with elephants and paisley. Didn’t matter. She’d seen what was underneath. ‘Fancy a beer?’

      ‘Sure, why not,’ he shrugged.

      They took their drinks to a small round vinyl-topped table. ‘Thanks for coming out.’

      Flick. ‘No problem.’

      ‘It’s good to meet in person after…’ Freddie thought about the last Snapchat video he’d sent of him masturbating his hard cock. ‘Er…talking so much.’

      Flick. ‘Sure.’

      ‘You work in a bar, right?’

      Flick. ‘Yeah. Worked last night. Only had a couple of hours’ kip when you messaged.’ Flick. ‘Couldn’t pass up the chance to see you.’ Flick.

      Freddie laughed.

      Flick. ‘What was up with your night?’

      ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya.’ She pulled a strip from her bottle’s label.

      Flick. ‘I can imagine. We get all kinds of nutters in the bar I work in.’

      She nodded.

      Flick. ‘I’m the manager actually. Spend most of my time out back.’ Flick. ‘Working on rotas and shit.’

      ‘Mmmm.’ She tried to shake the image of her boss Dan from her mind.

      Flick. ‘You should come by sometime. I’ll shout you a couple of…’

      ‘I’m not looking for a relationship right now, just to be up front with you,’ she interrupted him. She didn’t need some boy expecting her to spend all their time together. She needed to focus on work.

      Flick. ‘That’s cool, I’m easy.’

      ‘Ajay?’ Blinked stills of Dan and Alun Mardling vied for her attention. She had to shake this off. She gulped from her bottle.

      Flick. ‘Yeah?’ His beer hovered by his lips. His dark eyes looked straight at her.

      ‘You ever done it in a disabled toilet?’

      His face cracked into a huge smile. Flick.

      ‘Meet me there in a minute. Knock twice.’ She downed the rest of her drink. Just before she reached the hallway she looked back and winked at Ajay. Cheesy, Freddie, cheesy. Whatever. She wasn’t looking for The One. There wasn’t enough time for a relationship. But why shouldn’t she have a release? Some fun?

      The disabled toilet was thankfully clean. The smell of bleach gave a sort of swimming pool vibe. A long mirror ran down one wall at right angles to the sink. She practised a couple of poses. Duck face. Leaning over the sink, she could turn back and see the reflection of him behind.

      Two knocks sounded on the door. She opened it a crack.

      Flick. Ajay squeezed through the door and they both fell against the inside giggling.

      ‘Shusshhhh!’ She placed a finger against his lips.

      He pulled her into him, his hair falling over both their faces. She pulled his T-shirt up and ran her hands over his smooth chest. He was fiddling with her jeans. She yanked them and her knickers down as he turned her and lifted her up onto the sink. She inhaled sharply as she saw her reflection in the mirror. Heck, this could work too. Her shirt was open and Ajay was kissing down, over her breasts, her stomach. He pulled her jeans down further. Kissing up from her knees, the inside of her thighs. She watched his head get closer.

      Flick.

      She clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the moan.

       Chapter 7

       IDK – I Don’t Know

      19:26

      Saturday 31 October

      Alun Mardling’s face, his eyes wide and bloodshot, loomed. His hand, bloody and cold, reached for hers. There was a thud. Freddie jolted. It was dark. She was sweat-soaked. Fabric was wrapped around her, a shroud. Her eyes struggled to focus. Where was she? Freddie could hear Mardling’s blood dripping onto the floor. No! No, it was the kitchen tap. She was home. Alone. Another boom shook through her skull. Ajay? They’d left the bar. There’d been a bottle of wine in the park. Some cans. How’d she got home? She groped for her glasses. Her head reverberated with another bang. The door. Someone was hammering on the door. Ajay? Her flatmates? She stumbled out of bed, grabbed the nearest thing: her H&M Espress-oh’s shirt, still half-buttoned, she pulled it over her head. Dizzying herself with the effort.

      Her eyes were stuck at the corners, she followed the crystallised salt tracks with her fingers. Peeling her Sellotaped tongue from the roof of her mouth, she managed: ‘Coming!’ The word was wet, sodden, heavy, though her mouth was dry. Everywhere was darkness. Another thud landed on her like a punch. How much sleep? Still drunk. Boom: her mind shook with fragments of memory. She tried to rub the image of Mardling’s body from her eyes with her fingers. Would a murderer knock?

      ‘Freddie Venton!’ a male voice shouted from the other side. Bailiffs? Like before. She tried to formulate her thoughts, sort them into order. What was she to say? The Mac was P-something’s. A flatmate’s. They couldn’t take it.

      ‘Freddie Venton, open up!’ The noise crashed like thunder over her head. Stumbling, she got a hand on the lock, pulled.

      Light from the hallway sent her reeling back.

      Nas was there, in a black trouser suit, white shirt. Her dark hair swept up away from her face. Chocolate eyes flashing in creamy whites. She had chunky boots on. Next to her: the blue puffa jacket guy who’d been with her at St Pancras. Up close, Freddie could see his blonde hair was silvering, thinning, probably why he had it shaved to a bristly number one. Unfortunately his close-cropped hair accentuated the square shape of his head. He looked like a Lego man. He was in pale pink shirtsleeves, jeans, glowing white trainers: ready to pounce. She could see their mouths open and close like fish. The air pressed upon her, heavy, as if she were underwater, words bubbled toward her. Don’t. Be. Sick.

      ‘Venton…you…connection…harm…defence.’ Their fish words didn’t fit together.

      ‘Nas?’

      What was puffa saying? Concentrate on breathing. Don’t. Be. Sick. In. Out. In.

      Nas’s hands gripped her shoulders. Anchoring her. ‘Freddie? Do you understand? You have to come with us?’ Freddie nodded. Her brain shrank away from her skull, dehydrated, a husk. Nasreen’s face came into focus. She looked older. Colder. Distant. ‘Put some trousers on,’ Nasreen said.

      Freddie looked down. She was wearing her Little Mermaid pants. Tufts of mousey pubic hair curled round the edges.

      What was going on? They walked in close formation down the stairs. In silence. Each step an earthquake in Freddie’s body. She needed a Coke. A bacon sandwich. Her stomach tidal-waved. No, no food yet. In. Out. In. Out.

      Outside was a waiting police car. Nasreen