Early 70s, Leeds.

Foot steps.

Not happening. Not to me?

Footsteps. Footsteps.

Is it since the bus? Got off at my stop? Into the dusk. Deep into autumn term and darkening nights.

Footsteps, footsteps, footsteps.

Just the empty street. All the doors closed. Keep walking. Remember the old ad we’d chant as kids. ‘Hot chocolate, drinking chocolate. Hot chocolate, drinking chocolate. ‘Only it’s not raining. But it will be alright. ‘Hot chocolate, drinking…’

Footsteps! Footsteps! Footsteps!

Like a little girl. Back running in the playground. My first world.

Quick, quick, quickening!

Some bully boy. Lifting the back of my skirt to see my knickers.

Footsteps! Quick! Run! Can’t run. Caught. Tugging at me. Then…

RAGE!

Lunge round, hurling like they do on the Olympics. My schoolbag - heavy with Macbeth and 0-level algebra. My learning, my future.

A voice yells.

‘Ger off us!’

It’s my voice. Hearing it gives me courage to see him. Weedy creep in a woolly hat! He turns. He runs. Footsteps, footsteps, footsteps. I cry but the really wet tears won’t come. Now I can run. I’m the footsteps now. Into the house, where tears are safe.