I don’t ask about the ‘we’ to whom he’s referring, nor what MSM or NWO stand for. I could probably check the internet – but I’m guessing that’s where many of Steven’s theories have come from. I should probably leave. The number of cars and people passing has slowed to a minimum and we’re in the shadows. It’s not that I feel unsafe, more uneasy. I wish Billy was here, if only as comfort.
All of a sudden, Steven’s shoulders slump. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he says wearily.
‘No, I don’t.’
He wags his phone towards me, but it’s more comical than threatening. ‘Tell me this,’ he says. ‘Say the crash was perfectly normal. It was an “accident”’ – he makes bunny ears with his fingers – ‘where did you bury Ben Peterson’s body?’
‘You already know the answer, so why ask?’
He claps his hands together as if he’s caught me out. ‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘You didn’t bury him. And, why?’
I wait, not particularly wanting to engage but somehow needing to hear it.
‘Because that fire,’ he adds, ‘if there was one – burned so hot that all they found was ash.’
‘They found more than ash,’ I say.
‘Well, yes… bags and jewellery, that sort of thing—’
‘And there was definitely a fire,’ I say. ‘There are photos of it.’
‘Photos can be doctored.’
‘There are video images from a helicopter. There are scorch marks on the ground. Parts of the rails melted. Someone was live-streaming it from their bedroom with their phone.’
‘Well, okay, there probably was a fire but—’
‘There was definitely a fire.’
‘Right, but that’s not important. What’s important is that you never buried a body. Hardly anybody did. Most of the coffins were empty.’
This is one thing on which we can agree. Most of the coffins were empty. Not that it means very much. There was a fire after the crash and, in one carriage in particular, there was very little left. There was a public inquiry that discovered serious safety lapses on the maintenance.
‘How can a train burn that much?’ Steven asks.
‘I don’t know. I’m not an expert – but there was an expert at the inquiry and she said—’
‘She was a plant. An actress. We found stills of her starring in a Ukrainian soap opera. Where did the extra fuel come from?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Exactly!’
He thrusts his phone forward again, like this is a huge a-ha moment. That he’s caught me out. The ‘believe in reality’ badge on his lapel reads increasingly like the rantings of a nutjob. I do believe in reality; I think it’s Steven who doesn’t.
‘There’s more,’ he says.
‘I think I’ve heard enough.’
Steven throws his hands up and jumps off the wall. It’s such a shock that I almost tumble backwards in an attempt to escape one of his flailing arms.
‘Fine!’ he shouts. ‘Don’t believe me. Maybe you’re in on it too? I didn’t realise it went this far. You’re one of them.’
‘One of who?’
‘The illuminati.’
I sigh and rub my forehead once more, pushing myself up until I’m standing. The lights from Hamilton House seem so appealing. The central heating will have kicked in by now and, despite what I think of it, my flat can be deliciously cosy on these types of evening.
‘Is this the lizard thing?’ I say. ‘Because, if it is, I’m definitely not a lizard.’
‘Of course it’s not the lizard thing,’ he replies – as if I’m the one spouting conspiracy theories. He digs into an inside pocket and pulls out a card that he thrusts towards me. I take it, largely through politeness. ‘Contact me if you want to talk like a rational human being,’ he says. ‘My phone and email is on there – but don’t use those. They can watch that. Use Signal.’
I start to ask what Signal is and then stop myself, not wanting to know. I definitely won’t be contacting him.
‘My website’s on there, too,’ he says. ‘If your mind isn’t completely closed, have a look.’
‘I will,’ I say, not meaning it.
It seems to take him by surprise because he stops flapping and straightens his jacket instead.
‘Oh,’ he says.
‘Is that it?’ I ask.
‘Check the website,’ he replies. ‘There’s so much more.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Curiosity got the better of me. If there was one thing about which Steven was correct, it is that there is definitely ‘so much more’ on his website. It’s a wacky mess of bright colours and flashing slogans. It’s hard not to wonder if I’m going to end up on some government watch list simply for browsing it. There are theories about everything from the existence of the Loch Ness Monster (an alien) to why Coronation Street is on so often (brainwashing through subliminal messages).
The section on the train crash is largely what Steven told me. Something to do with a Russian spy, MI5, Venezuela… and plenty more. There are grainy freeze-frames of overseas news broadcasts that are thrown up as ‘proof’, even though it’s impossible to make out what anything is. I scan for my name but, thankfully, there’s no sign. None of the victims are named and it’s hard to tell why Steven thinks now is the best time to bring everything up. I can only imagine it’s because of the anniversary.
There are articles about the ‘big ones’ – the moon landings, 9/11, JFK, and so on. The general conclusion seems to be that it was all faked by the government illuminati. I was aware of this corner of the internet – but had never done much exploring. I wish I’d maintained that record.
I’m distracted by a knock at the door. It’s Nick with Judge at his side. He offers a knowing smile.
‘Sorry about earlier,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I think it was the thought of someone wanting to hurt Judge.’
The dog has scampered past me and is egging on Billy to get up to no good. There doesn’t seem to be a lot wrong with either of them now as they twist in circles, sniffing one another’s backsides.
‘Do you want to sit in together?’ he adds, nodding towards the window. ‘I think it’s going to be a noisy one tonight.’
It seems like a far more appealing thing to do than continue to browse conspiracy theories, so it’s an easy choice. The hall is silent as I follow Nick back to his apartment; the two dogs in pursuit. His flat is the same size as mine but filled with an array of throws, quilts and carpets. It’s like a market stall of Marrakesh – or at least the photos. I’ve never seen the curtains open and the entire space seems to live in permanent murk. Not that the dogs mind. As soon as Nick opens the door, they shoot past us and start playing with the squeaky toys in the corner. Content and occupied, neither seems to notice the booming firework that explodes into the evening sky outside. Bonfire Night is still twenty-four hours away – but the fizzes and bangs tonight won’t be far off tomorrow’s total.
Nick offers me a drink, either flavoured water, kombucha or some sort of fruity wine. I go for the wine and then, after I’ve shifted a dozen cushions, we settle on the sofa.
‘I still think it was Mark who tried to poison the dogs,’ Nick says.
‘There’s not a lot anyone can do without proof.’
‘Who else would it be? I don’t have any other enemies in the building. Do you?’
I say that I don’t and fail to bring up the new occupant of the flat opposite mine – whoever that may be.
Nick wants to gossip about Jade – and so that’s what we do. I’m not sure if he knew her any better than me, but he does bring up a night the pair of them went drinking together. ‘She was completely ratted,’ he says – but there’s not a lot more information than that. Nobody seems to have a bad word to say about her. That’s always the way, I suppose. Whenever something unexpected happens in a community, it’s either, ‘We never guessed it could have been him’ or ‘Yeah, we all knew he was a lunatic’. Ther
e’s never a middle ground.
The dogs start begging to be let into the hallway and it’s clear they’re a bad influence on one another. Nick is staring at his phone but glances up to tell Judge there will be no more excursions around the corridors and it doesn’t seem as if we have any other choice. Someone in the building left meat that was probably poisoned and there’s nothing to stop whoever it was doing the same again.
Nick asks about Karen’s party and seems far more excited than I am. Neither of us are sure if it’s fancy dress, but he says he’s going as a sexy zombie anyway. I don’t ask what that entails.
We chat and laugh as Nick gets gradually tipsier. The dogs need regular assurance that the bangs outside aren’t going to get them and it’s not long before I have Judge and Billy resting themselves across me on the sofa.
We’ve been chatting for a while when Nick’s phone rings. He’s been checking it intermittently and his features darken when he says ‘I’ve got to take this’, before nipping into the corridor. I suddenly get the sense he’s been expecting whoever this is to call through the evening. Part of the reason he’s invited me over is for moral support after whatever happens.
The dogs are both asleep and I’m somewhat trapped, so take out my phone. It’s as I’m reading Harry’s texts that I realise I’m a little tipsy, too. Rather than being a concern, it suddenly feels hilarious that he might be stalking me.
I have a strange sense of self-awareness in that I know it’s a bad idea to contact him and yet the booze on an empty stomach makes me wonder if it is, in fact, a terrific idea. They say there’s a fine line between genius and lunacy and I feel like walking it.
My first message is as direct as can be:
Can we meet?
Harry’s reply doesn’t take long:
Sure! When were you thinking?
The excessive exclamation points are really becoming quite the plague. It’s a bit like herpes: a person should remain single until they’ve got rid of it.
I type out ‘later?’ and then delete it, before going for:
Tomorrow?
Even in my tipsy state, I realise that this evening would be a bad idea. I’m going to need to plan what to say and to be a good eighty per cent less giggly than I currently am.
I down what’s left in my glass and refill it with Nick’s wine. It isn’t even that good – but that isn’t the point. I find myself wondering if Harry is currently sitting in the apartment opposite mine, playing Elton John. Perhaps he already knew about Ben – and then stole Melanie’s coat to throw me off the scent?
The madder my thoughts, the funnier I find it all – and then I’m texting again, before he’s had time to reply:
How are you?
I picture him in the hospital, his head dented from when he was hit.
His reply comes almost immediately:
The painkillers help! Self-medicating with Jack Daniel’s! Looking fwd to seeing you! What time?! Where?!
Give! It! A! Rest!
It’s the alcohol, I know, but I wonder if he was really attacked. If this was all some massive ruse to woo me. Give me money to get me off guard, convince me he likes everything I do and, if things aren’t going perfectly, concoct some sort of attack to make me feel sorry for him. When Harry was in hospital, it was me he called. Not family or friends – a woman he’d only met twice.
It doesn’t add up.
At Chappie’s Café? 11 a.m.? Do the police have any leads about who attacked you?
I’m not sure what I expect back, but the reply is straightforward enough:
11 is good. Haven’t heard from the police. CU2moz!
The biggest problem I have with all this is why would anybody bother with it all? If Harry is trying to con me into a relationship, am I that desirable? Do I offer something that another person couldn’t? Or is he after something else?
I leave the text messages there and it’s only a few seconds later that Nick returns. He seems shattered and pours himself the rest of the wine, downing half a glass in one.
‘It’s Ravi,’ he says. ‘He wants to break up.’
I let Nick talk and offer the odd consoling word. Alcohol gets me giddy, but it’s all tears for Nick as he tells me everything that’s been going on in his relationship for, seemingly, the past two years. He opens a second bottle, but I wave it away, worried I’ll have a thick head in the morning.
It’s possibly because he’s been talking for so long, but I almost miss Nick’s throwaway line. I have to stop him with, ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
He pauses mid-sentence and then repeats what I thought he had. ‘I said perhaps I should cry on the shoulder of the guy across the hall from you.’
‘You’ve seen the person who lives opposite me?’ I reply, suddenly feeling sober.
Nick shrugs as if this is a perfectly normal thing. ‘He was on his way out one day. We nodded to each other on the stairs.’
‘You nodded?’
He breaks into a boozy giggle. ‘Is it that hard to believe?’
My thoughts suddenly feel very focused. It’s not Melanie who’s been across the hall: it’s a man. Perhaps it is Harry…?
‘What does he look like?’ I ask.
Nick purses his lips and holds his arm up. ‘Tall and dark. A bit stubbly. My type.’
I dig for my phone and swipe through the pictures until I find one of Harry. ‘Like this?’ I ask, flipping the screen around.
Nick shakes his head. ‘It’s not like I was staring – but I’m pretty sure that’s not him.’ He pauses and then adds: ‘Why? Do you think you know him?’
‘I don’t know.’
We sit for a moment and I’m almost disappointed. There’s a huge part of me that wants to be wrong about Harry – but things would’ve been so much clearer if Nick had said yes.
I keep scrolling through photos, flicking further and further back in time. There are so many of Billy. He’s in the park, chasing around with another dog; he’s at Parkrun; he’s on the beach barking at the ocean; he’s pounced on an ice cream that I dropped. The years flash by until it’s before Billy came into my life. There’s an enormous gap that means only desolation and acceptance. My life changed for the worse and I didn’t feel the need to catalogue it. Back further and there he is. It’s Ben and me at a festival the summer before the train crash. I’m in a pork pie hat and he’s giving the camera a thumbs-up. Memories never die in these modern times.
I’m not sure why I do it, but I zoom in on Ben’s face and then turn the phone for Nick to see.
‘How about him?’ I ask.
I expect a shake of the head, an instant ‘no’, but that’s not what happens.
Nick pouts out his bottom lip and squints.
‘Maybe… he was sort of similar, but this guy had longer hair. He was wearing a cap. It’s hard to say.’
I have no idea how to reply and Nick follows up with, ‘Do you know him?’
‘Perhaps…’
Nick reaches for the phone and has a closer look. He leans in and pinches the screen before handing the phone back with a scratch of the head. ‘This guy is a bit different. I can’t explain what I mean. The same but not the same.’
‘Like a brother?’
He clicks his fingers. ‘Yeah,’ Nick says. ‘Like a brother.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Friday
I have no idea what people with no job fill their time with. After waking up, I decide I’m definitely going to do some university work, but then resolve that I won’t be able to concentrate until I’ve had my showdown with Harry. I try television, but Piers Morgan’s face is as appealing as a yeast infection. After that, it’s the radio – but there’s a phone-in and Steve from Basildon is arguing with a Nobel prize-winning economist about how finance works, so that goes off, too.
I take Billy for a walk that’s as long as he can handle and, as best I can tell, he’s back to his old self. He dives off into the nooks and alleys, wanting to explore, though I keep a close eye on
anything he tries to pick up from the paths. I think about last night and Nick partially recognising Ben… but I wonder if it was because he’d had too much to drink. Not that I’m one to talk.
Back at Hamilton House, the corner near Karen’s apartment is clear. If it was Mark who left something there, then he hasn’t been back. The bulb hasn’t been replaced, though.
I can’t think of anything else to do through the morning so spend my time pacing the flat going over the conversation with Harry. He’ll say such-and-such, so I’ll fire back with a killer line and then he’ll melt and have to tell me the truth. I waste so much of the morning talking myself in circles that I almost forget I actually have to go and meet him.
It’s some relief that I get to Chappie’s Café before Harry does, although there is a certain sense of déjà vu. Deformed Kevin Bacon is here, this time by himself; as are the mothers from before and the bloke in shorts – who is still wearing shorts and hammering away on a MacBook. The poor keyboard must be on its last legs. I’m even nodded at by the same waitress, who offers a ‘sit wherever you want’. I don’t think she recognises me.
I order the same as yesterday – the cheapest coffee – and then sit around psyching myself up. Harry arrives at a minute to eleven in jeans and a jacket. He’s got an open-necked shirt and seems slightly more tanned than the last time I saw him. He gives me a small wave and a grin and then says something to the waitress before joining me. He takes off his jacket and puts it on the back of his chair, then sits.
‘This is a nice place,’ he says as he turns to look at the various prints on the wall.
‘Have you been in before?’
He shakes his head. ‘You?’
I think about saying ‘yesterday’, but then he might ask why and I’m not sure I could come up with something that sounds plausible.
‘How’s the head?’ I ask.
A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Page 21