You Think You Know Someone

by J B Holman

  But the guilt would not go away.

  The torchlight jittered as the hand holding it shook.

  She checked the body one more time, then started the car. She needed to get away. She drove for twenty minutes, then stopped. She changed. She removed her make-up, took off her nail varnish and exchanged her dress for trousers and shirt, slipped into her man-shoes, then put everything in the bag, torch and knife included. She had just become a he.

  He tilted the driver’s seat back a few degrees and drove on. Narrow lanes turned into wider lanes until the B roads reverted to A roads and he headed for a place of beauty and calm.

  The Cotswold Hills were sparsely populated and a long way from Brighton and London. He just needed to get away.

  Allowing irony to take control, he headed for a cluster of villages called the Slaughters. He slipped slowly and quietly into the sleeping hamlet of Upper Slaughter, crossed the ford almost silently, headed towards St Peter’s Church until he found a quiet nook to park and to sleep.

  But sleep eluded him.

  It was too cold. He needed to conserve petrol, so the engine was off. He shivered until the early hours, but it was no good. He got up and headed for the nearest significant town: it was Cheltenham. He parked in the suburbs, left the car, picked up his bag and walked.

  It was early. It was Saturday and still quiet. He walked past the grandiose architecture of Cheltenham’s fine and noble terraced facades, past the pillars and the white urban fronts, the Victorian and Edwardian railings and took a left, then a right, two more lefts and a right again. The architecture was less grand now. A café on the corner was opening its doors.

  He bought a takeaway coffee, walked a further two hundred yards and took a seat on a bench in a small park surrounding a war memorial that listed so many people who had perished for the good of their country.

  He sat, drank and stared in a semi-somnolent state at passers-by, at first occasional, but gradually more frequent as the hands of his watch moved their way silently round the dial.

  He was opposite Berkeley Heights, a large, stylish block of comfortable flats. People came and went; some in running gear, some in a hurry, some more leisurely. The sky was blue and it was set to be a fine day, but his attention was consumed on the thoughts within.

  Where to go? What to do? He was cold and tired. He’d been up all the previous night in a club with a coke head. He’d wandered the streets of Brighton by day, waiting to meet a friend in the evening; a friend that owed him money and had been safeguarding his important things, but the friend had not been a friend at all. They argued and he left. He had broken his heel, fallen, bruised his hip, been attacked by three maniacs in a dark alley, been saved only to be kidnapped in a locked car, driven to the middle of nowhere and been the victim of murderous intent. He had just strangled a man, dumped his body and made a run for it. Human kindness was in short supply.

  He needed tea and sympathy.

  He needed a bed.

  And a bath.

  He needed a place to stay and think, to recuperate and plan. He needed to sleep. But most of all he needed help; he needed someone to help him. The door of the flats opened. Out walked a woman, a young woman, no a middle-aged woman. She walked slowly and softly, shoulders at a slight Saturday morning stoop. He read her countenance. She was the one.

  He caught the briefest glimpse of her face; it was soft and kindly if somewhat vacant and preoccupied.

  He read her character as she walked. Was it science, was it intuition or was it just wishful thinking? He saw her as soft and submissive, caring and responsible, a proper person, not a mother, but an established person, a person of morals, maybe someone who saw helping as the right thing to do. Above all he saw kindness. He might have been wrong about everything else, but he definitely saw the vulnerability of kindness. Yes, it was her help he needed.

  He stood and followed. She entered the Tesco Metro mini-market, unremarkable, unnoticeable, almost invisible, and picked up a trolley. He did the same, hooking his bag over the back.

  He caught glimpses of her as she shopped in a world of her own.

  She had dressed in a hurry, like she didn’t care. She clearly had no one to impress. The quality of her clothes was good enough, but it looked like she had thrown them up in the air and stood underneath or been in an explosion in some upmarket charity shop. The effect was frumpy. She was mid-thirties, but her clothes said over forty.

  She picked up eggs, bread, cheese, Lea & Perrins and tomatoes. She paused by confectionery, touched a box of mixed Lindt delights, but let it go and walked on. Over-priced drinking yoghurt, a small box of tissues, a small tin of tuna and three ‘meals for one’. She rolled her trolley on and round the corner to the wine section. She stood and studied, before picking up a bottle of Merlot and placing it in the trolley, then picking up a second bottle, hovering it above her trolley and replacing it on the shelf.

  ‘Is that a good one?’ he asked innocently from behind her.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person. I’m no wine buff, but I’ve had it before and I like it.’

  ‘I’ll take one,’ he said, as he placed a bottle in his almost empty trolley. ‘It should come in half bottles,’ he added ‘for when drinking alone.’ He paused and reflected on his words. ‘That sounds bad, doesn’t it?’

  She smiled.

  ‘I have no difficulty finishing a whole bottle,’ she said in light humour. ‘Once it’s opened, it would be rude not to.’ Realising her thoughts had escaped uncensored, she added, ‘Not that I’m an alcoholic.’

  ‘No,’ he said reassuringly, ‘you don’t look like one. It’s hard this shopping for one.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it takes a bit of skill, but you get the knack of it.’

  ‘D’you know if they do chicken pieces here or is it just whole chickens?’

  ‘No, they usually have pieces. Next aisle over, about half way down.’

  ‘Thanks,’ and he trundled off in a determined chicken hunt.

  She hardly gave him a second thought. It was a mindless supermarket exchange of pleasantries; no thought, no motivation, just automatic pilot. Somewhere in her subconscious, she registered that he was a man, gentle, un-threatening, had an unkempt charm about him and was OK looking. But a man was certainly not what she was looking for, so she shopped on.

  They passed in the detergent aisle, smiled pleasantly, almost awkwardly as trolley sides rubbed lightly and said nothing. A radio was playing quietly in the store. Music gave way to news.

  The Prime Minister will make his first public appearance tomorrow after the unsuccessful assassination attempt on his life on Thursday.

  The Prime Minister said he was glad to be alive, but expressed deep sorrow at the death of one of his advisers, who was shot by a stray bullet in the incident. ‘It’s a tragic loss of life,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘He was a bright, well-educated, promising young man.’ The man has been named today as Colin Lewis. He was a civil servant, unmarried and 29 years old. His family are deeply shocked. The funeral will be a private family affair.

  The Prime Minister’s appearance tomorrow will be at the Bodleian in Oxford, where he will hold a formal lunch, before addressing the Oxford Union. The Bodleian is currently hosting the European Table Tennis Championship, a sport in which the Prime Minister is known to excel.

  The popularity rating of the Prime Minister has gone up seventeen points since the shooting, but he still faces strong opposition in Parliament over his Brexit negotiations.

  In other stories, the . . .

  The news moved onto international issues as he made his way around the store. He bought chicken pieces, burgers and oven chips, baked beans and a packet of sausages; as well as the box of Lindt that she had left behind, then with careful timing joined the checkout queue immediately behind her.

  ‘I’m not stalking you,’ he said in jest.

  She smiled and said nothing. She finished packing her shopping.

  ‘£54.28 please. Card or cash?�
�� asked the robotic lady at the checkout.

  ‘Card,’ she said, as she swung her bag round from her back and dug inside for her purse. It took a while. ‘Hang on. It’s in here somewhere.’ Her hands got more frantic, the top of her chest just below her neck started to redden and she smiled a wan humourless smile at the face of indifference of Mrs Checkout. ‘I’m sure I put it in here. It’s always here.’ A final search proved fruitless. ‘I can’t find it, sorry. Can I leave my trolley here and nip back home? I must’ve left it there, but I can’t think how.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the almost charming, slightly awkward man behind her. ‘May I be of assistance?’ He turned his head to speak to Mrs Checkout. ‘Please add that to my shopping. I’ll pay for it all.’

  ‘No. No, really,’ said the fully embarrassed shopper in front of him. ‘I can’t let you do that. It’s alright, I only live round the corner.’

  ‘Well, I live in Berkeley Heights,’ he said. ‘It’s a block of flats in Jurors’ Road about two minutes from here. You can drop in £54.28 next time you’re passing.’ He indicated to Mrs Checkout to start ringing it up.

  ‘You live in Berkeley Heights? Me too!’

  ‘No!’ said the good Samaritan in apparent surprise. ‘Which floor are you on?’

  ‘Number nine, on the second floor. Where are you?’

  ‘Top Floor. Haven’t been there long.’

  ‘It’s really kind of you. I feel so foolish. I was sure I had my purse with me. I will pay you back. In full.’

  ‘With interest,’ he added, a glint in his eye. ‘Have coffee with me.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ she said defensively.

  He looked instantly downcast.

  ‘Alright then. It would be a pleasure.’

  With shopping stowed and Tesco’s paid, they walked together towards Berkeley Heights.

  ‘Let me take that,’ he said, taking her two lightly filled bags to add to his own and the bag on his back.

  ‘No, you’re already laden down.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said, ‘and now you can link arms.’ She hesitated for a moment, then slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow. What harm could it do? And he had been a real gentleman. ‘Linking arms is OK is it? I mean you’re not married or have a boyfriend or fiancé hidden away somewhere?’

  ‘No. No men in my life right now. Too much trouble.’

  ‘Sounds about right. You work around here?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a civil servant.’

  ‘Sounds exciting,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘It has its moments. School pencils won’t buy themselves, y’know!’ And that strain of conversation came to a gentle halt. They walked a few steps in silence.

  ‘My name’s Conner, by the way,’ he said.

  ‘You’re kidding! I don’t believe it. Mine too.’

  ‘Now you’re winding me up!’ he said. ‘That would be way too spooky, and for a start Conner is a boy’s name and it’s Irish – and you don’t look like you’re either!’

  ‘No, it’s my surname. Julie Connor.’

  ‘Well, that is a coincidence. Obviously Fate. I’m pleased to meet you, Julie Connor.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  They turned together, still arm in arm, up the eight steps of Berkeley Heights to the large glass double front door of the well-kept, upper-middle-class block. ‘Have you got keys?’ he asked. ‘My arms are full. Or have you lost them as well?’

  ‘No,’ she said, in light scolding indignation. ‘I don’t lose everything.’ She reached her keys out of her pocket and opened the front door wide. He was a charmer and made her feel good.

  She couldn’t say she had a crush on this man, not by any means, but he’d made a good start. She might meet him for coffee sometime in the week and take it from there. Maybe.

  She unlocked the door and caught his eye.

  His face lit up when he smiled; she liked that. He was alright, for a man. He was polite, inoffensive, thoughtful and not bad looking. Yes, maybe, just maybe she might have coffee with him. No harm in talking. She would take it step by step. He stepped towards the now open front door.

  ‘So, is Conner your first name or last name?’ she asked, as she invited him through the door and into her life.

  ‘It’s just a nickname,’ he said, nonchalantly. ‘My real name is Eduard, Eduard Foxx.’

  5

  The Gag Order

  ‘Then come in, Mr Fox. I’m on the second floor. But you know that. Stairs or lift?’

  ‘Stairs every time.’ They chatted until they reached the door of Number 9.

  ‘This is me. Thank you so much. You’ve been more than kind.’ She opened the door, stood on the threshold and held out her hand for the bags.

  ‘No, it’s OK. Let me drop them inside for you.’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, as she took the bags. She turned and placed them on the floor. ‘I’ll find my purse and drop the money up to you.’

  ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘I’m really not that bothered about the money, but coffee, now that’s a definite.’

  ‘I always pay my debts, but yes, we will fix up for a coffee sometime. Let me check my busy social calendar.’

  ‘How about now?’ he said, making a move to follow her in.

  ‘No. Not really a good time. Flat’s a mess. But we’ll make it soon.’

  ‘I don’t mind the mess. Just five minutes.’

  ‘Edward, no. I really appreciate your help, but no. Pushy doesn’t work for me.’

  ‘Well, I need some help from you. I just need five minutes.’

  ‘Goodbye Edward,’ and she closed the door . . . until it met his foot blocking the way.

  ‘Please move your foot. Edward, this is not right. You’re beginning to . . .’

  His foot remained.

  ‘Edward! Move your foot. I’m not joking. Move your foot or I’ll call the police, I have them on speed dial.’ She had the phone in her hand.

  ‘OK. Sorry,’ he said, moving his foot. ‘I just needed . . .’ She pushed the door, waiting to hear the reassuring click of safety as the lock clicked into the latch. She let out a small sigh of relief.

  But the door was still a millimetre from closed. He kicked it open. It slammed into her forehead and knocked her backwards. He entered, dropped his bags, she regained her balance but he pushed her away. He slammed the door with his foot and slapped her face hard, and again, and a third time. She reeled, shocked. He shoved her back forcefully, she stumbled, she fell to the floor.

  ‘Don’t you dare scream or I’ll kill you.’ He looked at her with hard meaningful eyes. She started to scream. He dived forwards, picked her up by the throat, stifling the scream and pinned her against the corridor wall, her feet off the ground, his hand now tighter on her windpipe. ‘Don’t – scream.’

  A knife appeared from nowhere and was held jagged under her jaw, the tip firm against her skin.

  ‘One push and this goes through your mouth and up into your brain. You will die slowly and in agony. When I say: Don’t scream, I mean it. I don’t want to kill you. I have other uses for you. But if I have to I will and I won’t give it a second thought. D’you understand?’ She did her best to nod. ‘OK then,’ he said and let her slip down the wall until her feet touched the ground. He loosened his grip on her neck, as fear gripped her face. ‘Don’t scream.’

  Agitation seized her, she looked round for an escape, a weapon, an explanation. But all she saw was panic. He could see it in her eyes. She was going to scream; she couldn’t help it. He let go and stood back, still holding the knife as a visible threat.

  ‘Take your coat off.’ Distracted, she obeyed.

  ‘Now strip. Take off your top and your trousers.’ She stopped and paused. Thoughts rushed through her head. It took but a millisecond. Reality clicked in. She had clarity of his intention.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Kill me if you want to. But no. I’m not doing that.’

  ‘Undress,’ he said insistently.

&nbs
p; ‘No,’ she said defiantly and put her arms in female defence position across the front of her chest.

  ‘OK, please yourself.’ He put the knife in his back pocket, grabbed her and dragged her across the floor. He kicked doors open until he found the bathroom and bundled her upright into the tub.

  ‘Stand there and don’t move.’ He turned on the shower, cold tap only. The frozen water poured ferocious upon her still clothed body. She whimpered, let out a high-pitched gasp, but she didn’t scream. The water seeped through her clothes. ‘Stay there,’ he said and took out the knife. She saw it in his hand on the other side of the shower curtain, felt the cold water bite deep through her skin and into her bones. She saw the knife come closer. Adrenalin consumed her.

  ‘You know the film,’ he said, ‘don’t you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Psycho,’ she said almost inaudibly, as the shiver of cold and fear mingled into paralysis.

  ‘Exactly. Misbehave, fight back and I will go psycho, no holding back. You will be in pieces. I will cut you up. Stand still.’ She stood, for a full five minutes, maybe ten. She was pale, shivering, cold to the core, all energy to scream had gone, the panic subsided, her will diminished. She just felt cold.

  That was the plan.