The bus-stop in Rothwell, outside Leeds, at seven-thirty on a gloomy December morning. Bus to work at a library supply firm. No-one around. Passing cars loom and lighten the interior, then pass into the greyness of the day. Drizzle. No-one around. The woman waits and watches for the bright interior of relief that the bus will bring: the friendly exchange with the driver and the lurch into the seat; familiar travelling faces and forms; the comfort of not being alone in the bus shelter on a lonely strip of dual carriageway… No bus. No-one around. The cars and the time pass by. She glances up and down the dark pavement; peers through the road grime of the window at the outline of the van in the lay-by: fifty yards of a woman’s fear are one step for the out-sized monster of imagination, heart beating, with hammer blows. Van door opens; burly shape steps down and to the rear doors. No-one else around. Her heart is banging in her; her grip on her bag-strap is knuckle pale in the gloom, but she has no eyes for that. A door slams; an engine churns into life and an ordinary van man’s day goes on. The bus stops; she gets on, with the over-the-shoulder dread of every woman in Yorkshire. It is 1979 and each murder takes its toll on the collective consciousness. I am that woman.