The Stranger

by Mark Ayre

  "There's plenty of room," said Abbie. "We can get cosy. Everyone else seems to be."

  "Lady—"

  "That's Ms Lady to you."

  Ronson closed his eyes. Took a breath. Abbie loved making them—his sort—mad. She could almost feel the heat of his frustration.

  "You don't know what you're getting in the middle of," he said.

  "That's the thing about me. I never do."

  Ronson turned to his partner. Perhaps looking for support. If so, he'd be disappointed. The non-Ronson thug had his eye on three young ladies who might have been legal, but only just. If life were a cartoon, his eyes would be on stalks. Maybe he was admiring their dresses. Somehow, Abbie doubted it.

  Seeing he was on his own, Ronson returned to Abbie. Sensing he was about to start in again, she raised a hand.

  "Let me save you some time, Ronnie. Unless you're ready to start a ruckus in this fine establishment, you'll not see my bum leave this seat. If we assume violence is out—and you look like a respectable, law-abiding citizen, so I think we can—then your choices are to join me on this bench and conduct your little conversation with Travis in my presence. Or piss off."

  Someone needed to pop a pin in Ronson's forehead. If he didn't release the steam in his skull soon, his head would explode.

  He said, "You like the sound of your own voice, huh?"

  "I spend a lot of time alone," she said. "I like talking, and aiming monologues at the mirror never has the same impact as a back and forth with another human. Especially a fine conversationalist such as yourself."

  Ronson closed his eyes again. For longer this time. Maybe Abbie had broken him because when he reopened them, he appeared to go back in time.

  "You don't know what you're getting in the middle of."

  "Yeah. You mentioned."

  He said, "What's this kid to you?"

  "An annoyance. But this isn't about him."

  "Feels like it is."

  "I can't control how you feel," Abbie said, "but whatever you're going to do, can you decide? You're making poor—" she looked to Travis' male friend, the one who was in love with the girl who was in love with Travis, and who was presently penned in by Ronson and looking as though his bladder might be about to let go. "Sorry, what's your name?"

  He said something. No one heard.

  Rolling his eyes, Travis said, "Michael. His name's Michael."

  "Michael then. You're making poor Michael uncomfortable."

  Ronson cast a glance at Michael and for a second, Abbie thought he might punch the boy, just to relieve some tension. On Ron's part, this would be a terrible move because Abbie would be forced to react. Of course, Ronson had no way of knowing that.

  Luckily, he didn't hit Michael. Crisis averted. His gaze returned to Abbie. He opened his mouth then pulled it closed. Abbie got the feeling he had been about to mention once again how she didn't know what she was getting in the middle of.

  "I know," she said. "Call me piggy."

  Admirably ignoring this jibe, Ronson turned to Travis.

  "You call the boss by 10am.”

  An awkward pause hung in the air. For a few seconds, no one spoke.

  Then Abbie said to Ronson, "I think you're supposed to say, Or else."

  Ronson turned to Abbie. "God, I hope I see you again."

  "Me too. Bring flowers. Not roses, though. Use your imagination."

  He growled. Like a big dumb animal. Which was apt.

  After pointing at Travis, a final non-verbal warning, Ronson spun, grabbed the shoulder of his useless partner, and dragged the lump away from the girls in the other corner. Fifteen seconds later, they had squeezed their broad shoulders and inflated testosterone glands out of the door and disappeared into the night.

  It was coming up on 02.30. Already, things were starting to happen.

  When the cafe door closed, Abbie looked at the three across the table, wondering if they might thank her or reveal something interesting.

  Michael and the girl looked terrified.

  Travis smiled.

  "That was hot. Now let's get you back to my place and celebrate."

  There was a long pause.

  For the avoidance of doubt, Travis said, "Naked."

  And beamed like an idiot.

  Two

  Charitably, Abbie decided to pretend Travis hadn’t made the naked comment, nor tried to entice a woman at least ten years his senior back to his place for fun and games that presumably did not include Scrabble and Twister. Well, maybe a kind of Twister.

  “What did dumb and dumber want with you anyway?” she said.

  “Forget them,” said Travis.

  “Who’s their boss?” Abbie pressed. “What’s he want with you?”

  “He’s nobody. Forget him. Let’s talk about us.”

  Travis was doing an admirable job of hiding his nerves. The teens on either side of him were lapping it up. They truly believed their leader fearless, even in the face of a situation they clearly found terrifying.

  Years of experience allowed Abbie to see through the facade. Travis was afraid alright. Pride and libido would prevent him revealing the truth of his situation to Abbie. At least tonight.

  “You should get home. Surely mummy and daddy will be worried.”

  “You think I can walk away from such a beautiful woman?”

  The girl made a small noise. Michael looked her way. Travis kept his eyes on Abbie.

  “Name?” Abbie asked of the girl.

  She hesitated. Though Abbie had done nothing to encourage the situation (except existing and being in his presence), she had captured Travis’ attention, so the girl disliked her. Perhaps you could go as far as to use the word hate.

  Once again, it was Travis who divulged the information.

  “Clarissa. But we call her—”

  “Shut up.” Abbie switched focus to Clarissa. “You tell yourself he doesn’t know. He’s hitting on and flirting with other women while you’re at his side only because he doesn’t know how you feel. That’s naive. He’s pretending not to know in the same way you’re pretending not to know how Michael feels about you. He’s an arsehole—Travis, I mean. He keeps you around because he likes people being devoted to him, but he’s not interested. He will never be interested.” She glanced at Michael, then back to Clarissa. “Give Mickey here a chance. He’d treat you right. You’d be surprised how important that is.”

  She looked from one to the other, across the three faces. Michael and Clarissa looked mortified. If Travis was annoyed that Abbie had called him out, he didn’t show it. Abbie wasn’t surprised. He had one thing on his mind. Whether he hated or loved Abbie didn’t come into it.

  Abbie wouldn’t be getting anything useful out of these three tonight.

  Still smiling, Travis leaned forward, preparing his next move. Abbie swigged from her drink for the first time. Gagged. Slamming on the cap, she chucked the drink towards Travis before he could speak.

  “Have this. It’s disgusting.”

  As Travis raised a hand to prevent the bottle smashing his face, Abbie removed a folded slip of paper from her jacket and pressed it into Michael’s hand.

  “I’d still like to know what happened here,” she said as she slid along the booth seat and climbed to a standing position.

  Michael only stared. Travis had seen the exchange.

  “What was that? Hey, you can’t be going already?”

  “Go home,” she said to Travis. To all three of them. “Must be well past all your bedtimes.”

  She didn’t look back. She went to the counter where Bobby had been watching her.

  He said, “Making friends?”

  In the last ten minutes, Abbie had seen no one approach the counter. During that time, Bobby had remained standing, exactly where he was. Somehow, his smile never faltered, and he didn’t look as though he were about to collapse from boredom. Abbie wanted to ask how he did it, but starting a friendly conversation was dangerous.

  “You see the thugs w
ho came to the table?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  “You know who they were?”

  “Not specifically.”

  “But you think you know? You have an idea who pays their wages?”

  Bobby considered this. Behind him, the kitchen was empty. His colleagues had snuck out for a fag or a spliff and would be back only when he called them. Bobby didn’t seem to mind.

  “You still haven’t told me your name.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m not in the habit of sharing information with total strangers.”

  This was not unexpected. When it came to getting to know a bit about Abbie, Bobby was obviously going to be a dog with a bone. Of course, her name meant nothing. She could give it. Something held her back. Was it worth it? Travis was not the stranger she had come to help.

  But this chicken shop was the first place she’d visited, and the only empty seat in the house had put her opposite the little altercation with Ronson. Coincidence? Possibly. That didn’t mean it wasn’t worth learning a little more.

  “Name’s Abbie,” she said. “Who’s the thugs’ boss?”

  “Nice to meet you, Abbie.”

  “Who pays their wages?”

  Bobby sighed. “Like I said, I don’t know for sure. If they were hired muscle and up to no good, my guess would be Francis Roberts.”

  “And what do you know about him?”

  Bobby glanced to the table Abbie had left. Michael had stood; Travis and Clarissa were shifting out from the bench. Michael had his head down, silent. Clarissa was still flushed red. As he stood, Travis made a joke. Only he laughed. Anger flashed across his face.

  Then they were leaving. All three glanced back to Abbie at different intervals before exiting through the front door.

  “What’s your interest in this?” Bobby asked.

  “General.”

  “Really?”

  He didn’t believe her. Why would he? Having appeared from nowhere, Abbie had stood in the way of a thug talking to an annoying kid. Now she was asking questions about a man people seemed to believe was dangerous.

  Still, she reiterated. “Really.” Thankfully, this didn’t seem to deter Bobby.

  “About Francis Roberts,” he said. “Local businessman. Owns property. Bars, mostly. Also a hotel, a spa, a restaurant. Couple of houses. He wouldn’t threaten the Times Rich List, but as far as this town goes, he might as well be Elon Musk. He likes to throw his weight around. Like a sensible person, I try steer clear, but rumour has it he deals in more than legal goods. And punishes people who upset him. Or makes them disappear.”

  Abbie listened, internalised, nodded. “Thanks.”

  Bobby stared. “That’s it?”

  “No, actually. I need a hotel for the night. Somewhere I can book a room at half-two in the morning.”

  “But you don’t want to know any more about Francis?”

  “Do you know more?”

  “Not really, but—“

  “Well then.”

  “I want you to understand,” Bobby went on, “what I said was rumour. Not the stuff about him being rich and owning property, but the illegal goods dealing and violence.”

  “I understand,” said Abbie. “And this hotel?”

  Bobby’s mouth was hanging a little. He didn’t know what to make of this mystery woman asking the strangest questions. He was suspicious. Also intrigued. Abbie could have warned him: you know what they say about curiosity and the cat.

  “Sure,” said Bobby, taking the path of least resistance. “I know a hotel that’ll take you, even this late. Can give you the address and number. Got a phone? I’ll write it down.”

  Abbie routed in her bag and withdrew two items: a pen and another scrap of paper, this one blank. She dropped them on the counter. Bobby raised his eyebrows.

  “What’s wrong with this modern world that we must insist on doing everything digitally,” said Abbie.

  “You not got a phone?”

  “Everyone has a phone.”

  Bobby opened his mouth to respond, then shook his head. Leaning over, he took the pen and began to scrawl on the paper. Once done, he handed her both, and she glanced at the latter.

  “This place has two numbers?”

  “The second one’s mine.”

  She rolled her eyes. Folded the paper and stuffed it in her pocket.

  “Any chance you had of me calling went out the window when you sold me that drink,” she said, pointing back at the table. “I don’t make friends with people who try to poison me.”

  Without missing a beat, he said, “I get the impression you don’t go in for friends at all.”

  This actually drew a smile from Abbie. Though it was bittersweet. How right he was. The sad thing was he believed it was her choice. How could he know she’d never wanted to be this cold?

  “Good night, Bobby.”

  “Night, Abbie. I hope to see you again.”

  Having already used her flowers line on Ronson, Abbie only raised a hand in a half-wave as she left the counter and departed Perfect Chicken—aka Vomit Inducing Pigeon—into the night.

  Three

  It was almost three in the morning. Despite this, the friendly-sounding Glenda Obafemi answered Abbie’s call on the third ring. There was no hint of grogginess or annoyance in her voice as she said she’d be delighted to offer Abbie a room.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can, but I might get held up.”

  “Turn up whenever, darling. I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  The hotel was only a fifteen-minute walk from the chicken shop. Abbie had halved that distance when she heard voices.

  By the time she had left Perfect Chicken, the last of the clubbers had drained away. The only noise came from people leaving the same place as Abbie and disappearing into the dark. After a few minutes, silence had enveloped her.

  Until the voices.

  She’d told Glenda she might get held up. If asked to suggest a percentage chance that a random encounter would waylay her progress to the hotel, she would have lied because 50-50 sounded ridiculous to any ordinary person—anyone without Abbie’s experiences.

  She was walking through a commercial neighbourhood when she heard them. At least two men. Arguing.

  Offices flanked her. All silent. Dark. Between two buildings, an arched alley offered enough room for a car to pass under into what was presumably a carpark at the back of the two offices on either side of the tunnel.

  The tunnel itself was shrouded in darkness. The voices came from its other end, in the carpark.

  Most people would walk on. After all, the argument was probably private. It didn’t sound as though anyone was under attack. And who wanted to put themselves in danger when they hadn’t been spotted, when they could rush home to a warm bed?

  Abbie was on the other side of the road to the tunnel. The moment she heard the shouts, she stepped off the pavement and crossed the street. On the other side, she moved quickly to the end of the tunnel and peered into the darkness.

  The voices were low but agitated. Even from this distance, Abbie struggled to make out what they were saying. She could tell now that, unless there was a silent party, it was definitely two men. Or one, arguing with himself and good at changing his voice.

  The tunnel was short. Abbie stepped in and crossed to the wall closest to the men. They were out the other side, around the corner from the wall which Abbie now pressed against. The carpark itself was gloomy. Lit by a single lamp on the back wall of one of the offices.

  As Abbie edged up the wall, the voices became clearer.

  “You honestly think I could just walk away?”

  “You have to.”

  “My life is here.”

  “What life?”

  This brought a stunned silence, and in that silence, Abbie could almost hear the hurt of the man who had been told he didn’t have a life.

  “Danny, sorry, I didn’t mean—“

  “You think ’cause I ain’t got th
e wife and house, baby on the way, I ain’t got a life? You think I can just walk away and start again?”

  “I’m not saying it’ll be easy. I’m saying it’s your only choice.”

  Abbie had reached the end of the tunnel. Her back remained pressed to the wall. The men stood around the corner, probably only a couple of feet away.

  “There’s always more than one choice,” said Danny. “And I choose to come home. To my brother, my friends. To my…”

  He cut off. Abbie stayed pressed against the wall but felt uncomfortable eavesdropping. It wasn’t her style.

  “Your what?”

  Danny took a breath as Abbie stepped away from the wall.

  “You know who I mean,” he said. I love—”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re a moron.”

  Abbie stepped around the corner as Danny punched the other man in the face. As Man Two staggered back, Danny came forward and swung another fist. Wild, reckless. He got lucky, and Man Two went down.

  Danny wasn’t done.

  He made to charge.

  Abbie grabbed his jacket. Yanked. As Danny came back, Abbie lifted a leg and tripped him. Took him to his behind on the concrete path.

  She said, “I think that’s probably enough.”

  Man Two was already rising. From the floor, a dumbfounded Danny stared at Abbie as though she were an alien.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Come on, Dan. There’s no need for that.”

  “Fuck off, Eddie,” Dan said. “I’m not talking to you. I’m asking this bitch a question.”

  Danny turned back to Abbie, but she was looking at Eddie. Having fallen between two empty parking spaces, he’d risen right in the line of the lamp on the back of the building. The glow illuminated his face as a spotlight will illuminate an actor’s on stage. He blinked and stepped to one side before it blinded him. Even in the gloom, Abbie could clearly make him out.

  Eddie was her stranger. The man from her dream.

  “Hey, what are you, deaf?”

  As he spoke, Danny rose and grabbed Abbie’s arm. When she’d grabbed his jacket, her sleeve had ridden up. His fingers touched her skin, and she jerked away.