All These Perfect Strangers

by Aoife Clifford

  It had been years since I had smoked a cigarette. Taking a drag, I was hit by memories more than by the nicotine. Tracey and I used to steal them from my mother and smoke them up around the back of the town swimming pool. My stomach lurched.

  I was rescued by Leiza marching towards us. An arm-swinging sergeant major. Behind her, the girls on painting duty were beginning to pack up. ‘Have you got the buckets out of storage yet?’ she asked Toby.

  ‘What buckets?’ replied Toby, making a quick retreat into his shell of who-gives-a-fuck. He scowled up at Leiza.

  ‘The glue for the protest posters. All RAs agreed to help. You’re plastering the Science block.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘It’s for the march. It was discussed at the RA meeting you missed. I thought as a friend of Rachel’s you would want to be involved. We need to demand that her death be investigated properly, that this screwdriver lunatic be caught, plus more security patrols around the bar at night and better lighting.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ said Kesh.

  Leiza gave her the sort of look a crocodile gives a chicken. ‘Excellent. You can make the glue. Just go with Toby now and he’ll get the buckets for you. We’re heading out around midnight. Arts could do with an extra person putting posters up. Then I need someone to hand out flyers this week.’

  Toby held up a hand to stop the flow. ‘Fine, fine, I’ll do it if you stop talking. C’mon Kesh, before she enslaves you for life. Pen, put our clothes into the dryer. I don’t want to come back and find them all over the floor.’

  Holding the cigarette in my hand, I nodded, waiting to stub it out the moment his back was turned.

  As Toby and Kesh headed inside, Leiza took the seat next to me. ‘Christ, I could do with one of those.’ She pointed at the cigarette.

  I gestured mine at her. ‘Barely been used.’

  She shook her head. ‘This whole thing is a nightmare. That girl Alice is maimed and Rachel’s dead but still no one wants to do the work to protest that women’s lives are important. I waste all this time checking people are actually doing what they said they would do. They never are. Then I have the Sub-Dean questioning the appropriateness of the rally – “How will I ensure crowd safety? Surely there are better ways, Ms Parnell, of making your point than organising a rabble. I hope your studies aren’t suffering from this extra-curricular distraction.”’ Leiza screwed up her mouth to mimic the Sub-Dean’s peevishness.

  I stubbed the cigarette out on the seat next to us. ‘Why do it then?’

  ‘Because it’s even more important now. The university wants to forget about the attack on Alice, sweep Rachel’s death under the carpet so that it doesn’t put off prospective students and their parents. I was no fan of Rachel but she doesn’t deserve that. You’re going to be at the rally, right?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘No, really. It’s crucial we get as many people on it as we can, or else nothing will change.’

  ‘OK.’

  She nodded. ‘Now, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.’

  I waited for her to tell me about the lack of women’s representation at the student council or how far off women were from achieving equal pay, but instead she said, ‘The night Rachel died . . .’

  Immediately, I could hear my heart beating.

  Rogan had left college the morning afterwards and still hadn’t returned so I was the only person available for the handful of ghoulish ambulance-chasers who wanted to know all the details, but even they had stopped when I just stared them down and refused to answer. Most people had left me alone. Out of embarrassment, kindness or perhaps even a lack of interest, it was hard to say.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Look, if it was me, I’d want to know. You see, I saw her.’ Leiza pushed back her hair, hooking it behind her ear, and looked straight at me in her disconcertingly forthright way.

  ‘Rachel told me about that,’ I said, speaking quickly with relief. ‘When you came out of Joad’s room.’

  ‘Not then,’ said Leiza, and she looked embarrassed, which I thought was impossible for her. ‘She told you about the bet?’

  I nodded my head. ‘Joad’s a pig.’

  ‘And then people told me what he said on the Academic Night about rape and Alice’s attack. Disgusting. He thinks he can get away with that, but I’ll show him.’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway, that wasn’t what I meant. I saw Rachel later on that night.’

  ‘How much later?’

  ‘I was going into town. She was about to head into the bar when she saw me. I think she wanted to find you.’

  ‘So before . . .,’ I began, trying to work out how worried I should start feeling.

  ‘Yeah, before she took whatever she is meant to have taken . . . I mean, she was a little drunk perhaps, but she was fine. Came right up to me and made a few cracks about Joad but then she mentioned you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I wasn’t really listening to her because I was still so angry. But I’m certain she said something along the lines that if you knew what she was going to do that night, you’d be even madder at her than I was. And this is the bit I remember clearly, “Pen would kill me.”’

  ‘Kill her?’ My voice sounded shrill, even to me. ‘Are you sure? What else did she say?’

  Leiza nodded. ‘That was it. It was because I wanted to kill her that I remembered it. I said something like, “Pen and me both,” and walked off. I just thought it was a bit . . . odd . . . in light of what happened. Look, she didn’t seem scared or anything. More that it was a joke. You know, typical Rachel.’

  There was a movement behind us, and I sprang up too quickly. My foot spasmed in pain. Michael stood in the doorway, with a plastic basket of freshly washed clothes.

  Leiza looked at him and then at me. ‘Oh, hello, Michael,’ she said in her official welcoming kind of tone.

  He looked at us and nodded his head.

  ‘Just packed our banners up. We’ll have to finish painting them inside. Are you coming to the rally?’ she asked.

  ‘I intend to,’ he said. ‘I think it’s important.’

  ‘Good, that’s good,’ said Leiza, trying not to be surprised. Michael usually avoided group activities. She smiled and then paused to allow him to move on. Instead, he sat down on the bench opposite, watching us as if our conversation was a designated spectator sport.

  Leiza frowned, then, lowering her voice, turned to me. ‘I’ll talk to you about this another time,’ she said.

  I shrugged as if there wasn’t really anything to discuss. ‘I better go put the clothes in the dryer. Toby will . . .’ I had to stop myself from saying ‘kill me’ and Leiza looked as though she guessed what I was going to say, but then one of the girls who had been painting the banners waved at her from the doorway and yelled something about a spelling mistake. Immediately distracted, she hurried off across the courtyard.

  I stood there, trying to prevent myself from getting rattled by what Leiza had just said and wishing Michael would stop looking at me.

  ‘How did Rachel know?’ he said.

  ‘Know what?’ I asked.

  ‘That you wanted to kill her?’

  I felt queasy from the cigarette, my foot ached and I was exhausted. I didn’t have the patience for one of Michael’s discussions.

  ‘It was just a dumb joke, Michael. People make them, believe it or not.’ I turned to leave.

  ‘But you did want to kill her,’ he said, his eyes owlish behind his glasses. ‘You spiked her drink.’

  I could hear an odd high-pitched hum cutting through the periodic streaming of water and the constant rumble and thrum of the percussion of the washing machines. It seemed to be getting louder, until I realised it was in my head. I sat back down because I was worried I might fall.

  Waiting until the noise receded, I took my time before looking up at Michael.

  ‘That’s not true and none of this is your business. Now, excuse me but I’ve got to put Toby’s clothes
in the dryer.’

  ‘I didn’t understand it at the time when I saw you pulling something out of the bag, crushing it over the beer. But when I saw your face, I could see you wanted her dead.’

  He had put it together, an equation solved, ripping a hole right through the heart of all my lies. It was over. I was found out.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I began, and my voice was pitiful, weak, and pleading. ‘I didn’t . . . an accident.’

  But Michael didn’t seem to care. I kept talking, blustering, making excuses, outright lying. It was pathetic and he stood there and patiently waited for me to stop. He wasn’t looking for confirmation nor was he prepared to believe a denial. ‘It’s all right,’ he said when I came spluttering to a standstill. ‘I hated Rachel too.’ Behind us, one of the machines finished and began to beep.

  ‘What happens now?’ I asked, shakily. I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation, let alone that he knew what I had done and didn’t seem to be that bothered by it.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about me. Really.’ He smiled at me and it was the first time I had ever seen him smile. There was something so fragile about it that I wanted to cry. I was beholden to Michael and the thought terrified me.

  ‘You’re worth protecting. I told you that you were different from the others. I wanted to tell you that night at the bar,’ he began, but I couldn’t cope with anything else. I was almost light-headed with shock and panic and just wanted to get away.

  ‘Please, please, I can’t talk about that night. I have to go put the clothes in the dryer.’

  He nodded. ‘When you are ready then.’

  I walked back inside the room and closed the door. Through the window I watched Michael carry his laundry across the square and then I headed straight to my room. I needed to get rid of my Rohypnol. I had been so stupid not to do that the night Rachel died.

  Racing upstairs, along the corridor, I ran into my room, making sure that the door was locked behind me. I grabbed my bag, more of a leather pouch on a string, that I had taken to the bar that night. I dumped out the contents on my bed. Wedged into the bottom corner, covered in fluff, were two tablets. I pulled them out, holding them in the palm of my hand. Standing over the sink, I crushed the tablets to a powder, turned on the water and washed them down the drain. Evidence destroyed.

  Crouching on the floor, I opened the cupboard below, reaching my hand back behind the water pipe to where I kept the rest of the packet away from prying eyes. Not there. I peered in, too small a space to get my head right inside. It was the place where useless forgotten things lived until enough time passed and I decided to throw them out. Hunting through it, there was a half-full box of tissues, some dishwashing liquid, crusty sponges the texture of dried old bread, never-used shoe polish and my faded Rubik’s red t-shirt. But no tablets. Even when I frantically pulled everything out of the cupboard, they still weren’t there.

  I ripped the sheets off my bed. Lifted up the mattress. Pulled the books out of the bookcase. Dumped all my clothes on the floor. Checked every pocket. I kept telling myself not to be paranoid, that they had to be here somewhere. I thought back to the last time I saw the packet. Rachel was in the common area, sitting on the old squeaky chair, her legs curled up next to her, a cat ready to pounce. She hadn’t even been looking at me, instead staring at Joad’s door, determined not to blink in case she missed a moment. It had been too easy to retrace my steps and walk back along the corridor. Quietly unlock the door so as not to get her attention. Stealing into my own room. Bringing the bottle could have led to awkward questions if anyone saw it, so instead, I had put a few tablets into my bag and then raced off to meet Rogan. I left the rest sitting out on my desk, on top of a pile of photocopying I still hadn’t read. I never saw them after that.

  In the end, I had to accept they weren’t in my room. Someone had taken them.

  Chapter 16

  For the days that followed I stayed at Law School, leaving college early and returning late to avoid as many people as possible. I waited for someone to confront me with my own pills and make the accusation that I was a murderer, but nobody did. When anyone did try to talk to me, I pretended that I was mourning instead of hiding. Whether this nuance was appreciated I have no idea.

  Marcus had called me a survivor, and after some shaky moments I pulled myself together and decided to be one. Having once owned some sleeping tablets meant nothing. My real issue was needing to keep Michael onside. He was the only person who knew for sure what I had done. He said he wouldn’t tell anyone, and I believed him. I knew he liked me and that made him vulnerable, able to be manipulated. I understood that only too well.

  A side effect of spending so much time away from college was that I didn’t realise Rogan had returned until I opened my door to a soft late-night knock.

  ‘Nice,’ he said, grinning, as he took in my mismatched flannelette pyjamas. ‘Fetching.’

  ‘What?’ I was curt to cover up my embarrassment.

  ‘Haven’t seen you around and thought I’d check up on you.’ He was trying to pretend that I was the one who had disappeared from college, who had run home and had left a whole bunch of unanswered questions. I had played the scene over and over in my mind of what I would say to Rogan about the way he was making a habit of abandoning me, but with him standing there and smiling, all the caustic comments vanished without being spoken aloud. I needed the potential for something to be good in my life.

  ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Here?’ I said, uncertain.I looked behind me but all I could see was my bed, and I could feel my face flush with desire.

  He looked a bit uncertain as well. ‘No, I’ve got somewhere better.’

  ‘Dressed like this?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, and laughed.

  College had adapted to Rachel’s death in that weird way you do when you don’t have a choice. Conversations were brittle, but the sharpness of grief, or in my case guilt, had already begun to dull into a bruise. Still, it had felt like a long time since I had heard someone laugh like that.

  I followed him down the corridor. There was a curious space between us as if he didn’t want to let other people know we were going somewhere together, but I thought maybe I was being overly sensitive. When I saw Michael sitting on the chair outside Joad’s room as I walked past, I slowed down and put even more distance between us and felt grateful for it.

  ‘Hi, Pen,’ Michael said. There was something puppyish about the way he said it, breathless and happy all at once.

  I nodded my head in the way you do to be friendly but you just can’t stop to talk right now because you really are much too busy.

  Rogan chose to climb the stairs, rather than head downstairs as I had expected. On the next floor up, the top floor of the tower, he walked all the way along the corridor until he stopped at a door. On my floor, this was where the vacuum cleaner, mops and cleaning products were kept. But this was different – a room, not a cupboard, with a concrete floor and roughly painted white walls. It was bare except for a plastic chair, a bench running along one wall and a large bath.

  ‘Only bath in the Tower,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s ever been used. Last year Stoner set up his hydroponics in here.’ He balanced the chair on top of the bench, looked up at the ceiling and then back to me. ‘You might be a bit too short. I’ll go first.’

  He climbed onto the chair and reached up towards a manhole that I hadn’t noticed. Breathing hard as he pushed the cover aside, his head and shoulders disappeared into the dark space. Bracing his arms against the edges of the square, I was left staring at his bottom half, the belt I had once helped undo. He stretched upward, his t-shirt moved and I saw a flash of skin. His stomach muscles tensed and, with a fluid movement, he pulled himself into the hole.

  I could hear scuffling overhead and a bright light shone down. ‘Found the torch,’ he said, his face reappearing. ‘Your turn.’ I was already on the chair, and probably could have managed to drag myself up, but instead
I grabbed his wrist, and was hauled into the roof space.

  Moving from my knees to standing, I fell against Rogan, a crack of nose on bone. We apologised at the same time. The musty cavity stretched away from us in all directions, beyond the torch’s beam. Dust was everywhere, so thick I could feel it settle on my skin.

  ‘How did you know about this?’ My words disappeared into the gloom, absorbed by the dark.

  ‘Stoner told me. Somewhere to hide his stash if he needed to.’ I thought back to Kesh’s speculation at the laundry and wondered if Stoner actually had that much of a stash at the moment. ‘But we’re not there yet.’ He held the torch under his chin, which lit up his face with sinister shadows. ‘Scared?’

  ‘It’s an improvement.’ I laughed then, and all the pent-up fear and frustration inside dissolved in the snug blackness.

  ‘Be careful where you stand,’ he said. ‘Keep to the beams.’

  ‘Would you fall through?’

  ‘Do you want to be the first person to find out?’

  He walked along the one nearest to us, stopping every few steps to shine the torch and put his hand on the next truss. I walked after him, arms outstretched, almost giddy. The roof began to slope down and we had to crouch so as not to bang our heads.

  ‘Easier to find in daylight,’ he said, when we were almost doubled over. He pointed the torch at a spot directly in front of us. Peering, I could see the inside of the roof and the shape of a bolt. Handing me the torch, Rogan pulled at it. The metal made the kind of noise that you can feel in your teeth. Then he pushed with both hands outstretched and a square of the roof hinged forward, clanging open.

  We stuck our heads through. Heaving ourselves out of the damp heat, we balanced on the edge of the opening. A strange feeling of euphoria washed over me with the night air. I felt free, marooned on a private island, cut off from the rest of college and my problems.