Part 2: How I was nearly kidnapped. Twice

RECAP: If you haven’t read Part 1 and would like to, click here

If you’re 11 or above, I’m sure you’ll remember your transition to big school. No longer homed by your protective primary school, you were plunged prematurely into the depths of an alien planet. Bemused, you faced the inevitable task of making new friends. So it was almost convenient for Mini Me when my classmate, Lily, fell victim of a nosebleed just as the school day ended.

“What an opportunity!” I thought. Still new and relatively low on the popularity scale, I played Good Samaritan and stayed a while to offer moral support to my new friend, Lily.

Twenty minutes later I was ready to head home. But twenty minutes was long enough for dusk to start drawing the covers. The mad rush had ended. No cars. No people. The birds seemed to have retreated to their nests, too. The only sound was the eerie scratching of leaves against the pavement. But being alone didn’t bother me. Strapped to a humungous rucksack, I marched down the road towards the High Street.

It wasn’t long, however, until I noticed two young lads a short distance behind me. Surely it was nothing sinister though, just two young lads. After all I was at the High Street now with cars and people and street lamps. But to err on the side of caution, I crossed the road. And as I did so, one of the lads ran ahead of me, leaving his mate on the other side. Weird.

I was now walking behind one and parallel with the other. Why would two guys who were 30 seconds ago laughing together now be walking in the same direction on opposite sides of the street? With a quickening pulse, I decided to cross back and take refuge in the library.

Pretending to be confused I awkwardly entered the library, waited a few seconds, turned around and exited. But they were still there. Lingering. Both of them. Together. Waiting against the wall on the other side of the road. That was it. I returned to the library and started to ball my eyes out.

“P-p-please can I… use the phone… to call my m-mum” I sniffled to the librarian. Taken aback, she looked at me and nodded, pushing the phone towards me. I dialled home and was greeted by my mum’s cheery voice. Crying , I demanded that she come to pick me up from the library.

“What? The school library?” I could hear the confusion in her voice.

“No, Southgate Library.”

“Why are you there? Start walking towards the station and I’ll drive up to meet you, okay?”

“NO! Come in and get me!” There was no way I was leaving this library alone. But I could hardly explain the situation over the phone; I could barely comprehend it myself…

Mum sighed, telling me she would have to pay for a parking ticket and that it would come out of my pocket money. Still crying, I hung up the phone and hid amongst the bookshelves until my mum’s arrival. I dared a peak out of the window and, to my terror, the two men had crept nearer. Now at the gates of the library, their presence made me feel faint. It was like a scene from the Weeping Angels episode of Doctor Who; turning away had only made them come ever-closer.

Two minutes passed. Three, four, five minutes. That agonising wait in the library felt like one hundred life times but eventually my mum swooped in. Upon seeing my hysterical crying, Mum’s face turned pitiful and she embraced me in one of those curative hugs only a mother can give. I was even treated to a Waggon Wheel (the marshmallowy, chocolatey, biscuity delicacy).  I still got my £5 pocket money that week, so I assume the threat to deduct the car park toll was forgotten.

Joking aside, this experience really hurt me. Maybe they were mucking around and thought it would be funny to terrify a twelve year old. Maybe they really were planning to kidnap me, murder me and chuck my body in a skip. Or maybe they weren’t targeting me at all. But I doubt it: all my instincts told me I was a victim of whatever game they were playing. In the following months, I fretted about it everyday. It took at least a year, I would say, for the return of my confidence to walk alone. 

Year 7 should have been care free but for me it was filled with anxiety. I hated school and struggled profoundly to leave the house every morning. I wonder if my scary ordeal was the cause… I don’t know and I never will. I just hope that one day the perpetrators have families and settle down. And when they look at their kids, maybe they will remember me.

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2 comments

  1. Sheila Herbert · July 15, 2016

    Another fantastic blog!

    Sent from my iPad

    Liked by 1 person

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