The Stranger

by Mark Ayre

  Locked, but that was no problem. Abbie crouched and peeked through the keyhole. No key in the lock from the other side. Perfect. She’d had plenty of experience picking locks, and this model would do nothing to trouble her.

  It took twenty seconds. There was a click, but nothing Travis would hear over the telly. Because of how high he had the volume, Abbie didn’t need to be overly cautious when she opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. Though she was anyway.

  The kitchen was as empty as it had looked from outside. To the immediate left of the door through which Abbie had entered was an internal door she knew would lead into the living room. Ignoring this, she crossed to the only other interior door, pressing against it an ear.

  Because of the telly, she had no hope of hearing if anyone was on the other side if they weren’t shouting. Still, this door couldn’t open onto the living room, and Abbie suspected she and Travis were alone in the house. Or at least downstairs.

  With some care, Abbie opened the door and stepped into the hall. Straight ahead was the front door. Through frosted glass, she could see no one approach, nor was anyone standing on the doorstep, waiting to knock or to let themselves in. To her left was the wall which separated Abbie from Travis, and to her right was the staircase. Walking behind Travis’ back, with a wall in between, Abbie went to the foot of the stairs, turned, and made her way up.

  The absence of any vehicles on the drive suggested Travis’ parents were out. Michael had revealed Travis had a little sister, and there was a chance she was upstairs. If she was, Abbie guessed she would be behind a closed door. So long as Abbie didn’t walk in on the young teen, presumably interrupting a diary writing session, there was no reason that woman and girl should bump into one another.

  At the top of the stairs was a circular landing off which sprouted five bedrooms and a bathroom. All of the doors were closed, but that was no problem. Michael had been here many times, and as they drank their coffees, he had told Abbie she wanted the second door on the left from the top of the stairs.

  This door looked like any of the others. If Travis had had a phase during his adolescence or boyhood when he’d felt the need to put a sign on the door reading: TRAVIS’ ROOM KEEP OUT, or PARENTS BEWARE, those days were long gone.

  Praying that Travis hadn’t found some other girl to fill his bed after Abbie’s rejection—perhaps Clarissa—and if he had, that he hadn’t left her upstairs while he went to watch TV, Abbie turned the handle and opened the door onto an empty room.

  And jumped as someone knocked on the front door.

  Annoying. Abbie hadn’t realised how tense she was. She was sure Michael’s story had softened her. She wasn’t usually so prone to shock.

  Whoever was at the door knocked again. Abbie heard shifting in the living room, then Travis turned off the telly. Or at least switched it to mute. Abbie heard his footsteps and receded into the doorway, holding the handle as she went.

  The living room door opened. Travis stepped into the hall, took two steps, and stopped. Through the frosted glass, he could see the shapes of whoever waited for him to answer. He took a breath. This and the hesitation told Abbie all she needed to know about the visitor or visitors.

  Travis remained still for a few seconds. Long enough for Abbie to wonder if he might refuse the knockers entry or try to run out the back. Not Travis. His arrogance and pride wouldn’t let him play it safe. After another breath, he stepped across the hall and threw open the front door.

  “Hello, Ronson, Kline; how can I help you?”

  It was Ronson who responded. “You didn’t call the boss.”

  “Yeah, well—“

  Ronson punched Travis in the face. Abbie heard the teenager collapse to the carpet.

  Ronson stepped into the house.

  “It’s time we had a little chat.”

  Eleven

  As Ronson and Kline moved into the house and hovered over the crumpled Travis, Abbie stepped further into the bedroom and eased closed the door. The hinges didn’t creak when the door moved, nor did the handle when she pushed it down. She closed the door with almost complete silence. No chance those downstairs had heard her.

  Now she had to act fast.

  If Michael or Eddie had been on the end of Ronson’s fist, Abbie would have struggled not to rush down immediately, to intervene before the thugs caused severe damage. Travis was annoying, and she felt it essential she at least try to find the bag before getting involved. She’d have to hope Ronson and Kline hadn’t brought pliers and a blow torch, and that if they had, they would be content throwing a few more punches before busting them out.

  “This is a mistake,” she heard Travis say from downstairs. That his voice was so audible made her worry about her movements, and she endeavoured to be even more careful.

  “You think?” said Ronson. “We know your parents and sister are out all day. Lucky for you. Means they don’t get hurt, and we get uninterrupted time to chat.”

  Abbie examined her surroundings. The room was large. Abbie’s parents had been well off, but the room she’d grown up in was fifty per cent smaller than this.

  Perhaps because he was a teenager, or perhaps because he was annoying, Abbie had expected Travis’ room to be a tip. Not so. There were a couple of items of clothing strewn over the back of a chair, and his keys and wallet had been tossed on the floor when he came home the previous night. Other than that, the room was pretty ordered, pretty clean.

  “Your boss doesn’t want to piss me off,” said Travis. “Doesn’t need to either. I’m willing to work with him.”

  There was a soft thud, and Travis groaned. Abbie guessed Ronson or Kline had kicked him in the stomach.

  Abbie clocked all the room’s available hiding spaces. Eleven total. She’d check the bed first. There was at least a foot of clear space beneath. An amateur hiding place, but Travis was hardly a pro.

  As Abbie got onto her stomach, Ronson said, “You have something our boss wants. For which he offered to pay good money.”

  “Not good enough,” said Travis.

  Ronson ignored this. “You going to tell us where it is, or do we have to beat you bloody then tear this place apart?”

  Travis laughed and said, “You really think I’d be stupid enough to keep it here?”

  As Abbie reached out and pulled from beneath the bed a woman’s bag.

  Travis was being obstinant, and Ronson did not strike Abbie as someone who possessed a great deal of patience.

  There was another kick, then Travis was hauled from the ground, smashed into the bannister. Someone punched him in what sounded like the stomach, then what sounded like the jaw.

  Ronson said, “Are you ready to be reasonable now?”

  “I want to speak to Francis.”

  “Then you should have phoned him by ten-thirty like I said. You missed that chance. Now you deal with me. Where’s the bag?”

  Travis’ room boasted a huge set of windows, two of which were large enough for Abbie to escape through. Peeking through the glass, she saw the patio below. There were no obvious hand or footholds to aid an escape, but Abbie was sure if she dangled from the windowsill, she could drop to the ground without sustaining damage.

  And speaking of injury—Ronson punched Travis again.

  “Where’s the bag?”

  Travis muttered something Abbie couldn’t hear. That Ronson punched him again was evidence he had not given an adequate answer.

  Abbie looked at the bag. It was small. Black. Appeared to be genuine leather. The brand logo on the side suggested it had not come cheap. No doubt bought with Francis’ blood money. It was nowhere near as practical as the drawstring bag Abbie kept over her shoulder. Though an argument could be made that it went better with an evening dress.

  Some more muttering. Another punch. This had gone far enough.

  Rising from beside the bed, Abbie moved to the door and dropped both her and Francis’ wife’s bags beside a chest of drawers. Over her head, she pulled her hoody. Unlike wi
th Bobby, the reasoning for losing it was not flirtation or seduction. Stepping from the bedroom into the landing would put Abbie on an inevitable crash course with a physical altercation. Scrapping first with Danny, then Eddie was one thing. Both men had been wild and thoughtless in anger or grief. If possible, Abbie would wind up Robbie and Kline to the point of careless frustration. But they were used to fighting, and she would likely have to face both at once. She would need every advantage she could get. The hoody was restrictive. Beneath, she wore a tight top with long sleeves. Not designed for fighting either, but far less likely to get in the way than the hoody.

  As ready as she would ever be, Abbie stepped through Travis’ bedroom door and across the hall. Knowing hesitation was never wise in these situations, she made straight for the steps. She had descended four before Kline noticed her.

  Two steps later, Ronson turned his head up. Travis was at his feet, his face bloody. He was curled into a ball, and his hands clutched his stomach. Ronson’s boot was on his leg.

  They were beside the staircase. Abbie turned and placed her hands on the bannister, leaning over. Looking upon Ronson and Travis, she tutted and shook her head. To Ronson, she said, “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

  For a moment, confusion clouded Ronson’s face, as though he could not quite comprehend how she had come to be upstairs. Then the confusion dissipated, and a grin took its place. It was always lovely when someone was pleased to see you.

  “Was hoping I’d run into you again,” he said.

  “You mentioned,” she said. “No flowers, though. You weren’t expecting to see me here, but I was hoping you’d carry them everywhere on the off chance. You must have known I couldn’t stay away.”

  “You flirting with me?” he asked, grin widening.

  “You must be used to that,” she said. “Women and men panting in desire. Heterosexual men must get pretty confused in your presence. I see Kline here keeps checking out your arse.”

  The world is far more an enlightened place than it was even a decade ago. Regardless, homophobia, racism and sexism are all far rifer than they should be, even now. Some jobs are more likely to attract people with certain prejudices. Abbie wanted to piss off the thugs and knew hired muscle more often than not had hang-ups around masculinity and homosexuality. An excellent way to make them angry was usually to imply they were gay.

  Kline was a case in point. At Abbie’s suggestion of his sexual desire for Ronson, the bald thug clenched his fists, his face reddening. He took two steps towards the bottom of the stairs, and it seemed to take enormous restraint to hold himself from charging to meet her.

  Predictable. Pathetic.

  In that respect, Ronson was a pleasant surprise.

  Still smiling, he said, “And who can blame him?”

  Kline’s head whipped to Ronson, who rolled his eyes.

  “She’s winding you up, mate,” he said. “Calm down.”

  Kline didn’t look like he wanted to calm down. But Ronson was in charge, and Kline forced himself to take another step back from the stairs.

  Annoying. If Ronson could keep a cool head, he would be more challenging to defeat in a physical confrontation. Abbie would have to move fast to take out Kline, hoping she had greater speed than Ronson because he was certainly stronger.

  As Kline stepped back, Ronson was looking at Abbie, judging her. It would be difficult for him to assume Abbie could beat him in a fight, but he looked to be more cautious than she had imagined. Perhaps she should have hustled him, pretending to be scared and frightened, rather than swept out here with confidence. But a terrified woman would hide in the bedroom. She couldn’t wait upstairs to lure Ronson into a false sense of security at the cost of Travis ending up in hospital. This was the only way.

  “I want to deal with you,” Ronson said. “I really do. But I’m busy. I got a job. Lucky you, I’m going to give you a chance. You walk down those stairs then Kline will step aside. Yes, you will,” Ronson snapped at Kline, who seemed repulsed by the suggestion. Back to Abbie: “You open the door, you walk away. You don’t bump into me again, then I promise you’ll come to no harm. Can’t say fairer than that, eh?”

  Abbie looked over Kline’s shoulder at the door. Ronson had checked Abbie over and would not let her leave if she carried a bag. She believed he was genuine about the offer.

  “How about you let Travis go,” she said. “Let me take his place.”

  Ronson glanced down at Travis, still whimpering on the floor, still clutching his stomach, and bleeding from the nose.

  “Lucky I didn’t carry around flowers,” Ronson said. “Looks like you’re more into weedy, pathetic kids than you are men.”

  “What can I say,” said Abbie. “I’m a woman with needs, and you left me high and dry last night. In my despondency, I turned to the nearest fella who wanted me, and you know what, I don’t regret it. Last night with Travis, it was… I can’t say he rocked my world. More like tilted. He tilted my world. Don’t get the wrong impression there. When I say tilted, I don’t mean like a boat, like tilted enough that we started taking on water. More like tilted where you look at a table, and you think, is that level? It kind of looks like it might not be level, but I’m not sure. So you take a table tennis ball, right, or similar, and you put it on the table, and you learn that, yeah, the table isn’t flat. The ball doesn’t run away. It does roll, but slowly. Like it has somewhere to be but isn’t in a hurry. That’s what last night with Travis was like. He didn’t rock my world, but he did put it on ever such a slight incline. A girl needs a bit of that every now and then.”

  Kline looked stupefied, confused. Like his head might explode.

  Ronson said, “Are you done?”

  “Maybe I’ve not made it clear,” said Abbie. “You two are the ones who are done.”

  Ronson shook his head. Then kicked Travis’ stomach with such force that the teen slid along the wood flooring and hit the door of the under stairs cupboard. From the moment he pulled back his foot to the second he tugged his boot away from the soft, damaged flesh of Travis’ stomach, Ronson held Abbie’s eye.

  “This ain’t going to go the way you want,” he said.

  Abbie released the bannister and turned to start down the stairs. As she descended, Kline moved away from the door, stopping with his toes almost pressed against the bottom step.

  “That’s inconvenient,” said Abbie.

  Neither Kline nor Ronson responded. Both were wearing thick jackets within which it would be easy to conceal a weapon. Abbie had no doubt Francis would have access to guns and explosives, but in a country with such tight gun laws, he would be careful about which of his men carried and when. Regardless of how important was the bag to Francis, he expected his only opposition in retrieving it to be Travis. Therefore, it was unlikely either Kline or Ronson possessed firearms. Likewise, knives, though this was more likely. Whether they were armed or not, Abbie intended to move too fast for that to be a factor.

  Three steps from the bottom, Abbie stopped. Her left hand she placed on the bannister and her right on the railing, which trailed the wall up the stairs. She held firmly to each.

  Kline didn’t move. Having left Travis groaning and coughing up blood, Ronson edged along the corridor until he was standing next to the foot of the stairs, looking up at Abbie.

  “You really think you got a chance here?” he asked.

  “I’ve always got a chance,” said Abbie. “Still, can’t help but thinking it would be much more fun if it were only you and me.”

  “You may be right.”

  “So why don’t you send your idiot mate away.”

  At the word idiot, Kline made a low, rumbling noise.

  Abbie asked, “Did you just growl?”

  Kline said nothing. He didn’t move. Loose by his side hung his arms. Big, beefy hands were not stuffed into fists, but the fingers were curled towards the palm, ready to be drawn the rest of the way at a moment’s notice.

  Abbie pressed Ronson. “Well?�
��

  Ronson looked at Kline, who signalled in no way what he thought about the request, then back to Abbie.

  “I think if we fought, just you and me, I’d have a lot of fun. I give myself a 99% chance of beating you. 90% chance I do it without you getting in a scratch.”

  “Oh, I never scratch,” said Abbie. “Don’t know what kind of cliched women you’ve been fighting.”

  “Whatever you’d do,” said Ronson. “I don’t think it’s worth the risk. Even the slightest chance you could beat me one on one isn’t worth it when I know Kline and me got 100% chance two vs one. It may not seem fair or sporting, but you got to understand this isn’t about sport. Not even fun. This is a job. I got to get it done. You understand, right?”

  In response, Abbie pushed up on the bannister and railing and lifted her legs, pulling her knees towards her chest.

  Kline reacted immediately but badly. Rather than flattening his hands and grabbing her ankles, he clenched them into fists and raised them as though to punch her feet.

  Like pistons, she fired her boots into his face, sending him crashing back into the wall.

  As she’d lifted her legs, Ronson had stepped towards the bannister. While she smashed Kline’s face, he grabbed her top and heaved her into the air.

  She’d had a decent grip on the bannister and railing. Ronson was too strong. The force of his yank tore free her hands. A second later, she was above his head. Then he tossed her into the living room door.

  Which burst open as though keen to get out of her way. As best she could, Abbie twisted her body as she landed, trying to roll into the crash to soften the impact and to ready herself for instant counter-attack. She came up on her knees beside a coffee table as Ronson came through the living room door. Behind him, she could see Kline composing himself and preparing to enter the fray.

  She had to end this fast.

  On the coffee table was a glass. Abbie grabbed and hurled it at Ronson.

  The coffee table was long and thin, on narrow metal legs. At its centre was a glass panel encased in slim wood.