The Stranger

by Mark Ayre

  Abbie had her hand around her fork. Upon the fork was a bite of food. The fork hung in mid-air, halfway between her mouth and the plate. Noticing this, Abbie took the bite and replaced the fork. She didn’t take another as Bobby forced himself to continue.

  “By this point, dad had ingratiated himself in the criminal underworld. Stupidly, he trusted a member of Francis’ inner circle. Together they hatched a plan. This inner circle member would reveal to my father a night when one of Francis’ night clubs would contain a lump sum of cash. Idiotically, thinking this was his only option, my father jumped at the chance and one night stole from Francis sixty grand, thirty of which he gave to Francis’ lieutenant, the other thirty he used to pay off the loan sharks. For a week, everything seemed perfect. Then, one day, Francis turned up at our door armed with a smug smile and some incriminating CCTV footage.”

  Abbie could not help but groan. How desperation made people stupid. It should have been easy not to feel sympathetic for a man who had been so careless. Perhaps because of Bobby, Abbie none the less felt sorry for the father.

  “Francis kept it simple,” said Bobby. “He had reclaimed the first thirty grand and dealt with, his words, the traitorous lieutenant. My father had given his half of the money to the loan sharks, so he could not pay it back. Francis said dad now owed him forty grand, ten for the inconvenience. If he paid it back by the end of the year, forty was all he would need to pay. But on midnight on the 31st, as December became January of last year, the amount would go up by twenty grand. The same rules would apply the next year, which is the year just gone, and the year after that, which is this year, and so on. Francis laid out these terms then left.”

  If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. A sensible saying Francis had clearly taken to heart when it came to reclaiming money from those who had robbed him. With Eddie, who had stolen nothing from Francis and was only inheriting his brother's debt, Francis had been more lenient. There would be no lump sum added to the debt immediately, and while the amount owed would increase each year, it would do so only by ten rather than twenty grand.

  On the stupidity of those foolish enough to try and play him, Francis merely increased the size of his fortune. In the end, the house always wins.

  “My mum moved out,” said Bobby. “Took my little brothers and begged me to come too. She didn’t want me to get in trouble. But I couldn’t leave dad, no matter what he’d done. She divorced him. We sold the house, and she took half the profit. The fifteen grand my father earned from the sale, plus the money we were able to earn that didn’t go on bills or rent the rest of the year equalled thirty k, all of which went to Francis. When midnight struck on New Year’s Eve, people celebrated and kissed and laughed and drank while my father and I watched the debt we had reduced to ten grand climb to thirty. Last year, we put everything we had into paying off the lot. Between us, we were able to raise twenty-five grand—an incredible amount. We should have been relieved, but it was worse than ever. Two weeks ago, when the fireworks and bells indicated 2020 and become 2021, our debt moved from five grand to twenty-five. We almost killed ourselves earning that amount last year, now we have to do it again. If we’re even a pound out, we face another year of misery.”

  Bobby fell back. Abbie had thought it incredible he could work two jobs, one of them in a place like Perfect Chicken, and still retain that smile. That he retained it in those jobs and under the weight of his father’s crippling debt was nothing short of miraculous.

  But retelling and reliving the story of his father’s downfall had defeated the smile in the same way as had Abbie’s. Had the emotional bloodletting really been freeing? Or had it broken their already cracked spirits?

  As though in answer to this question, Bobby reached across the table, took Abbie’s hands, and squeezed. Meeting her eye, he pushed the smile back onto his face. At first, it was a mere shadow of his usual smile and forced. The longer he held her hand and her eye, the stronger and more genuine the smile became.

  “I’m glad I told you,” he said. “Hurts like hell to say it, but it’s good having it out there.”

  “Yeah,” said Abbie, “it is.”

  Somehow, she found a way to smile. Beneath whatever happiness she was able to paste upon her face, a rage swirled, and the name Francis burned in neon lights through her mind, taunting her.

  She thought of Eddie and his brother, Michael and his mother, Bobby and his father. She thought of Francis’ ever-increasing wealth.

  Before her head could explode, Abbie retracted her hands from Bobby’s and took up her cutlery.

  “Come on,” she said. “Hard part’s over. Let’s enjoy the date.”

  Dinner was sumptuous, dessert divine. With the latter, Bobby and Abbie ordered a double espresso each, and they remained half an hour after they had finished eating and drinking, chatting, getting on, being normal.

  Somehow, they managed to push the darkness to one side and to enjoy each other’s company. Though it was always there, Abbie still had one of her best evenings in a long time.

  At the end of the meal, Bobby tried to insist on paying but backed down when he heard the hardness in Abbie’s tone and saw it in her eyes.

  She did allow him to walk her back to the hotel. As they walked, they held hands, and the conversation continued to flow. Still, it was easy, but something hung over them. Something like those poisonous clouds about which Abbie had earlier teased Bobby. It was the cool of the air. It Brought the heat of Abbie’s fury into sharp focus. She knew Bobby had noticed. Thought he would mention it as soon as they reached the hotel’s front door.

  Instead, he kissed her. Only after thirty seconds of perfect bliss, somehow removed from the cold realities of life, did he ask the question.

  “Since I told you the story of my father, and why I work so much, your mind has been churning. Why do I get the feeling you’re plotting?”

  Abbie considered lying. She liked Bobby. The kiss had made her weak at the knees, and she was not used to feeling that way. After all, this wasn’t a romantic film. Not even a rom-com. She couldn’t bear the thought of the enamoured look in Bobby’s eyes changing.

  Neither could she keep the truth from him.

  “My life was crippled by the events that took place in the last years of my adolescence,” she said. “Any chance I had of an ordinary existence went out the window. Since then, I have lived a life of penance. Over the years, I’ve grown used to it.”

  “Abbie, that’s—“

  “No, please don’t,” she said. “Let me talk.”

  He nodded, and he let her go on.

  “I’ve come to this town and seen multiple people stuck in the centre of moments like those I was in all the years ago. A life has already been lost. Several more hang in the balance. But it’s not too late. For most of you, your lives could still be repaired. No one has to end up like me.”

  Bobby stared at her. He didn’t understand but was smart enough not to interrupt. Knowing he soon might not want want to make physical contact with her again, knowing she might soon repel him, Abbie took Bobby’s hands and kissed him once more on the lips.

  “Lives and futures hang in the balance,” said Abbie. “And at the centre of the darkness that threatens to destroy multiple people is Francis. He’s taken control of this town. For personal gain, he bleeds it dry, destroying souls and obliterating families so his bank balance might continue to grow.”

  Unable to stop herself, Abbie kissed Bobby again. Perhaps it would be the last time. When she pulled away, she met his eye. Bobby held her gaze for a couple of seconds, then looked away. Something he’d seen in her eyes had frightened him. Maybe it was the rage, maybe the single-minded determination.

  “No more good lives will be destroyed,” said Abbie. “Francis won’t get away with this any longer.”

  Bobby forced himself to look back at Abbie. He squeezed her hands. Kissed her.

  “I know you care,” he said. “I love that you care. But I don’t want you to get hurt over this.�
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  “And I won’t,” said Abbie without hesitation and with no hint of caution. “Only a few will end up hurt over this. That’s Francis and anyone who chooses to stand with him.”

  She released Bobby’s hands. Stepped back.

  “I’m going to destroy them all.”

  Nineteen

  Before Bobby could say much more, Abbie kissed him again, told him she’d had a wonderful time, and disappeared into the hotel.

  Behind the desk stood Glenda. From the same place she had produced Abbie’s bag, she withdrew a brown package.

  “Bike messenger dropped this off,” she said. “Never took off his helmet, never said a word. So rude.”

  Abbie thanked Glenda but did not stop to discuss the decline of manners in the courier profession. In her room, she opened the package and dropped onto the bed a new phone.

  Ben might have been an arsehole, but he was incredibly efficient.

  With the phone came a SIM, but when Abbie retrieved and opened the handset she had earlier destroyed, she found the old one undamaged, so slotted this in before turning on the device.

  As the phone came to life, Abbie dropped it onto the bed. Her hands were trembling, her mind a tornado of different thoughts.

  Over the last few years, while working with the support of Ben’s mysterious organisation, Abbie believed she had developed a skill for emotional detachment. She breezed through towns and cities she had never before visited, ingratiated herself with the people who mattered to the mission on which she was working. Tried to save a life. More often than not, she succeeded. Sometimes, she didn’t. Either way, Abbie managed to leave whatever place she had entered without feeling as though the job had taken an emotional toll.

  This time was different. At first, Abbie told herself she didn’t know why, but it was pretty straightforward. This town had offered her the perfect storm of emotional pressure points. The pregnant wife, who had previously miscarried and was at any moment ready to give birth to her first child; the teenager with the troubled life who was the same age as had Violet been when she died; and the first man in years to get under Abbie’s skin and make her suffer romantic feeling, from which she had for so long believed herself immune.

  And of course, there was Francis, who she had not met but who polluted the town he dominated in the same way as Harry’s father had polluted the town in which Abbie had been born and raised. That vindictive bastard had not taken kindly to Abbie’s interference in his affairs. And Abbie imagined when she finally came face to face with Francis, their meeting would be as brutal as had been her final confrontation with Harry’s father, Ian, all those years ago.

  On the bed, Abbie’s new phone buzzed with a text that had arrived between her smashing the old phone and turning on the new.

  Having opened up to Bobby over dinner, Abbie now felt the memories of her past pressing upon her. If she didn’t find some way to distract herself, the weight of them would crush her as surely as would a cement mixer.

  Batting away the questions (how long has it been since you’ve visited Paul? What about your sister’s grave? You’re all they’ve got), Abbie went to the bed and collected the phone. She knew the message would not be from Ben. That meant it could be from only one person.

  It read: Jus took some desprate bitch to bed. So keen to plz. Kind of limp + useless though. I spent the hole time thinkin of u bby. Still aint had my pic though. Wud have been so much better if I had. Better send it by midnite if u dont want the book falling into the rong hands

  Abbie replaced the phone on the bed and walked to the opposite wall. Placing her hands on the cool surface, she took three long, deep breaths, then returned to the bed, collected the phone, and reread the message.

  At least both the content and the appalling spelling and grammar provided sufficient distractions from her internal turmoil.

  It also gave her something to do.

  The time was 21.34. Abbie wasn’t due to meet Eddie for almost two and a half hours. So while it was annoying she had the Travis distraction when she wanted to focus on Francis, the truth was she would have had nothing to do for the next couple of hours anyway. She couldn’t sleep. Her only option would have been to lie in bed and relive her past, interspersed with thoughts of Bobby, that kiss, and the people she might fail if she could not stop Francis.

  Now all her thoughts became a single dart, and Travis was the board at which they flew. Earlier, she had feared her chances of locating Travis and reclaiming her black book were slim to none. Having been attacked at his home, Travis would not be quick to return there, and Abbie knew neither he nor this town well enough to guess where he might hide. Her best option, then, had seemed to be to entice Travis somewhere where she could force him to give up the book.

  This would be difficult. Until Abbie sent the nude, which was never going to happen, Travis wouldn’t agree to meet. Even if he did, it would be somewhere public and torturing someone for information was easier in a disused warehouse than it was a Starbucks. She assumed.

  Had Travis stuck to brief texts, Abbie would be no closer to finding him. If he had asked again for the nude and threatened to give up the book if she didn’t deliver, she would have been stumped.

  Being a vindictive kid, Travis had instead tried to taunt her with talk of the, in his words, desperate bitch, keen to please.

  Travis would have no compunction lying, but nor did Abbie believe he was particularly imaginative. There was every chance this poor girl existed—someone devoted to him. Someone Travis knew would let him stay with her, as long as he needed, even if it put her in danger.

  Remembering her own words in Perfect Chicken, Abbie went for her phone. Earlier, before she had visited Travis the first time, Michael had told Abbie his number, and she had memorised it. Something for which she had a particular talent. Now she typed it in, held the phone to her ear, and waited for Michael to answer.

  When he did, Abbie wasted no time on pleasantries or small talk.

  “Earlier, At Travis’ house, I saved him from execution at the hands of Francis’ men.”

  “Oh my God,” said Michael. “What about the bag?”

  “While I was saving his life, he was fleeing with the bag Francis wants, and my bag too. Now he’s in hiding.”

  “If you think I know where he is,” said Michael. “I haven’t spoken to him. I’ve been avoiding him like you said, and he hasn’t tried to call.”

  “I believe you,” said Abbie. “But I still think you can help.”

  “How?”

  “I need you to tell me where Clarissa lives.”

  Twenty

  Ten minutes after her call with Michael, Abbie swung down a street of rundown three-storey terrace houses, each of which the landlords had converted into two flats.

  Upon their first meeting, Abbie had deduced Michael fancied Clarissa and therefore expected him to be difficult about handing over her address. If not difficult, he would at least demand Abbie never mention his involvement to either Clarissa or Travis.

  Mostly, people are predictable. Sometimes, they can surprise you.

  Halfway down the street, Michael waited at the end of a cracked and weed invaded drive, sitting against the rusted bumper of a car that looked as though it hadn’t moved since before he was born. Before Abbie had pulled to a complete stop, Michael was opening the door and jumping in. Then they were off.

  By way of greeting, Abbie said, “I still think this is a bad idea.”

  “It’s good to see you again,” said Michael.

  “This girl is never going to sleep with you if she thinks you’re a grass.”

  “If she really is with Travis, after the danger he’s put us in, that’s probably for the best.”

  Abbie looked at Michael, shook her head. “Stop being so mature.”

  Michael smiled and turned away, looking out the window. No chance did Abbie want him there, but what choice did she have? If she didn’t pick him up, he wasn’t going to give her Clarissa’s address. Still think
ing of his mother, Michael wanted to help.

  At the end of the grubby street, they reached a T-Junction. Abbie said,

  “Okay, where next?”

  Michael told her.

  As though they were some bizarre, human version of the three bears from the Goldilocks story, Clarissa’s house fell somewhere between the squalor of Michael’s and the luxury of Travis’. The three-bed terrace reminded Abbie of Eddie’s and Jess’ place. And it was nice to see the teenage trio embracing variety when it came to income. Even if not in the racial makeup of their little gang.

  ”Parents’ car’s there,” said Abbie, pointing.

  “I told you,” said Michael. “They’ll be at the pub. They’re always at the pub. It’s only down the road.”

  Michael made to get out. Before he could take the door handle, Abbie grabbed his wrist.

  “I appreciate you think you can help, but I don’t know how much your friendship will be worth here. You have to understand; if you can’t get Travis to give me what I want, I’ll have to find another way.”

  Michael looked from the car window to Abbie. Seemed to flinch at her stony eyes. She hated that reaction, though she was getting so used to it.

  “Will you hurt him?”

  “Define hurt.”

  “Like, will you beat him up?”

  “No,” said Abbie. “He’s a kid, as far as I’m concerned. If he really winds me up, I might struggle to resist giving him a slap, but I won’t break any bones or draw any blood.”

  “Okay then.”

  Still, Abbie held Michael’s wrist.

  “There are more and deeper ways to hurt a person than physically.”

  Again, Michael met Abbie’s eye. The hardness still scared him, but he understood. Young as Michael was, the teen had already experienced much suffering. His father’s abandonment, his mother’s addiction, the loan sharks who threatened to rip away what little he had. Michael knew the power non-physical pain had to break a person. Therefore, he had to consider.