A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller

by Kerry Wilkinson

  Harry turns and parts his hair so that I can see the welt on the back of his skull. Whether or not it was set up, there is one hell of a gash in the skin.

  ‘That looks nasty,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve been sleeping about fourteen hours a day. I checked with the doctor, but she reckons it’s normal.’

  The waitress arrives with a tray that includes a coffee for me and a coconut milk latte for Harry. We thank her and then each sip our drinks.

  ‘How have you been?’ he asks.

  I hide behind my mug, summoning the courage to say something. All those phantom conversations are proving to be precisely that.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask, still using the mug to cover my mouth.

  Probably unsurprisingly, it takes a second or two to get a response. Harry’s eyebrows arc downwards.

  ‘Pardon?’ he says.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You hacked my computer.’

  I say it as if it’s a fact. Something that’s on record and indisputable. I’m looking for a response, but all I get is a frown.

  ‘I did what?’

  I’m not sure why I thought he’d fold and confess all. As if my deductions were of such genius that he’d be able to do nothing but collapse and ask for forgiveness. It all feels rather silly, but it’s a bit late to back off now.

  ‘You’re a computer hacker,’ I say.

  ‘Oh… kay…’ A pause and then: ‘I told you I worked in internet security.’

  ‘You didn’t say hacker, though.’

  He holds both hands palms-up. ‘Because we don’t call it hacking. I’m not sure what you’re saying.’

  ‘That you hacked into my computer to find out what I liked so that, when we connected on the app, you could make it seem like we had a lot in common.’

  Harry stares at me as if I’m a new creature he’s never encountered before.

  ‘You poisoned my dog,’ I add.

  It’s at this point that I realise I’m raving. Somehow, when I was thinking this through, it all sounded logical. In between the thoughts and the words, it has become apparent that I’m utterly mad. The problem is that there’s no turning back now.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Harry says. He pushes himself up from the table until he’s standing over me. It feels like he’s going to turn and storm away – but I still have my trump card.

  ‘You were on my bus,’ I say.

  His eyes widen and slowly, very slowly, he returns to his seat. This time, I know it’s the truth.

  ‘The number 24,’ I add. ‘That’s why you recognised me at The Garden Café.’

  Harry picks up the small biscotti that came with his drink and bites it in half. He’s staring at me, looking for some sort of reasoning. It’s a good fifteen seconds before he says anything. When he does speak, it’s in a tone I’ve not heard before. The playfulness has gone, replaced by something harder.

  ‘I was disappointed,’ he says. ‘When we met at The Garden Café.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘That you didn’t recognise me. I get on that bus a couple of times a week and I see you all the time. When we swapped pictures on the app, I thought it was you but didn’t want to say anything in case it wasn’t. Then, when we met properly, I realised it was you. I recognised you straight away but you had no idea who I was.’

  ‘Oh…’

  It feels like I’m a balloon that’s deflating. This is not how things went in my head. Even from the photos it’s obvious that all I do on the bus is avoid eye contact. I wouldn’t recognise anyone except, perhaps, the driver.

  ‘Do you have a problem with me?’ he asks.

  I have no idea what to do. My argument now seems flimsy and not well thought through, like something one of my old school reports might say.

  ‘I went to your apartment block,’ I say.

  ‘I know – I was there.’

  ‘No… I went again afterwards. You went around the side when we were together. When I went back on my own, nobody knew who you were. Your name isn’t on the directory or any of the mailboxes.’

  Harry’s frown now slips into a full-on scowl. ‘You went to my home?’

  ‘I, um…’

  ‘Do you know everyone in your building? How many people did you ask at mine? Did you talk to either of my next-door neighbours? Or Stacy across the corridor? Or Caitlin down the hall?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘I’m not on the directory because it isn’t working properly.’

  He cradles his head in his hands and, as I glance around, I realise people are starting to watch. There’s a trio of mothers this morning and they’re offering sideways glances from the front window while pretending to keep an eye on their kids. Deformed Kevin Bacon isn’t bothering to hide it – his mouth is open as he watches us openly. The waitress is leaning on the counter, pad in hand, and quickly glances away when I look to her. I don’t blame them. It’s better morning entertainment than guessing which of Piers Morgan’s five chins he’ll dribble on first.

  ‘You said pets weren’t allowed in the building,’ I say.

  ‘They’re not.’

  ‘But I saw someone coming out with a dog.’

  If it’s a triumph, then it doesn’t feel like it. The smoking gun is more like a soppy water pistol.

  ‘Was it a little rat thing?’ he asks.

  I feel tiny. ‘Yes…’

  ‘That’s Veronica. She’s lived there for fifteen years or so. When the building council changed the rules to ban pets, she already had the dog. They could hardly stop her having it, so it was a ban from then on. There are no new pets.’

  ‘Oh…’

  My evidence is suddenly thinner than the plot of a Fast And The Furious movie.

  ‘What about your job?’ I say.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I called Bright White Enterprises and nobody knew you?’

  The silence is worse than the incredulity. I can hear a spoon clinking on a mug across the room and there’s a vague rattling coming from the kitchen. Other than that, everyone is quiet.

  ‘You called my office?’ Harry says after an excruciating pause.

  ‘Yes. The guy said there’s no Harry Smith working there.’

  ‘That’s because nobody there calls me Harry. It’s “Haitch” or “Aitch”. That’s what people called me at school and it’s continued. Everyone calls me that – but I didn’t want to say that to you because it sounds a bit silly.’

  Harry pushes himself up and takes the jacket from the back of his chair. He puts it on and does the keys, wallet, phone check. He takes a step away from the table and then moves back, leaning in close so that nobody can overhear.

  ‘I don’t want to be mean,’ he says, ‘but I can’t think of a nicer way to say this. You’ve got problems, Lucy. Serious, psychological problems. This is not normal. I hope you know that.’ He stands straighter, thinks about it and then crouches once more. ‘Also, I don’t think we should see each other again.’

  With that, he stands, drops a ten-pound note on the table, nods to the waitress and then strides out of the café and out of my life.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Billy senses my mood when I get home. He follows me around the apartment and then snuggles into me on the sofa. He doesn’t even beg for food.

  ‘Well, Bill,’ I tell him. ‘I’m an idiot.’

  He looks up to me and doesn’t disagree. It takes an incredible degree of obliviousness to think someone else is a stalker – and then pay for CCTV photos that end up proving the person with a problem is me.

  I flick through the pictures once more and, in frame after frame, I’m ignoring the world around me. The truth is that anyone could have dropped that envelope into my bag; the music across the corridor could be a coincidence and Mark might have poisoned Billy and Judge.

  That leaves one thing that’s harder to resolve – why Melanie’s jacket was in Jade’s old apartment. Was the door left open
by accident, or was I meant to find it? I suppose it could be a coat like Melanie’s – and hers was stolen from the line at the same time. It would be taking flukes to a new level, but I suppose crazier things have happened.

  I spend a few hours doing little other than not really watching television, while cringing every time I think about the way I embarrassed myself. It’s only as the clock ticks around to six that I remember it’s Karen’s big night.

  I’m not in the partying mood – but that’s something I could have said on almost every day of my life. It’s only my specific birthdays up to the age of about eleven or twelve on which I might have felt differently. After that, it’s been a consistent lifetime of not being in the mood for revelling.

  That said, I do have enough self-awareness to realise that tonight is not about me. Karen’s never had a birthday party, so the least I can do as her friend is actually go to this one.

  Even with the money I’ve spent, I’ve done very little to expand my wardrobe, so there’s not a lot of choice when it comes to what to wear. Karen never mentioned fancy dress to me, even though Nick says he’s going as a sexy zombie. If he’s the only one, there’s going to be quite the clash of style… although if an attack of the undead does ever happen, they could launch it at Halloween and it would only be the morning after that anyone would notice a problem. Either way, I go for jeans and a warm blankety top. It’s November after all.

  The Rec Centre is a council-run building that’s used for everything from Sunday-morning yoga classes, to drop-in citizens’ advice sessions, to a polling station every time the government decides to call an election or referendum. That seems to happen with alarming regularity at the moment. It’s the type of council resource that will be cut sooner or later – and then disappear for good. Considering the building is literally on our doorstep, it’s probably to my shame that I never use it for anything. When it is cut, it will be because of people like me.

  Billy and I head down to the party at almost eight o’clock. The posters say seven – but only nutters will show up that early. Half-past is still dicing with trouble at being one of the first to arrive. It’s an awkward time in that there might be a high strangers-to-friends ratio, which means talking to somebody unknown is a real possibility. Not only that, but it’s hard to know if going to the buffet that early is acceptable. Nobody wants to be the first. Waiting an hour seems the most sensible option.

  The party is being held in the room at the back of the centre. There are handwritten signs with ‘party’ over the top of an arrow stuck to the glass doors at the front. I follow the building around until I’m at the back where there’s a large expanse of grass and a children’s play park. Sulphur hangs in the air and there’s a cloud of smoke clinging to the trees at the furthest end. There is the faintest orangey haze beyond the hedge line, so there’s either a bonfire, or something’s ablaze at the back of the industrial park. Tonight must be a pyromaniac’s dream.

  Intermittent whizzes and bangs from overhead have Billy on edge and he keeps close to my legs, to such a degree that I almost fall over him twice on the way to the doors at the back of the Rec Centre.

  There are floor-to-ceiling windows attached to the hall, with patio doors that are wide open. A song I vaguely recognise is seeping through, while spinning coloured lights are flickering back and forth.

  When we get inside, Billy seemingly forgets the trauma of the fireworks outside – largely because there are almost as many dogs present as people. The floor is the same type of varnished wood that was in the gym when I was at school and Billy tugs at his lead, scratching and sliding his way across it until he’s in a clutch of wagging tails with all the other pets. I let him off his lead and he darts in small circles, as happy as I’ve seen him. He sniffs around Judge – and then moves onto the others. Someone’s Yorkshire terrier is dressed as a pumpkin, while a French bulldog is wearing a ninja turtle outfit. I wonder if the other dogs feel underdressed.

  Karen spots us straight away. She’s in a sparkly black dress and, from the speed at which she’s talking, already tipsy.

  ‘You’re here!’ she says excitedly before gripping me in a hug that’s borderline assault. I gasp for breath until she releases me. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

  ‘Of course I was going to be here.’

  She crouches and strokes Billy’s back – although he’s unaware because he’s busy flirting with the ninja turtle. He always was more sociable than me.

  ‘Good showing, isn’t it?’ she says.

  I turn and take in the room. There are birthday banners across the doors and three disco balls hanging from the ceiling – but, more importantly, a good forty to fifty people mingling.

  ‘There’s a pound off at the bar for people who live at Hamilton,’ Karen says. ‘Just tell them your flat number. Jamie’s on top of it all.’

  Karen waves across towards the bar, which is set up in one of the corners. There are two smartly dressed barmen in waistcoats and the taller of the two waves back at her.

  Karen nods across to a speaker on the edge of the stage: ‘The DJ wanted £200, so I set up a playlist on my phone,’ she adds. ‘It’s all eighties, nineties and two-thousands stuff. None of the new rubbish. If you want a request, I can add it to the playlist if I’ve got it on my phone.’

  ‘I think I’ll leave the music to you,’ I say.

  ‘There’s a lot of Kylie on this playlist.’ She laughs to herself and then points across to the buffet. ‘There’s a special doggy treat section. I had to put a load of signs around it in case people accidentally ate the biscuits themselves.’ The grin has barely left her face as she waves across to someone I don’t recognise. She turns back to me and says: ‘Have you seen the state of Nick?’

  He’s in the corner chatting to three women. From what I can tell, he is the only person in fancy dress. He’s gone all-in, too – it’s not some cheap mask with scraggy jeans. He’s either way more talented than I realised, or he has a friend who’s a make-up artist. His face is covered with drawn-on flesh wounds, while the rest of his skin has a greyish tone. There are some sort of entrails hanging from underneath his ripped top.

  ‘I think he thought it was fancy dress,’ I say.

  ‘I think he wanted to dress up regardless,’ Karen replies with a smile.

  ‘Good point.’

  Karen waves to someone else and then says she’ll catch up with me later. She hugs me one more time and then, as if on schedule, there is momentary pause in between tracks before Kylie’s ‘Spinning Around’ comes on. Karen does the half-walk, half-dance that people do when they’re on the way to drunkenness and disappears away to talk to other people.

  I watch her, wondering how many people would come to a birthday party of mine. Definitely not this many. From feeling happy for her, I suddenly feel a little sorry for myself. I have Billy and, after that, I’m not too sure. Even when I find someone I like on, of all things, a dating app, it’s me who turns out to be the mental one.

  I coax Billy over to the buffet and give him a couple of the doggy biscuits. He makes a mess of crumbs, which is more or less a given, and then trots back to socialise with his new friends. Even he’d have more attendees at a birthday party.

  I follow him back and, before I know it, I’m chatting to the bloke whose French bulldog is dressed as a ninja turtle. I strongly suspect his biggest reason for having the dog is to try to pick up women. He’s youngish and hipstery; all beard, hair wax and no chance of ever buying a house. There’s a charm to him, though, and we’re soon banging on about the things all dog owners do. There’s an unspoken checklist – he or she? – age? – breed? – and then it’s on to bigger issues. He knows Karen because he used to work with her on a production line. He’s gone back to university since, but they are friends on Facebook and blah-di-blah-di-blah. These are the exact kinds of relationship I don’t have.

  The music continues to scroll through hits mainly from the nineties as more people arrive. There are probably eighty or ninety
people milling around now. Few are dancing but most seem to be drinking and chatting. It’s a Friday night and this is an alternative to pubs, clubs, or the organised bonfire displays. It seems the dogs are a popular attraction, too. Many people arrive, ditch their coats, and then head straight for the congregation of animals to say hello.

  Billy is loving it all and there’s no question this is a better place for him than my flat would have been. The fireworks would’ve made it the worst evening of the year for him, but now, because of Karen, he’s having one of his best.

  I go on a lap of the hall, trying to make it look as if I have friends and know how to be sociable. It amazes me that this is natural for some people. As I’m on my way around, I spot Vicky standing close to the buffet by herself. She’s tugging on the ring through her nose but nods and smiles when she sees me. There’s a moment in which it feels as if we’re both experiencing the same degree of awkwardness, but I amble over towards her. The music seems to have got louder, so I lean in to talk into her ear.

  ‘No baby tonight?’ I ask, although it’s largely stating the obvious.

  ‘Mum said she’d take her,’ Vicky replies. She pulls away momentarily and then angles in again. ‘I want to pay you back the money. I know what you said, but it doesn’t feel right.’

  She doesn’t want to catch my eye, so I don’t force it. I touch her on the arm instead, to say I understand. ‘Whatever makes you happier,’ I reply. ‘But you don’t have to.’

  Vicky is about to say something else when the music stops fleetingly between songs. It’s the difference between a DJ and a playlist and means that there’s almost always a drop in the volume of conversations, if only for a second. When the music returns, a shiver whispers along my spine. Elton John is singing about a woman packing her bags. It’s nine in the morning.

  Vicky has been talking, but I’ve heard none of it.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not feeling well,’ I say. Or think I do. Everything is a bit of a blur and the spinning lights above are suddenly disorientating. The hall is as it was. People are chatting, drinking and dancing. The dogs have their own corner, although some are now settling down for a snooze. Zombie Nick is still surrounded by women. Karen is dancing with a man I’ve never met before. She’s swaying tipsily and laughing to herself. Nobody seems to have noticed that anything out of the ordinary has happened.