The Roommates

by Rachel Sargeant

  Tegan has also witnessed the scene. “Trouble in paradise. That’s what happens when you shag the students.” Imo gawps and waits for Tegan to carry on. “Apparently he got it together with a first-year drama student. Nothing serious – not on her part anyway. Next thing you know: bun’s in the microwave. She’s had to repeat the year.”

  Imo can’t believe it; not Hennessey. With Lauren. She actually liked him. Another deceiver. “But isn’t that against uni rules?”

  Tegan shrugs. “She’s over eighteen, not one of his students. Judging by the look of him, he’s come off worse.”

  He’s on his phone now, shoulders hunched, obviously freezing. The families for the afternoon crèche session start to gather under the awning and block him from view. Parents cling onto their toddlers who look as if they’d prefer to splash in puddles in the pub garden. At half past, the crèche doors open and they go in. The baton-pass in this direction is swifter and the parents bolt out again in under three minutes. Hennessey has disappeared.

  A woman, carrying a child, arrives late and has to dodge the exodus to get into the crèche. Her little girl’s auburn curls have corkscrewed in the damp air.

  “Was that Jane?” Imo asks.

  “Looked like it,” Tegan says. “Let’s go and wait on the front steps. She’ll end up there when she comes out through the gate.”

  “What will we say?” Imo feels a nervous flutter in her belly. Explaining anything to Jane Brown will surely expose how far-fetched her ideas about Amber have become.

  “We don’t speak, we follow and find out where she lives. Put your hood up.” Tegan fetches one of her jackets out of her handbag. “Needs must,” she says, looking at it with obvious distaste.

  “I thought you only sold pink,” Imo says, recognizing it as a navy-blue version of the one she’s wearing.

  “Prototype I’m trialling for men.” She smiles at the boy on the seat opposite as if about to open a sales pitch, but thinks better of it.

  They need their hoods as they shiver in the driving rain on the front steps of the union building. Tegan puts up her umbrella again but stuffs it away when a gust of wind blows it inside out. Jane Brown hurries past them when she comes through the gate. She’s turned her collar up against the rain. When she’s ten metres in front, Tegan indicates that they should go after her.

  “Do a pretend text,” Tegan whispers and Imo scrolls her phone, trying to look casual.

  Jane approaches a line of parked cars and holds out a key fob. The lights of a Ford Ka flicker.

  “I thought she didn’t have a car,” Imo whispers. “We can’t follow her now. We should have checked the DVLA under her new name.” Despondency descends and she feels the cold even more.

  Tegan looks at something over Imo’s shoulder and grins. “Don’t be defeatist. Come on.” She sprints back to the student union, with Imo following.

  Chapter 54

  Imogen

  Riku, in a giant black raincoat, stands on the steps of the student union with a parcel in his arms about to step into a taxi.

  “Wait,” Tegan shouts. “Let me help.” She scoops the parcel out of his hands and leans in to speak to the driver. “Can you follow the little blue Ford that’s about to pull out?”

  “We’re sharing,” she adds when the driver looks up at Riku for confirmation.

  Riku scowls and for a moment Imo thinks he’s going to protest, but he watches his parcel disappear into the front passenger seat with Tegan and climbs in behind her.

  After Imo gets in, the driver puts on his windscreen wipers and moves off behind Jane’s car. “Hawaii Five-O round here, init?” he says. Imo realizes it’s Hamid.

  “Don’t get too close,” Tegan orders. “We don’t want her to notice us.”

  “What if she drives onto the motorway? It’ll cost you.”

  “She won’t.”

  Her tone silences him. Imo never thought she’d see Hamid lost for words.

  Jane drives through the rain at twenty until she’s off the campus, then picks up to thirty, turning right at the traffic lights into the town centre. Imo is aware of Riku beside her – straight back, arms folded, like a sheet of angry metal.

  “Been to collect a parcel, have you?” she asks.

  His eyes move in her direction but his head stays forward.

  “I had to go there the other day. Took me ages to find the post room. It’s like Narnia.”

  His head tilts a fraction.

  “You know Narnia? I don’t know if it’s been translated. Has it?”

  Riku doesn’t respond.

  “He doesn’t give you much to work with, does he?” Tegan calls from the front seat.

  Riku’s expression is unchanged.

  “My parcel was from my grandma,” Imo says. “A cake – well, brownies. Gluten-free because … it doesn’t matter. They were stale by the time I got them.”

  Riku stares straight ahead.

  “Proper conversation-hogger, isn’t he?” Tegan says and grips the armrest as Hamid takes a sharp left when Jane turns without indicating.

  Imo puts out a steadying hand and catches Riku’s thigh. “Sorry.” His face remains impassive but she thinks she detects a nod.

  They turn right into a road called Victoria Lane. Imo remembers it as one of the places that was mentioned at the accommodation talk at the uni open day.

  When Jane pulls into a driveway, Tegan instructs Hamid to go past. The house looks like its photo from the open day display: a sprawling three-storey dwelling, early twentieth century. The kind of place to find solicitors’ offices or a dental practice, but it’s been turned into student digs. When they’ve gone another hundred metres up the road, Tegan tells Hamid to stop.

  “Right, that’ll do for now. We can go home,” she declares. “Ask Chatty Man where he wants dropping.”

  “How do you know she lives there?” Imo asks. “She might be visiting.”

  “She’s carrying Lidl shopping bags. That’s her grocery shop going into her own house.”

  Imo peers out of the misted-up rear window as Hamid executes a three-point turn, and sees Jane push the front door open with her hip and take in two heavy carrier bags.

  “Ask him then,” Tegan says. “You’re the linguist.”

  “Where do you want to go?” Imo asks Riku, but the side of his face presents an unflinching wall of silence.

  Hamid comes to her rescue. “It’s the halls on campus. That’s where I was booked for.”

  Imo reaches forward and takes the parcel from Tegan. She points to Riku’s name and uni address on the front. “Here?”

  He grabs the parcel, cupping his body around it and away from Imo. He stares out of the rain-spattered window for the rest of the journey. When they arrive outside the halls, he gets out, slams the door and disappears through puddles into the building.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” Tegan calls after him.

  Imo pays Hamid an extortionate twenty pounds.

  “Unexpected fare rate, but I’ve done you a discount,” he assures her.

  Back in their hall, Phoenix meets them at the top of the stairs. “I’ve got to talk to you. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you.”

  Imo reddens as she recalls the stuff she told Phoenix. Another heart-to-heart won’t help. But the look on Phoenix’s face tells Imo that this is about something else. She unlocks her door.

  “This can’t wait,” Phoenix’s voice is low and urgent. “It’s about Amber.”

  Imo feels a prickle of concern, but before she can ask Phoenix what she means, Riku comes out of his room with an expression like stone. How he must hate them. She gives him an apologetic smile and turns again to Phoenix. But the girl is already backing away, her skin suddenly as pale as their magnolia walls, her eyes fixed on Riku.

  “What did you want to tell me?” Imo asks.

  Phoenix shakes her head, enters her room and shuts the door.

  Chapter 55

  Wednesday 12 October

  Imoge
n

  Dr Wyatt’s morning lecture is a lengthy post mortem on the classic errors people made in their assignments. Imo feels like she’s being told off, even though most of the criticisms don’t apply to her work. She only half listens, still puzzled by Phoenix’s behaviour yesterday. Imo tried knocking on her door a few times, but she didn’t let her in.

  Lauren, who got sixty-eight percent, makes a point of folding over her feedback sheet and pushing her paper up her desk so the grade is there for anyone who cranes their neck to see. Imo doesn’t know anyone else’s score but, given the close attention they’re paying to the bollocking, there must be plenty of room for improvement. Imo feels a speck of joy at her own seventy-two percent although it’s still tinged with umbrage at all the areas for improvement in Wyatt’s feedback.

  On the way out, Lauren taps her on the shoulder and suggests they get coffee. “I’ve got twenty minutes.”

  Before you have to pick up from crèche? Imo doesn’t say what she’s thinking, but decides to accept, hoping to tackle her about the baby.

  “What did you get?” Lauren asks as they queue at the café counter. Her smile slips when Imo tells her. “Ah … well done. What did you get for the translation question?”

  “Eight.”

  “I got nine,” she exclaims. “Translations are what’ll get us a job when we graduate, don’t you think?”

  Imo spots the opening she needs. “I suppose as a translator you’ll be able to work from home. Handy when you’ve got kids.”

  Lauren looks down and chews her cookie. Eventually she chuckles. “I think we’re a bit young to worry about that.” She takes another bite and concentrates on sweeping crumbs from the table into her hand.

  “Didn’t I see you outside the uni crèche yesterday?” Imo persists.

  Lauren pours the handful of crumbs into her saucer. “Not me. Didn’t even know there was a crèche.” She brushes her hands together, dismissing the topic as well as the remnants of biscuit.

  “There’s someone on campus who looks just like you,” Imo says. “And remember when I thought I saw you with my friend Amber? That must have been your doppelganger, too.”

  Lauren shrugs. “Must have been.” She locates more crumbs and picks them off the table.

  Sickened by the bare-faced fakery, Imo’s about to make an excuse to leave, when Tegan appears.

  “You don’t check your phone, do you? I’ve been waiting.”

  Before she can think of an excuse, Tegan has led her out of the queue. Imo gives Lauren an apologetic wave and follows her flatmate to the car, feeling relieved. Anything’s better than making conversation with someone whose every utterance seems to be a lie.

  “We haven’t got long,” Tegan says as they drive out of campus. “Jane Brown will be back from dropping the kid off at the crèche by one.” And adds in a low voice, “Then I want to get a quote for the paintwork.”

  “I see.” Imo shivers, recalling the threatening note and damaged car bonnet. “Where are we going?”

  “You want to find out about the woman, don’t you?”

  ***

  It’s bin day in Victoria Lane; black and yellow dustbins occupy the length of the pavement. Imo didn’t get much of a view in the rain yesterday but today’s sunshine is doing justice to the attractive detached houses and leafy gardens. Jane’s place is the biggest, more than three times the size of the others. Dark red brickwork, stone lintels, sash windows. Four dustbins lined up by the front wall. It’s a contrast to the state of the rubbish in Imo’s halls. She and Phoenix take it in turns to drag their kitchen bin liners to the skips at the back of the building. Most students aren’t accurate in their aim and bin bags end up on the ground for the seagulls to peck. And no one takes glass for recycling. Empty spirit bottles adorn every kitchen window like sports trophies.

  They park on a side road, beyond Jane’s building, and walk back.

  “What shall we ask?” Imo says, dodging round a yellow dustbin. “Do you think she could be Cheryl?”

  Tegan stops dead, causing Imo to run into her. “I don’t much care whether she’s Cheryl or Lady Gaga, but if we can establish it once and for all, you can go back to worrying about how to work the toaster and forget about this Amber crap.” She walks on.

  There’s a lump in Imo’s throat and she suddenly wants to turn round and run home. Tegan clearly hasn’t forgiven her for getting Dylan mixed up in this. But she’s right; maybe if they can rule out this woman as Amber’s former neighbour, Imo’s anxieties might lessen.

  “What are we going to do?” she asks.

  “You’ll see.”

  There are no names on the doorbell panel, so Tegan presses the first button. After a crackle in the intercom, a girl says hello.

  “Morning. I’m Trish from Student Services.” Tegan has adopted a convincing local accent. “I’m here because one of your flatmates still hasn’t registered her daughter with us.”

  “Can’t be our flat,” the voice says. “None of the three of us has kids.”

  “Are you sure?” Deep in character, she holds out an imaginary clipboard. “It says here Jane Brown, Flat 11.”

  “This is Flat 1. I don’t even think there is a number 11, and no one called Jane lives in our flat.”

  Tegan apologizes for disturbing her and presses the button for Flat 2. When there’s no reply, she tries 3 and repeats her spiel. She works her way through the doorbells but, of the eight who answer, only one has any idea about Jane. The bleary-sounding man in Flat 10 recalls seeing a woman with a child go into a flat downstairs. He thinks they live alone but he doesn’t know the flat number.

  “Jane must live in 2 or 4 then,” Tegan says after he’s gone. “The ones that didn’t answer.” She pushes the front door of the building. “We’re in luck. The dopey bloke has buzzed us in.”

  Imo steps back. “We can’t break in.”

  “She’ll never know.”

  “But … why? She’s not going to have left her Cheryl Burdett birth certificate lying about.”

  “Of course not, but I seem to recall one of your wilder theories was that she was a drug dealer, supplying Amber and the bridge crowd. I’ll soon know whether she’s a criminal.”

  “How? Syringes and s-stuff?” The thought makes Imo shudder.

  “Stashes of cash, expensive jewellery, paintings, ornaments. Unexpected signs of wealth.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Tegan’s jaw tightens. “I just know. Are you coming?”

  Imo hesitates and checks her phone. It’s twenty to one, Jane might be back from the crèche any minute.

  “You keep guard then,” Tegan snaps.

  Before Imo can respond, Tegan shuts the door, leaving her outside. Even if she wants to follow her in, she can’t. She goes to sit on the front wall by the bins, not wanting any part of what Tegan’s up to. It’s a sunny spot on the wall but she can’t relax. The street is empty, silent. Respectable. What can some random woman from a Freshers’ Fair know about their former flatmate? Imo feels suddenly guilty, not only for being here but for dragging Tegan into it, again. For giving in to her obsession about Amber. About Sophia. She needs to get some sleep, pull herself together. As soon as Tegan comes out, she’ll go back to their flat and concentrate on being normal.

  She sits for a while, making a point of not thinking so she can blank all what-if thoughts of Sophia. Idly, she lifts the lid on the yellow bin and glimpses empty water bottles and soup cans. Lidl brand. She smiles to herself. They might be grown-ups round here but they still eat like average students.

  Her breathing skips every time a car drives past and it goes into overdrive when she hears a child’s voice. Jane Brown must be back with her little girl. But a woman on her bicycle comes out of a drive further up and pedals off to the left with a toddler in the bike trailer.

  The grinding noise of a bin lorry fills the street. Men step off the back, jog across the road, and gather the bins in bigger groups. Imo stands up when a middle-aged black guy
with a cheerful grin gets the bins near her. She smiles, wondering how he copes with the noise and smell every day.

  Then it happens. To the right, a hundred metres away, a blue car approaches. Imo can’t be sure from that distance that it’s Jane’s. Just in case, she gets out her mobile to call Tegan, but there’s no answer. She hurries to the front door and hammers. Pretty sure that Tegan’s broken into one of the flats where they got no reply, she presses the buzzers for numbers 2 and 4. Come on, Tegan, come on. But no one answers.

  Chapter 56

  Imogen

  The blue car pulls up at the house and Imo stands frozen on the doorstep, her heart belting. Jane Brown gets out with a grocery bag.

  The colour drains from the woman’s startled face. Imo braces herself when her expression changes to anger. But the fury vanishes almost as quickly as it arrived.

  “Can I help you?” she asks reasonably as she manoeuvres the dustbins to the side of the driveway with her spare hand.

  “I’m looking for you, actually,” Imo says, trying to summon the brass neck that Tegan wore when she spoke to the other residents through the intercom. “I want some advice.” She hopes Parents’ Group organizers are like welfare reps, who love it when you ask for their help and they can poke into your business.

  But Jane eyes her suspiciously. “How did you find my address?”

  “Let me just … I’ve got to send this.” Heart and mind racing, Imo fires a text to Tegan: get out. The thinking time helps. “Sorry about that. I live round the corner and saw you on this doorstep once, so I assumed you lived here.”

  “I thought freshers are housed on campus.”

  Oh, God, she’s recognized her from the Freshers’ Fair. Now what? “I don’t actually … My boyfriend does. He’s a postgrad. I spend a lot of time at his place. Halls are juvenile, you know how it is.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, hoping it looks like something a grown-up would do.

  Jane stares at her and Imo doubts she’s ever seen a more immature-looking student, but she presses on with her fabrication. “The problem is my boyfriend’s flatmate has a baby. The situation’s a nightmare.”