I drift through the crowd on autopilot until I’m close to the stage. There are two large speakers on either side, but I head towards the one at which Karen pointed. There’s a small table, half hidden by a curtain. Her phone is sitting on top, its garish purple case unmistakeable. There is a cable trailing away from the table but, instead of being plugged into Karen’s phone, it is now clipped into a small, plasticky MP3 player. It’s the type of thing that was once close to the height of technology but now sells for a tenner on a market stall. Karen’s phone screen is locked but the MP3 player has a photo of Elton on the front.
It feels as if someone has breathed down my neck, but, when I turn, there is nobody there. That sense of being watched eats away at me once more. It was there as I walked away from Chappie’s Café after I was supposed to meet whoever had put up the posters. I’ve felt it in the hallways of Hamilton House and it was there when I was trick or treating with Karen’s boys last weekend.
I pull myself up onto the stage and turn to take in the floor. The attendance is even more impressive from higher up. I never realised Karen knew so many people, though I recognise almost nobody. There’s no one identifiably out of place; nothing untoward… except, almost as if it was timed, a firework explodes into the sky beyond the glass doors at the back. A shower of shadow and light splays wide across the lawn and, in that second, there’s a flicker of movement, a shadow… probably nothing. It’s gone as soon as it was there. But the chill is back.
I clamber off the stage and work my way through the crowd, to the doors and onto the grass beyond. It’s colder than it was and I wrap my arms around myself. My breath spirals up and into the night sky. From behind, Elton’s tones are muffled and yet, somehow, that makes it more powerful. It feels like a dream; a memory.
The moon is shrouded by cloud, leaving everything doused in dark or dim, vague shadows. It’s in my periphery that I see another glimmer of movement. A ghost in the night. I follow it over towards the play park. For a moment, I feel weak at the knees, but then I realise the ground is covered with the springy, spongey material that coats all playgrounds nowadays. It’s like walking on a trampoline as I bob across the surface, searching for the shadow that’s no longer there. I can barely hear Karen’s music any longer.
‘Hello…?’
My voice echoes into the night without reply, but my heart leaps as a rocket fizzes high above the houses beyond, exploding into blue and purple droplets. The boom comes a fraction of a second later and then it all dissolves into nothingness, as if it was never there. I’ve been holding my breath and puff a thick, chilly cloud into the dark.
‘Hi.’
The word makes me yelp with alarm. It’s so close that I can feel the man’s breath on my neck. I spin, but there’s nobody there.
Except that there is. He’s not directly behind me; he’s further back, rocking gently on one of the swings.
I take a few steps towards him and then he speaks again: ‘Hi, Luce. It’s been a while.’
Never Lucy, always Luce.
Closer. The shape of his face is unerringly familiar, even in the night. Another firework explodes into the sky above and, in that second, I can see who it is. He’s smiling at me lopsidedly; still the same, even after all these years.
‘You’re dead,’ I tell him.
‘Am I?’
‘Alex…?’
I move closer still and he stops rocking, sitting still and looking up to me. Perhaps it’s fate, or maybe it’s an accident of nature – but the moon chooses that moment to emerge from behind a cloud. Gloomy white light seeps across the playground and the scar is suddenly clear underneath his Adam’s apple. The old rugby injury.
‘Nearly,’ Ben says.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ben rolls up his sleeve to show me the tattoo he had etched onto his arm a month before the train crash. There are spiky shapes that always looked disjointed to me, but it’s darker than I remember; more intricate. I was never sure if I liked it. It all seemed a bit low-rent. The type of thing some bloke might have on show while throwing around chairs outside an all-day breakfast place on the Costa del Sol as he bellows ‘English’ at the Spanish owner. I never told Ben that, of course. It’s one of those unwritten rules: if someone shows off their tattoo, they have to be told it looks great.
Ben shivers and rubs his arm: ‘Bit chilly, innit?’ he says.
I feel it now, too. There’s a wind that sizzles between the trees. Everything feels like a dream. An impossible dream.
Another firework booms overhead and Ben holds up his hands. When the bang has evaporated, a small smile crinkles onto his face. ‘Your favourite night of the year,’ he says.
I shake my head. ‘It used to be.’
He doesn’t object as I stretch for his arm and rub the tattoo with my thumb. I half expect it to smudge but it remains intact.
‘It’s real,’ he says. ‘I’m real.’
‘How?’
Ben tugs his sleeve down and sets himself rocking steadily on the swing. I have to step to the side.
‘I’ve been trying to give you clues,’ he says. ‘To ease you into it. I didn’t want it to be such a shock. I thought you might’ve figured it out by now.’
‘Figured it out? You’re dead.’
He shrugs in the way I always hated. It never did suit him. He says nothing in reply and, almost because of the weight of expectation, I sit on the swing next to his, allowing my legs to dangle.
‘Have you been living opposite?’ I ask.
‘Not living. I’ve spent some time in there. I wanted to be close to you. I’ve missed you.’
He makes it sound as if this is all normal. ‘There was a funeral for you,’ I say. ‘A joint funeral. There have been memorials every year.’
I pinch the webbing in between the thumb and finger on my right hand, half expecting to jump awake and still be at home. I don’t. I’m here on the swings.
‘I wasn’t feeling well,’ Ben says. ‘Do you remember?’
‘“Last night’s sushi”,’ I reply. Of course I remember. Those words, those stupid words, have been burned into my memory.
He laughs a little, though there’s no humour there.
‘Right. The sushi. It saved my life. My stomach was in knots and the toilets on the train were out of order. I ended up getting off at the final stop before the crash. It was one of those smaller ones that are only used by window-lickers and bumpkins. I was going to sort myself out and then get on the next train an hour later.’
‘You weren’t on the train…?’ I reply, thinking of Steven and his stupid conspiracies. There never was a body.
Ben doesn’t reply. I suppose the very fact he’s here is a response.
‘What about Alex?’ I ask.
‘Alex…’ Ben repeats the name with a sigh and stops rocking on the swing. He presses his feet into the floor and leans forward a little. ‘I thought it would look better in front of the investor if there were two of us. We were in matching suits to look united. When I got off the train, I told Alex to stay on and that I’d catch him up. We didn’t know where we were going at the other end and I said that if he could figure out where everything was, we wouldn’t lose that much time…’ He tails off and then whispers: ‘I told him to stay on…’
Neither of us speak for a while. I pinch the webbing on my hand again but nothing happens. I’m not sure if I even feel the pain. Everything’s numb.
‘There were no toilets at the station,’ Ben says. ‘It was basically just a platform. I was in this café over the road when the crash came on the news.’
He leans backwards and the swing bounces back and then forward. It feels as if this is all he’s going to say; as if this is an explanation for everything.
I turn and stare sideways at him.
‘Why didn’t you call?’ I ask. ‘Or come home? I don’t understand.’
He bites his lip and turns to face me. I can see the subtle differences in his appearance now. There are gentle lines a
round the corners of his eyes and more of a crease to his lips. Age comes to everyone.
‘The reason I was seeing the investor in the first place is because I was out of money. I actually did call you – but hung up before it connected. I had no idea what to say. It was going to come out sooner or later that we were broke.’
‘We?’
Ben doesn’t react at first, but then it comes: ‘I had this weird moment of clarity,’ he says. ‘That this was my way out. I had a bit of cash hidden at Mum’s house – but that was it—’
‘Your mum knew?’
He holds up a hand to stop me. ‘I met a guy in a bar one time when I was away. He reckoned he was a private investigator. I thought it was a joke but I’d kept his card for some reason and then I saw it all clearly. I didn’t want to let you down any more. I waited until Mum was out and then went and got my money. I used that to pay the investigator and he sorted me out with a new driving licence and some other things. As long as I had the money, he didn’t bother with many questions. I think he’d done it before.’
I’ve turned away but, when he pauses, I can sense him wanting me to twist back. I ignore him for a few seconds and then the tug is too much.
He waits until I’m looking at him and then says: ‘It’s not like I tried to fake my own death. It just sort of… happened.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘No.’
‘Things like this don’t just happen.’
I twist around in the swing so that my back is to him.
‘Luce…’
‘Don’t call me that.’
He says nothing and then I feel the fury boiling. It’s like I’m going to be sick. ‘Then what?’ I spin, rotating back towards him. ‘You had what was left of our money.’
He shrugs. That damn shrug.
‘I moved,’ he says. ‘I started again. I’d learned my lessons about day trading. I made money second time around. I took fewer risks and it started to come together. I pooled my money with some people I found online and we made a decent profit.’
‘You’ve been doing fine all this time, while I’ve been struggling with your debts…?’
‘It wasn’t’
‘I didn’t owe any money. You took loans out in my name.’
‘If you’d just’
‘If I’d just what?’
‘That’s in the past.’
He clamps his lips together but I feel like I need some sort of answers.
‘Where did you move to?’ I ask, hoping for something.
He shrugs again. ‘Does it matter?’
‘YES!’ I’m shouting, unable to keep it in. I’m gripping the chain of the swing so tightly that the links are imprinted into my palms. ‘All this matters.’
Ben sighs and now it’s him that wants to turn away. ‘Can we stop talking about the past and think about the future?’ he says.
It’s so outlandish, so ridiculous, that it takes me a few seconds to take it in. ‘Future?’ I say. ‘What future? Everyone thinks you’re dead. I have a copy of the death certificate. You can’t just come back.’
‘I don’t need to. I have another ID. I’m not Ben Peterson, I’m Peter now.’
I actually laugh at that and it’s not fake or forced. It explodes in a guff of air. ‘That’s the name you chose? How long did you have to think about it?’
He shrugs.
‘Stop shrugging!’
He lowers his shoulders, seemingly chastened. I wonder if everyone has these types of traits that follow a person through their life. Whether there’s something I do that annoys everyone else.
‘I didn’t choose the name,’ he says. ‘When you get an ID, you get what you’re given. The point is that I don’t need to come back. We can be together as Lucy and Peter. Ben is dead.’
He says something else, but it’s lost among an exploding firework. The explosion crackles along the sky, finishing with a series of smaller fizzes. When it’s over, Ben is no longer speaking.
‘Does your mum know?’ I ask.
He doesn’t reply, but, when I turn to him, he shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t tell her,’ he says. ‘I thought about it. I wanted to.’
‘You stole her coat from her washing line?’
I watch his eyes narrow, probably wondering how I knew. If it is that, then he doesn’t ask.
‘I wanted to feel closer to her,’ he says, not seeming to realise how creepy it sounds. How creepy all this sounds. ‘It’s not her I’m back for,’ he adds.
‘You’ll keep letting her think you’re dead?’
‘Ben is dead. I think it’s kinder. Don’t you?’
‘Don’t bring me into this.’
I push myself up from the swing and step away. Ben mutters ‘don’t’, but that’s not the reason I stop and turn. A horrible suspicion is starting to settle.
‘What did you mean “ease me into it”?’
There’s a pause and Ben has his lips pressed together.
‘Tell me,’ I say.
‘I couldn’t just turn up at your door and say, “Tada! It’s me”.’
‘What else?’
I know him better than I realised. He stares at the floor. ‘I enjoyed the chase,’ Ben says. ‘It was like the old days. I was trying to prove to you that I wanted you. It was fun. Didn’t you enjoy it?’
He glances up and I can the sincerity in his thoughts. He really believes the last week has been enjoyable. I close my eyes and can see the CCTV stills from the bus. They’re imprinted on my memory. Ben was the man in the cap from the bus. The one who was in only a single picture.
‘Why did you give me the money?’ I ask.
He starts to shrug and then catches himself. ‘I wanted you to enjoy your life again,’ he says. ‘I hated seeing you live like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Poky flat, rubbish job. It’s no way to live, is it?’
I want to be furious with him. He doesn’t think it’s an insult but it is. I’m not happy with my life – but that isn’t because of my flat, or the people. It’s because everything I earn goes into paying off rent or his debts. It is a miserable way to live – but I’m also trying to change it.
‘I like a lot about my life,’ I say. ‘I have friends. I’m studying for my future. I have a job interview tomorrow morning.’
He snorts. ‘What? I thought you were working at a supermarket? You can’t be happy doing those jobs? Come off it.’
Ben doesn’t seem to know I no longer work there. I suppose my downfall at Crosstown was all my own. ‘It’s a means to an end,’ I say.
‘You don’t need that now. You have me.’
‘You left me. You stole our savings.’
Ben bites his lip again. ‘Bygones…?’
It’s my turn to snort now. It’s hard not to. Ben barely responds.
‘You put up the posters, didn’t you?’ I say.
He doesn’t answer.
‘You made me email you.’
‘I didn’t make you do anything.’
‘I was trying to be honest! You had me chase around and arrange a meeting and then you didn’t turn up.’
‘I wanted to see you,’ he says. There’s something about the pathetic tone to his voice that makes me believe him. ‘I didn’t know if I could hold off until now,’ he adds. ‘Being close to you kept making me want to say something. I almost opened the apartment door to you so many times when you were in the corridor. I almost walked into the café. I kept stopping myself because I wanted it to be tonight.’
‘Why tonight?’
We lock eyes and there’s a moment in which I realise he doesn’t understand what the past five years have done to me. There’s an obliviousness, a lack of realisation.
‘Because it’s your favourite time of the year,’ he says.
‘It’s not. It’s the time of year when my boyfriend died and I realised he’d taken out loans in my name. It’s the time of year when everything fell apart. When I realised I’d been lied to over and over.’
He sucks in his cheeks and stares at the floor.
‘I’m happier with Billy,’ I say.
The reply is under his breath, so quiet that I barely catch it. ‘That mangy thing.’ He spits the words and suddenly I know.
‘You poisoned him, didn’t you?’ I say.
Ben shrugs. Again. ‘You don’t need him now you have me.’
I look back towards the hall, where Billy and the other dogs will still be hanging around in their corner, going about their evening while protected from the bangs overhead. There’s such innocence there that I can barely square it with everything out here. It’s darkness and light.
‘Did you attack Harry?’ I ask.
‘Is that his name? He’s not right for you.’
It’s not an answer, but Ben speaks like it is.
‘You got the idea from Alex.’
Ben spins, his shoulders tensed, fists balled. ‘Don’t say his name.’
For the first time since coming outside, a ripple of fear teases its way through me. It’s dark and there’s nobody else around. I could scream but won’t be heard over the music from the hall. I look across towards the party, hoping people will be starting to leave and head along the path. But there’s no one. Just us.
I take a step away from the swings, towards the hall. It’s only a simple movement – but Ben pulls himself up from the swing and stretches out a hand as if to take mine. I move another pace away.
‘I’ve been planning all this,’ he says. ‘Well… not all of it. I didn’t know about the party until the flyer came under my door. I wanted it to be special. I did all this for you. I messed up five years ago, but I’ve put it right. I have money – lots of it. It won’t be like before.’
‘Life isn’t all about money.’
‘Not all about money – but it helps. Look what you’ve done with it this past week. I wanted to show you that. We can be happy.’
‘No—’
A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Page 23