‘You’re back,’ I say, apparently unable to do anything other than state the obvious.
Karen unbuttons her coat and bats Tyler away from taking up the entire sofa before flopping onto it herself. She thanks me for looking after the boys and then Tyler pours his entire haul of sweets onto the floor to show her the type of night he’s had. Quinn returns and does the same and then they start trading back and forth. It’s a bit like the stock exchange, but with less childishness.
Probably unsurprisingly, Karen leaves them to it and joins me in the kitchen.
‘How was your evening?’ I ask.
She looks towards the boys and says ‘Fine,’ seemingly unwilling to say much more about it. ‘How was yours?’ she adds.
‘Not bad. Tyler had to keep telling people he was Groot and not a random tree – but good other than that.’
We watch them for a moment and then I remember the other thing I spent money on. I dig into to my bag and take out the pair of £50 gift cards.
‘I got these for the boys,’ I tell Karen as I pass them to her. ‘I didn’t want to give them over tonight without checking with you.’
Karen twists the cards around and squints to read the words on the back. The children will be able to upload the credit to their phones and use it to buy games, apps, music, or whatever.
‘It’s so much money,’ Karen whispers.
I hold my hands up to say it’s fine and she bats away a yawn, before apologising. Her eyelids are sagging and she looks ready for bed.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ she adds. ‘It’s too much.’
She doesn’t need to say it because I can practically hear her thoughts. This is money I’d usually need for rent, food and to get around. One hundred pounds is more than I can afford. Strangely, when I saw the cards near the till at the shopping centre, it hadn’t crossed my mind that I’d have to justify buying them.
‘I won a bit of money on a scratch card,’ I say, surprising myself at the ease of the lie.
Karen’s eyes widen. ‘You lucky cow!’ She leans in and lowers her voice: ‘How much?’
I shrug non-committedly. She can read into it what she wants, but my lies are already piling up.
‘Bloody hell,’ she mutters. ‘Well, if anyone deserves it, it’s you. I hope you spend the rest on yourself.’
I smile wanly, not sure what to say.
‘How are the party plans going?’ I ask, hoping she doesn’t notice the obvious segue.
Karen’s features brighten. ‘Good. The boys are off to their dad’s for a bonfire, plus everything else is all booked. Just got to hope people turn up.’
‘I’m sure they will.’
She yawns again, which I take as my hint to go. I leave my tea largely unfinished on the counter and she leads me to the door. Billy trudges behind, also ready for bed, as I say goodnight to the boys. They’re more concerned with hedging whether two mini Bounty bars are worth a single Snickers, with Quinn insisting that ‘nobody likes Bounties’.
It feels dark as I head into the corridor, something I seemingly missed when I was rushing inside with a toilet-bound Quinn. Karen notices it too and we take a moment to realise the light in the corner is out.
‘I don’t think it was like that yesterday,’ Karen says as she leans on her door frame. ‘I’ll text Lauren.’
We share a look because we know how efficient our building manager is. Late rent: Lauren will be on it within minutes. Anything needing fixing will take a full assessment and tendering process that means it’ll be lucky to get done within a month.
Karen pulls the door until it’s almost closed behind her. ‘Thanks for having the boys,’ she says, before taking a big breath. She bites her lip and it’s obvious there’s something there.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I ask.
She opens her mouth and there’s a moment in which I think the reason for her Sunday disappearances is going to come out. Instead, she yawns once more, covering her mouth with her hand.
‘Sorry,’ she says, though I’m not sure if the apology is for the yawn. ‘I hope you enjoy the money.’
I crane my neck, taken aback, before realising she means the fantasy scratch card win. ‘Thank you,’ I reply.
She gives a little wave and then disappears back into the apartment.
It’s only a few steps to my flat, but Billy is ahead of me, waiting outside the door and peering back over his shoulder to see where I am.
‘I’m right here,’ I tell him as I creak across the floorboards.
Billy turns back and then pushes his way into the apartment. I almost do the same before I realise what’s wrong.
I never unlocked the door.
I stop and turn to look around the empty hallway. The corner near Karen’s is shrouded with darkness, but the rest of the space is filled with the dim orangey glow from the cheap bulbs. I push into my own apartment and stop to take in the room.
Billy is twisting himself in circles as he pads down the blanket in his bed. He does this every night, even though he ends up sleeping on my bed.
I hurry to the other side of the room and pull the bed down from the wall. I’m barely thinking and the hinge catches on the wall, wrenching backwards so violently that I feel a snap in my shoulder. All that does is make me heave harder until the foldaway bed pops out from the wall and crashes into the floor with a whump. The stabbing pain in my chest is such that I pat a hand to my top, fully expecting there to be blood. There’s not, but I’m gasping for breath as I slip my hands underneath the mattress.
The money has gone.
Chapter Twelve
I almost took the envelope of money out with me when picking up the boys – but thought it would be safer here. How could I have been so stupid?
I stand, turning in a circle, before noticing that the front door is still open. I dash across the room and slam it closed and then stand to take in the room. Aside from the sheets that have tumbled from the bed, everything else is in place. It’s easy to say that because I have so little. I check the drawer underneath the television, but my brand-new laptop is still there. The old, unresponsive, one is there, too. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out.
Billy is sitting in his bed, staring up at me with confusion. I still need to help him out of the trick or treat costume, but he’s ready for bed and the toilet roll gun is long gone.
There’s a flicker of something in the corner of my eye, but, when I turn, there’s nothing there except the bare wall, which is sliding slowly towards me.
I stand as still as I can, closing my eyes and willing calm. It’s hard – somebody has broken into the apartment and taken the money – but I push those thoughts away and instead think of a wide, open field. Acres of lush, bright green stretching in all directions and endless blue above.
Breathe.
When I open my eyes, the walls are where they should be. I shuffle into the kitchen and open the drawer, allowing myself two deep puffs on the inhaler.
‘Be calm,’ I tell myself.
And I am.
I’m not sure how or why, but I suddenly realise I was looking for the envelope on the wrong side of the bed. My thoughts are clear now and I round the kitchen counter, step across to the askew mattress and reach underneath.
The envelope of money is exactly where I left it.
I pull open the flap at the top and dig inside, removing the neat bundles of cash and placing them on the table by the sofa. As Billy watches on and scratches at his costume, I count the money. Then I count it a second time. And a third.
It’s all there.
Nobody has been in the apartment and nothing is missing.
When I first moved in, Lauren told me the door would sometimes stick. I went out five or six times thinking I’d locked the door, when I’d not pulled it all the way into the frame. I’ve not done it in at least two years – and it does stick more depending on whether it is a hot, cold or mild day. Perhaps I made the same mistake I did those years ago?
; I open the door – which doesn’t catch – and head into the hallway. There’s nobody there and no hint of noise from either above or below, but I can’t escape the feeling of being watched. It’s unlike any other sensation; more of an intrinsic knowing than anything else. I take a step across the hallway to Jade’s old apartment and then, as if I’ve stepped on a hidden switch, music starts. It’s not loud, and if my door was closed, I wouldn’t be able to hear it, but it still stops me on the spot.
Karen said she heard Elton John playing from inside the apartment and I wasn’t sure if I believed her. It’s not that I thought she was lying, more that she was mistaken and perhaps the music was coming from elsewhere, or that it was a different singer. It’s not, though. Elton is singing about packing bags and being as high as a kite. I feel frozen, listening to the words and piano until he reaches the chorus.
Different times.
It’s only when my door creaks that I’m released. Billy is there, still scratching at his costume. I crouch and ruffle his ears, then release the straps underneath and help him to wriggle free. He immediately turns and trots back into the flat. He’ll be asleep within thirty seconds.
The song continues to play and I take a couple of steps until I’m eye to eyehole with the opposite door. I can’t see anything, obviously, and yet I still have that sense of being watched.
It’s at this moment there’s a clunk from behind and Karen emerges into the hallway with a basket of laundry under her arm. We do a double-take at one another and there’s a second in which the thought flutters through me that she might have been watching through the peephole in her own door.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
I step away from the door and stumble over my words, eventually managing: ‘Elton John.’
Karen moves along the corridor until we’re level. The music has stopped. ‘I didn’t catch what you said,’ she says.
‘I, um…’
She puts down the wash basket on the floor and turns to look at the closed door opposite, from which there is nothing beyond but silence.
‘My door was unlocked,’ I say. She spins to look past me and I hastily add: ‘Nothing was taken. I think I must’ve left it like that. It sticks sometimes.’
We look to each other and there’s a moment of understanding. I can see it in the deepness of her eyes and I’m certain she can see it in me, too. I’m keeping something back, but so is she. Sometimes that’s what friendship is – knowing that, for a while at least, secrets have to stay as such.
Karen picks up her washing once more and takes half a step away. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, right?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
Then we go our separate ways.
Chapter Thirteen
Monday
Billy seems a little uninterested on his walk the next morning. He’s usually straining at his lead, trying to drag me off into various gullies and alleys, but all he does now is amble along at my side.
I check the lamp posts once more, but there are no signs up asking about missing envelopes. As I’m getting back to Hamilton House, the door opens and Nick emerges with Judge, his corgi. The two dogs immediately begin their ritual of sniffing one another as greeting. Nick and I stand together like proud parents of children about to walk down the aisle. Nick is a little older than me and one of those types who seem painlessly, effortlessly stylish and skinny. I realise it’s likely down to a significant time in front of a mirror and working out, but I only ever see the final result. With most of the people who live here, it’s easy to see why; with Nick, I’m less sure. It feels as if he could move away if he wanted.
He nods towards one of Karen’s party posters. ‘You going?’ he asks.
‘Yes. What about you?’
He nods towards the dogs. ‘I’ve got to stay in with Judge. He doesn’t like the fireworks at this time of year.’
I tell him that dogs are apparently welcome and can tell from the glazed ‘oh’ that he was also hoping to get out of having to socialise. Perhaps this is why he doesn’t move – it’s easy to keep to oneself while living here. No big turnover of tenants and nothing in the way of nosey neighbours overlooking back gardens.
‘Has Mark been onto you about Billy?’ Nick asks.
‘Huh?’
Nick nods towards the front door. ‘He was having a go about me letting Judge onto the stairwell.’
‘He doesn’t even live on our floor.’
‘I know! He aimed a kick at Judge the other day when we were coming back in.’
‘What?!’
We stare open-mouthed at one another. Mark has said the odd thing in passing about dogs being in the hallway – but nothing directly. The spat we had the other night is the most we’ve ever spoken to one another.
‘He didn’t realise I was there,’ Nick adds. ‘He only saw Judge and then, when he noticed me, claimed it wasn’t a kick.’
I crouch and give Judge a rub on the back. He seems nonplussed and continues sniffing around Billy.
‘I didn’t know if he might’ve done something similar with Billy,’ Nick says.
I stand again and can feel my pulse racing at the very idea someone might lash out at my dog.
‘I don’t think he’s ever done that,’ I reply.
Nick nods and we stand and sigh together because it seems like the only thing we can do. There are no specific rules about dogs being allowed in the halls unsupervised, but, I suppose, nothing that expressly allows it.
We say cheerio to one another and then I head into the building. I’m in half a mind to knock on Mark’s door to tell him to mind his own business – but stop myself, figuring it’s not going to make anything better. Instead, I stop outside Vicky’s flat and slip an envelope under her door. I stop for a moment, wondering if I should knock in case the envelope has disappeared underneath a mat. In the end, Billy makes up my mind as he pulls at his lead and tries to drag me up the stairs.
This time, my door is definitely locked – but, as I let myself inside, I still can’t get past the feeling of being watched.
Friday evenings might be a crammed-in hell of a journey on the number 24 bus, but, for whatever reason, Monday mornings are the opposite. There are still people getting on – but everyone has a seat and there’s a steady calmness to the ride.
It’s as I’m sitting a few seats from the back that I notice the CCTV camera inside a domed curve of dimmed glass on the ceiling. I’ve taken this bus hundreds of times and it would have been there, unnoticed, for every one of those rides. It’s strange the things that can hide in plain sight. Perhaps it’s this new-found observation, but I suddenly seem very aware of myself.
I turn and eye the people around me in a not-eyeing-them kind of way. I pretend to look through the window, then act as if I’m staring at my phone.
There is a pair of women in the seats opposite dressed for the gym; some kids in uniform who are seemingly late for school; two blokes in suits across from one another, oblivious to how much of a mirror image they are. An old guy with a red face is swigging from a two-litre bottle of cider at the very back, while, one row in front of him, a woman is tucking into an iced bun while nodding her head along to whatever’s playing through her headphones.
There’s nothing abnormal, but it’s hard not to wonder if someone here is missing £3,640. I find myself looking at the men in the suits because there’s a natural assumption that suits = money. It’s nonsense of course. The manager of the local mobile phone shop wears a suit, while some millionaire web design wizard wears skateboard shorts and Converse. Books, covers, assumptions and all that.
But whoever it is will see my bright new trainers and know where I got the money to buy them. When I’m on the bus, I usually try to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible. Sometimes I will read a book I’ve had from the library, or skim around a few websites on my phone. Johnny Depp could be standing behind me and I’d not notice. Today, I keep my eyes up, watching everyone new who gets on.
It’s
not long before we pull in close to the park and the house that Ben always promised he’d buy for me. I’m not sure why it was always phrased in that way – but he had a thing about buying things for me. We didn’t do things such as make joint purchases, and he would sometimes get angry if I bought something for myself. It seemed so normal then.
It’s next to the park where Karen and I do Parkrun each week. There’s a large hedge that separates one from the other and I run past it each time. The house is so different from the pop-up red-brick housing estates that now seem to populate every town and city. It’s set back from the road, with three storeys and probably an attic and basement. I always liked it because it was different and, when I said this to Ben in passing one time, it was as if it flicked a switch within him. It suddenly became his mission to buy it – and not just that, to buy it for me. Then he mentioned stables on the day he went to catch the train. I was never quite sure what to say, because telling him the wedding, house and stables didn’t matter to me would only send him into a spiral of despair. He’d think I was saying that because we couldn’t afford such things – which was true – but then take it as a personal insult because he felt he didn’t make enough money. It was as if his entire self-worth was linked to the money he made.
A lady in a wheelchair pushes onto the bus and manoeuvres herself into the handicapped space next to the luggage rack that is almost never used. I wonder if she’s £3,640 short, but then find myself focusing on the sticker that’s in the window behind her. It’s one of those ‘please let us know how we’re doing’ notices, with a phone number underneath. Companies must post these hoping they’ll either get no feedback or positive remarks – but it’s only ever going to attract the green ink brigade.
A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Page 8