Last Night

by Kerry Wilkinson

  None of this is necessarily unusual. At least part of the job is – or perhaps was – travelling the country and having late nights in bars, hotels and restaurants. The twenty-first century is the age that face-to-face everything died.

  Luke’s emails read perfectly true. He works at a medium-sized cleaning firm that is hoping to become a large cleaning firm. They want to take all the ordering and finance onto a better system with external hosting that can be accessed remotely from phones and the like. It’s the type of thing my company sells.

  I click the link at the bottom of his email and it takes me to the cleaning company’s website. It’s perhaps a bit bare but there’s nothing unusual that I can see. That is until I click the contact button – which only brings me to a webform. There’s a box in which to type a name, another for email address, and a final one to leave a message. There is no specific email address or phone number to use… which is certainly odd for a company trying to drum up business. I hadn’t checked the link before because there was no need – I already had Luke’s name and contact details.

  The tingle at the back of my thoughts starts to ring louder.

  It doesn’t make me feel any better when I hear Natasha snorting with laughter on the other side of the divide between our desks. I’d normally let it go but instead push myself up so I can see over the separator.

  ‘You all right?’ I ask.

  She’s grinning wide, looking at her phone. ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘What’s funny?’ I ask.

  She waves a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, nothing. You wouldn’t get it.’

  I hover there for a moment, before taking my seat to stop embarrassing myself. Natasha continues to giggle as I find myself clicking on the web browser. My first search is thankfully fruitless. There have been no reported hit-and-runs anywhere close to the area where I woke up last night. I check the websites and Twitter feeds from a few of the neighbouring police forces just in case, but there’s still nothing.

  There’s unquestionable relief, those three words – ‘tampering with evidence’ – starting to fade when my breath is taken by the scrolling news strap on the police site.

  Someone from the nearest town to where I awoke is missing. His name’s Tom Leonard, a teenager who went to work and hasn’t been seen since. There’s a picture of him in a running vest and a few lines saying that he’s a keen amateur athlete. He’s nineteen with short dark hair and the merest hint of stubble. He’s smiling, happy, a normal kid. He has the whole of his life ahead of him.

  The real kicker is in the final line, however: Tom Leonard worked at the Grand Ol’ Royal Hotel.

  Chapter Seven

  The only thing that doesn’t stop me leaping from my chair is that Tom Leonard went missing before I’d even checked into the hotel. He was due at work yesterday morning – and I didn’t get there until late afternoon. I keep reading the name of the hotel, wondering if there might be two. There isn’t, of course. There’s not even a second hotel with a similar name.

  I stare at Tom’s photo, wondering if I know him from somewhere – but he has one of those faces that could be anyone’s. His hair is slightly curly, his ears perhaps a little large – but it’s nothing unusual. We live a hundred miles apart, so he won’t be one of Olivia’s friends, either.

  Something happened at the hotel on that day, though. I was there and then I wasn’t. Tom Leonard was supposed to be there – but he wasn’t.

  For now, there’s only one thing for it – and that’s a cup of tea. I stand, waggling my mug and asking if anyone else in the office wants one. There’s a succession of shaken heads, so I nip to the small kitchen myself. It’s not really a kitchen, of course. The office isn’t big enough for that. It’s in the corner of the main area and more of a sideboard with a fridge underneath. The kettle hums but the only other noise in the office is the tapping of keyboards and Natasha quietly talking to Claire. There’s a moment in which the pair of them glance at me and then quickly turn away when they realise I’m facing their direction.

  I might be watching – but I also feel watched.

  It’s hard not to see conspiracies everywhere. Luke – if that is his real name – messing me around; Graham wanting to fire me; Dan moving my things; Natasha talking about me behind my back.

  Or perhaps I’m looking to blame everyone else for my own failings?

  I know I’ve been doing this job for too long. I’m going through the motions, caring about little other than the salary at the end of the month. It’s all about the money and nothing to do with a challenge. Sometimes, I think I should take some sort of online course, or perhaps quit and force myself to try a different career. If things were better with Dan, I probably would.

  The kettle is still bubbling when I check my phone again. Luke hasn’t replied to my text, so I try calling. Once again there’s a pause and then nothing. No voicemail. Natasha giggles for seemingly no reason again and I wonder if it could be her. She set up a fake email and fake website, got hold of a pay-and-go SIM card and then… I don’t know. I end up wasting a few hours and look a bit stupid – but how does that benefit her?

  I’m only a couple of sips into my tea when the yawns begin. I’ve not slept since waking up in the car a little after half-past-two – and it’s catching up to me. I sit at my desk, hiding behind the divider and trying to stifle the yawns. It’s the sort of tiredness that infects every part of a person, where the arms and legs feel floppy and useless. My eyes water and I find myself pinching the loose skin on the back of my hand to try to keep myself alert.

  ‘You all right over there?’

  Natasha’s chirpy voice is loud enough that everyone else in the room can hear.

  I tell her I’m fine and try to focus on Graham’s email. He’s forwarded the whole chain and it seems as if he and Declan have been going back and forth for a couple of weeks. I’m meeting the potential client at his office on a trading estate thirty miles or so away. I’ve got about three hours to sort myself out. I’ve never been there before but it all checks out, which is one step up from Luke and his cleaning company.

  I was in earlier than I was supposed to be and figure no one will miss me. I tap Declan’s number into my phone, store the address in the maps app – and then tell everyone I’ll see them tomorrow.

  * * *

  Despite the tiredness from before, being in the car has woken me up again. The vents are blowing cool air and the radio is chirping with cosy local DJ voices and eighties pop hits. It’s when I reach the country roads that the twinge of anxiety returns. The hedges are tall, lining both sides of the lanes; and there are overgrown trees with branches dangling low, obscuring the signs. Everything’s in shadow, so dark in places that it’s like night.

  I really don’t like these roads in the dark.

  I turn the radio up louder, trying to focus on the voices of a man and a woman jabbering on about what they’re going to be up to that night. It doesn’t sound like much. One of them is going running, the other taking their kids to some football match.

  My phone is acting as a satnav, telling me there’s another seven miles until I turn off these roads.

  It’s a long seven miles. At one point, there’s a car coming towards me on the too-narrow carriageway. There’s only room for a car and a half, with frequent pull-in points. The driver is a young lad talking on his phone, not paying attention. He’s in the centre of the road and looks up when I beep my horn, swerving towards the verge, staring daggers as he continues to hold the phone to his ear. We avoid each other by barely centimetres.

  Another half-mile and I think I see a fox off to the side. It’s skulking in the shadows, nose to the ground, looking for prey. There’s a flash of white and auburn but, when I get closer, there’s nothing – and I wonder if I imagined the entire thing.

  When I finally get back into civilisation – street lights, shopfronts and, most importantly, people – it’s as if a weight has been lifted. The gasp of relief makes me realise I’ve been holding my b
reath intermittently. A red traffic light gives me a moment to compose myself to such a degree that it’s only the irritated beep of the car behind that makes me notice the light has gone green.

  My phone directs me around a series of roundabouts until I’m in a concrete paradise. There are vast warehouses next to barely filled car parks. A crumbling, steepling chimney that’s a relic of a different age sits in the distance and there’s sign after sign warning of lorries that might be turning.

  It’s the exact opposite of those country roads: flat open and grey – but this is equally as British. A vast expanse of factories and companies; anonymous and ignored.

  Declan’s office is on a rank of five single-storey glass-fronted offices. Of the five, four have a ‘To Let’ sign – and it’s only the one on the end that has lights illuminating the inside. When I pull into the parking space outside, a man is standing on the kerb, talking into his phone. After clocking the car, he hangs up, waiting for me to get out, and then introduces himself as ‘Call Me Declan’.

  He’s in his early twenties, wearing a tight-fitting suit with spiky dark hair. He’s fit and his face is a little shiny; one of those blokes who spend a good hour in front of the mirror each morning. We exchange the usual niceties, ‘How was the traffic?’ ‘Aren’t those roadworks a nightmare?’ ‘Did you hear it’s likely to rain later in the week?’ – that sort of thing. It’s more autopilot stuff. Almost everyone has this meaningless drivel nailed down that it’s strange when this isn’t the pattern.

  The office is a wide, open space that is filled with two desks and computers at the front, and piles of boxes at the back. The floor is bare concrete and there’s a loose electrical wire hanging from a switch off to the side. It makes our office look luxurious.

  Declan explains he and a business partner have only just moved in. Previously, they were working out of bedrooms and garages. The company sells nutrition and fitness products via the internet. Things are starting to pick up, but to such a degree that they’re becoming overwhelmed. They need IT infrastructure and then more employees. It all sounds very familiar.

  He’s one of those people that forces eye contact a little too much. It isn’t simply a friendly thing; it goes beyond that. Every sentence feels as if it’s being vehemently shoved into my brain. His handshake was firm and needlessly forceful. I suspect he’s been on one of those weekend courses about management and assertiveness. The type of thing Graham loves that gives a certificate to everyone at the end.

  ‘This is just the start,’ Declan says, turning in a half-circle to show off the barren space.

  I tell him about our services and he seems keen, though he doesn’t interrupt to ask any follow-up questions. He’s a bit like a nodding dog, enthusiastically bobbing along with everything I say, still holding my gaze. It’s hard to read him and I’m unsure if this means he’s not that interested, or if he doesn’t understand everything I’m saying.

  I ask if he has any questions and he does that horrific finger-point gun thing: ‘We do need everything to work twenty-four-seven,’ he says.

  ‘We offer full round-the-clock service,’ I reply. ‘Everything is guaranteed to work all day, every day. If there are any issues, we have twenty-four-hour off-site support, or remote engineers who can be on-site within ninety minutes. It’s usually quicker than that.’

  His eyes narrow. He has really long, dark eyelashes and it’s hard to figure out if they’re natural or if he wears some sort of mascara. ‘You do know what twenty-four-seven means, don’t you?’ he adds.

  I stare back at him, wondering if I’ve missed a joke. I haven’t: He’s serious.

  ‘I understand,’ I tell him. ‘Our services are twenty-four-seven.’

  Declan eyes me for a moment longer, apparently unconvinced, and then turns away, nodding. He walks himself in a circle, his shiny shoes clip-clopping on the hard floor.

  ‘What about the price?’ he asks – this time not looking at me.

  I tell him about our standard package, as well as the first-month discount, or a bulk support package where he could pay for a full year up front. All the while, he continues pacing and I’m not sure if he’s listening. He picks at his fingernail and brushes away non-existent strands of hair from his face.

  After a standard start, it’s all gone a bit odd and I’m not sure what I’m missing. Potential customers usually haggle over price but he doesn’t seem too bothered. There are always follow-up questions as well, mainly to do with how our service can be tailored specifically for their company. It’s expected and perfectly normal – except there’s none of that here.

  There’s an awkward silence when I finish talking, with Declan standing and staring through the glass front to the nearly empty car park beyond.

  ‘How does that sound?’ I ask.

  He spins and reaches into an inside pocket, removing a light-grey business card which he passes across. I exchange it for one of my own, slipping his into the pocket of my jacket. He examines mine to such a degree that I wonder if there’s an errant spelling mistake. I’ve had them for years and never noticed anything before but he’s staring unwaveringly at the card in his palm.

  ‘Rose Denton,’ he says. ‘Is that short for Rosemary?’

  ‘No,’ I reply, slightly surprised given that he’d shown no interest in me until now. ‘It was only ever Rose on my birth certificate.’

  ‘It’s a nice name.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He’s staring me up and down once more.

  ‘I’ll have to talk to my partner and then I’ll be in contact,’ Declan adds. ‘Should I touch base directly with you, or that Graham bloke?’

  I force myself not to cringe at ‘touch base’. He’ll be ‘reaching out’ next.

  ‘Either,’ I reply. ‘But I’ll probably be able to get back to you quicker.’

  Declan stretches out his hand and we shake. His grip is once again overly firm, but this time, when I motion to pull away, he holds onto me. It’s only a fraction of a second, but there’s steel in his eyes when he does so. I’ve been meeting men and women in various corners of the country for years. It’s often one-on-one, away from the public’s glare, but this is the first time in a long time that I’ve felt genuinely vulnerable.

  And then, as quickly as the panic arrives, it’s gone again when Declan releases me.

  ‘I’ll be in contact,’ he says.

  I instinctively pull my jacket tighter, unable to hide that he’s flustered me. He smirks, knowing what he’s done – and then I head for the door.

  Chapter Eight

  As I start my car, I can sense Declan watching me through the glass of his office. The glare is too intense and I can’t actually see him – but I can feel his stare. I pull out of the car park as quickly as I can, keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror as I head off the estate. Nobody is following and I make a quick decision, turning off a roundabout without indicating and rolling to a stop behind a giant skip.

  I’m out of view from the road and switch the engine off, taking a few breaths to try to compose myself. It’s hard to square precisely what happened. Was Declan being weird, or is it me? Did I read things the wrong way?

  After a couple of minutes, I check my phone – no messages – and then text Graham to say that Declan sounded keen and should be in contact soon. It’s a bit of a stretch. I wait for the ‘sent’ notice and then continue holding the device in case Graham fires back. He does sometimes, but it’s hard to read his habits. Sometimes I’ll wake up to find that he’s sent a series of texts at three in the morning; other times he’ll go a day or more without acknowledging an email.

  A minute or two passes without reply, so I switch to maps. I’m about to set the destination for home – there’s little point in returning to the office – when I have another idea instead. There are still a few more hours of daylight, so I follow the directions, weaving my way off the trading estate, through a run-down town centre, onto a dual carriageway.

  I never used to be a par
ticularly anxious person, but, when I turn off the main road back onto the twisty-turny shadowed-shrouded lanes, it feels as if someone is pressing on my chest. I find myself counting my breaths, but it never feels as if there’s enough oxygen. Olivia was tested for asthma a few years ago and was given an inhaler. The doctor said it might be more anxiety-related as opposed to physiology. Olivia has never asked to return to the doctor since, but the things she used to complain of – the tightness of her chest, the shortness of breath – is exactly what I’m feeling.

  It’s hard to keep going but I do so anyway. It’s more than an hour of feeling as if everything is on top of me. The roads all look the same and it’s only when my phone says I’ve arrived that I pull into one of the passing places and notice the gap in the hedge a little down the lane. As I walk along the verge, the daylight makes everything seem less serious, but there’s a morbid familiarity, too. In clearer light, the muddy tyre tracks are zigzagged across the disintegrating tarmac from where I reversed out. The hedge is thin, with wiry twig-like bristles and few leaves. Of all the spots in the immediate area, this is perhaps the only one through which I could have accelerated safely. The verges are deeper in other spots – especially on the opposite side of the road – and the hedges are thicker even a few metres down. If I’d slammed into one of those, chances are I might not have got through to the field on the other side. The car would have been embedded among the branches, likely stuck until a tow truck arrived to drag me out. Then there would have been breath tests, police, and endless questions. If I was lucky, I don’t feel it.

  The déjà vu prickles the backs of my ears; a ghostly apparition whispering mischief.

  ‘You all right there?’

  The male voice makes me jump as I turn away from looking at the gap in the hedge, coming face-to-face with a man with a thick grey beard.

  ‘Can I help?’ he adds. His accent is as abundant as his beard and it takes me a second to decipher what he’s said.