Familiar Strangers

by Jackie Walsh

  ‘No, I didn’t see her. Why is she looking for me?’ It’s frustrating that she won’t say why this dead woman wanted to contact me. Surely I should be told.

  ‘Did she speak to your mother or anyone else?’

  ‘Mom is unable to communicate, and I don’t know if she spoke to anyone else.’

  ‘What’s the address of the nursing home, Rebecca?’

  The bitch won’t tell me why Katie Collins was looking for me.

  ‘Why won’t you tell me why she was looking for me?’ I say, sounding braver than I feel.

  ‘I can’t tell you at this point in the investigation.’ She opens a page in her notebook. ‘The address, please.’

  Then I see him, standing outside the glass-paneled door, staring in at me. His eyes are black with anger, lips pressed tightly together. For a brief moment I picture him lying on top of me, his heavy breathing in my ear, his hands squeezing as he huffs and puffs his way inside me. Stephen Black is threatening me with his piercing eyes; he’s making sure I don’t mention his name. My heart is beating hard and I think I’m going to get sick. I want to stand up. I want to run out of this place.

  ‘Rebecca? The name of the nursing home. Now.’

  ‘Oakridge nursing home, Braintree.’ I say, and watch her scribble it down. ‘I need to get back to work, detective.’

  ‘Just one last thing and then you can go.’

  Shifting in the chair, I straighten my back, thankful that this is almost over.

  ‘Where were you last Saturday night?’

  The shape hovering behind the glass moves closer. Stephen’s eyes are wider than a teenage boy’s watching a woman undress. My head is going to cave in. I don’t know who I fear most. My boss or the cop. Both are frightening the life out of me.

  ‘I was working in Mattie’s.’

  ‘Until what time?’

  ‘About two a.m.’

  ‘And did you go anywhere after that?’

  ‘No, I went home.’

  ‘Is there anybody who can vouch for you? Were you with anyone else?’

  I can feel his eyes through the glass, drilling a hole in my honesty.

  ‘No, I was alone.’

  Chapter Twenty

  I should not have left. Stephen Black will be pissed when he emerges from his office and discovers I’ve done a runner. But I couldn’t stay. I’m sick of being treated like the bad person in all this, the one letting everyone down and getting everyone into trouble. This was not my doing. I did not ask for any of this.

  The deli on the corner does a nice bagel. I consider going in but my stomach is not up for much. My nerves have me full. Down the street a crowd gathers, puffing on cigarettes. They seem to be happy with their fix, chatting, laughing, ignoring danger. I can’t ignore danger. I’m knee-deep in it.

  The watery sun blinds me so I open my bag and search for my sunglasses. They’re not there. Instead I see the light flashing on my cell, which I’d turned to silent for my interview with Turner. Checking the call, I see it’s Stephen Black, on my case already. Hastening my step, I kill the call and put the phone in the pocket of my jacket. He won’t stop, I know that, the guy is nervous, which makes me nervous. He’ll call and call and call, probably leave a few texts too. He has a lot to lose.

  I walk all the way home. When I get to the corner of my street, I step right into the aroma from the coffee shop on the corner. I realize that I’ve never sat in that coffee shop, that I only ever got coffee to go. I decide that today I’m going to buy a coffee and sit near a window like a normal person. I will read for a while and then survey the passers-by. People-watching, imagining their stories while I drink coffee. If I’m going to prison, this is the sort of thing I want to miss.

  * * *

  When I get back to my apartment block, Lenny is behind the reception desk reading a magazine. Ignoring the phone buzzing in my pocket, I walk over.

  ‘Hi Lenny,’ I say, resting my bag on the counter.

  ‘Hi Becca.’ He puts down the magazine. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘I was just wondering about the keys.’

  ‘The keys?’ he says, standing up. Lenny is about six feet tall and four feet wide. His dark hair is dusted with grey and his skin is tough as car tyre rubber. He yawns constantly, no matter what time of the day it is, and when he is about to be asked a question, his face assumes a worried expression.

  ‘Did you give anyone a key to my apartment last week?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that without your permission.’

  ‘Is there any way someone could get the key without you knowing?’

  ‘No way. All the keys are kept in a safe in the basement. Why? Was someone in your apartment?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought there was, but now I’m not sure.’ Taking my bag from the counter I pull the strap over my shoulder. ‘Maybe it was just my imagination,’ I say, walking towards the elevator.

  ‘Are you sure? I’ll come up and have a look with you if you want.’

  ‘No thanks, Lenny. I’m fine.’

  I’m about to put the key in my apartment door when Jeff shouts down the corridor. ‘Up for a coffee?’

  Immediately I feel happier. I’m hoping he has found out some information on Thomas Collins.

  ‘Sure.’

  I walk towards Jeff’s place, and I’m about to step inside when my cell rings again. I check the caller ID. I don’t recognize the number but I guess it’s him again. Stephen Black, ringing from a number I won’t recognize. My hand shakes as I kill the call. I don’t want to talk to him now. I don’t want to talk to him ever.

  Inside, Jeff is standing at the kitchen island. ‘I haven’t been able to locate a number for Thomas Collins, Becca, but I’ll keep trying. Have you any more news for me?’ he says, brewing the coffee.

  ‘There is,’ I say, pulling out one of the stools. ‘The cops called to Bridgeway and King this morning. Said they’d been to my apartment but I’d already left so they went to my workplace. They were asking me for an alibi.’

  ‘An alibi for what?’

  ‘For Saturday night.’

  ‘Why Saturday night?’

  ‘They think that’s when she was killed.’

  ‘When who was killed?’

  ‘Katie Collins.’

  ‘She’s dead?’

  I can’t believe he doesn’t know this. Where has he been?

  ‘I’m afraid so. They found her body on Sunday morning in Treehill Park. Some guy walking his dog.’

  ‘Christ, Becca. What the fuck?’

  ‘I know. And for some reason, the cops think I killed her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, why else would they want my alibi?’

  ‘Saturday night,’ he says. ‘That’s the night you were with the guy from work, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you have an alibi,’ he says, his wide eyes staring at me while he lifts his coffee.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘You guess so?’

  When I tell him I didn’t give Turner Stephen Black as an alibi because he was staring at me through the glass, he goes quiet, sipping his coffee and concentrating. My eyes are glued to him, waiting for him to speak, waiting for him to tell me how big a fool I’ve been, how I will have to tell the detective the truth.

  ‘You have to tell them,’ he says.

  ‘I know. But I got nervous, and…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. They’ll understand. Ring that detective now, Becca, don’t wait.’

  Jeff convinces me I have no option. The wrath of Stephen Black is nothing compared to getting chewed up by the justice system. I know he’s right so I take my phone from the end of my bag and dial her number. When I get no answer I leave a message telling her I need to speak to her, urgently. Then I hang up and wait.

  Right now, I feel the whole world is sitting on my shoulder, its weight threatening to break me. Turner is going to think I’m lying, that I’m inventing the alibi. She’s bound to be
lieve Stephen Black over me. I would if I was in her shoes. With this nightmare scenario spinning around in my head, it feels like the room is closing in. I have to get out of here, I have to get out of everywhere.

  ‘Are you okay? Becca?’ Jeff moves around to my side of the counter. ‘You’ve gone a funny shade of green.’ He stands in front of me, but all I can see is a blur.

  ‘Becca? Becca…’

  * * *

  When I come to, I’m lying on Jeff’s sofa with a damp cloth on my forehead, Jeff sitting by my side.

  ‘Jesus, Becca, I was about to call an ambulance.’

  My body feels numb, so I wiggle my toes and fingers.

  ‘I’m okay. Sorry about that, I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘No need to apologize, it’s not your fault you checked out. Are you okay now?’

  ‘I’m fine, I think.’

  ‘Right, stay there for a while and rest up.’

  Taking the cloth from my forehead, he gets up, leaving me to close my eyes and fall into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  The music is what wakes me. Jeff is sitting on the floor with his back resting against the sofa, with his guitar, his precious friend, in his hands. I pull myself up into a sitting position and rub my eyes but Jeff continues to strum his guitar, singing, ‘If you think this is bad you should hear your snoring.’

  ‘What time is it?’ I say, my eyes searching the room for my jacket. I need to check my cell. Jeff picks my phone from the floor and hands it to me.

  ‘Did she ring?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t believe me, Jeff? What if she believes Black instead and I look like I’m making up an alibi?’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about him, Becca. He can deny it all he likes, I saw him leave the building.’ Jeff says, winking.

  ‘But what if he comes after me, calls at my apartment?’

  ‘Well, don’t be there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Stay here tonight.’

  I don’t know how to read this. Is Jeff suggesting I sleep with him?

  ‘Don’t worry, Becca. I’m not coming on to you.’ He stands up and slips his guitar back into its case. With his back to me says, ‘You’re not my type.’

  I’m silenced, left with my mouth open. Why am I not Jeff’s type?

  ‘You can stay in my sister’s room,’ he says, pushing open the door to the second bedroom.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We stay up late, drinking wine and making a plan. Jeff advises me to go to Turner first thing and tell her Stephen Black is my alibi. He also suggests we go to Algiers and meet this Thomas Collins guy, find out why his wife was looking for me. This sounds a bit drastic, but I decide to keep my mouth shut for the time being and go with the flow. It’s not like I have any better ideas.

  Now the light is streaming into the room from a crack in the curtains, highlighting the beauty of this space: the shabby chic furniture, the gentle atmosphere created by the soft colors and paintings on the wall. Jeff’s sister’s bed is much more comfortable than mine with its crisp white sheets and fluffy pillows. I could stay here all day, wrapped up in someone else’s comfort, wishing for someone else’s life. But I can’t, I’ve got to get to the precinct.

  When I leave Jeff’s apartment I close the door gently so as not to disturb him. As I turn to head for my own apartment I see him. Stephen Black. I can’t see his face but I can tell by the suit and polished Prada shoes that it’s him. My heart leaps as I reach to open Jeff’s door again and realize I don’t have a key. I don’t want to knock because that will alert Stephen Black, so I slip into the alcove housing the fire extinguisher, squeezing my body up against the wall. The blood drains from my head. Deep breaths, Becca. The knocking continues, louder now, more aggressive. Clutching my bag to my chest, I wait, wishing for him to go away, to leave me alone.

  Stephen Black must be terrified his wife will find out about our little deception. That Grace will leave him, taking their baby with her. And she’d be right to do it; the guy is a creep, a bully and a cheater. What was I thinking when I let him into my bed?

  The banging has stopped. Slowly I peep out from the alcove. With a bit of luck, he got the message and retreated. But no, he is still there, running his hand through his hair before leaning to peer at the keyhole. Does he not know how they work? Then he turns this way. Quickly I pull myself back out of sight, my heart pounding, my body shaking. Is he ever going to leave? Christ, please don’t let him walk this way.

  I peer out again. This time he has his phone in his hand. Fuck, he’s going to ring me. My head is about to burst. I pull the zip open on my bag and shove my hand inside. Pulling the cell from my bag, I flick the silent button just as the screen lights up. I think I’m going to puke so I suck in air and lean against the wall, watching Stephen Black’s name flashing on my phone. That was close, very close.

  I remain leaning against the wall for a few more minutes, breathing deeply, trying to normalize my body. Then I look out again, hoping, praying.

  He is standing at the elevator staring at his phone. He calls me again. My cell lights up again. When he gets no answer he presses the elevator button and waits. I listen for the ping of the doors before I look out again and see him step out of sight. The door closes. He’s gone.

  Flopping to the floor, I drop my bag and rest my head in my hands. My body is still shaking. What was he planning to do?

  Eventually I pull myself together and go back to Jeff’s apartment. I listen outside for any sound that might tell me he is up, but there is only silence. I consider knocking but decide not to. Jeff stayed up half the night to comfort me. The least I can do is let him sleep in. I wait until I’m sure Stephen Black is well out of the building, then I go to my own apartment to take a shower. When I find the courage I leave and head for the elevator. My nerves are expecting Stephen Black to be standing in front of me when the elevator door opens. But he’s not.

  Out on the street, the morning commuters act as camouflage as I slip into the crowd. The precinct is only about fifteen minutes’ walk away, so I zip up my jacket to shield myself from the cold wind that seems to have arrived overnight. Winter is coming.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Detective Turner takes me down the corridor to an interview room. I sit, nerves jangling, at the table opposite her. This room is smaller than the last one. There’s no glass window, no spare chairs, just the table, the recording machine and the knife-edge atmosphere. The white walls do nothing to brighten the darkness of this place. I unbutton my jacket and take a deep breath.

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ she says, putting her cell on the table.

  ‘It’s about last Saturday night. My alibi.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I was with Stephen Black.’

  ‘Stephen Black,’ she says, just as her phone beeps.

  ‘Yes. He came back to my apartment after I finished my shift in Mattie’s.’

  ‘Okay.’ Her attention is still on the phone. She swipes the screen to read her new message.

  ‘Just a minute,’ she says, standing up and walking to the door.

  Ten minutes later there is still no sign of her returning. Has she forgotten I’m here? I’m about to go find her when the door opens and she walks back in.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she says, returning to her chair. ‘So you’ve decided to change your story.’ Her eyes are searching mine. I’m afraid she doesn’t believe me.

  ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us this yesterday?’

  ‘Because Stephen Black was staring at me during the interview and I was afraid to give his name.’

  But she’s not interested in my alibi.

  ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, say, where the note is?’

  ‘What note?’

  ‘The note Katie Collins left for
you.’

  ‘I already told you, I didn’t get any note.’

  ‘Someone did. Someone sent Katie Collins a text arranging to meet her in Treehill Park. They got the number from the note.’ Turner stands up, walks to the rear wall and rests against it.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Have you any idea who did contact her?’

  ‘How would I?’ I’m confused now. I came here to tell her about my alibi and all she’s worried about is the note. ‘Can’t you tell from the number it came from that it wasn’t my phone?’

  ‘It came from a disposable phone. Was it yours, Becca? Did you contact her from a burner phone?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Look, I already told you I have an alibi. Stephen Black. Why don’t you believe me?’

  ‘I do believe you. We checked the club’s CCTV, and saw you leave with him.’

  ‘So why do you still think I have anything to do with her death?’

  ‘You could still have contacted her. Maybe you changed your mind after, decided Stephen Black was better company, let her show up at Treehill Park in the middle of the night on her own.’

  My head is thumping. What is Turner suggesting? That I made a date, didn’t show up and someone else killed her? Or that I made a date, am deliberately using Stephen Black as an alibi and got someone else to kill her? I can’t think straight. She is unnerving me, making me feel like I’m guilty of something, I just don’t know what.

  There’s a knock at the door and some guy sticks his head in, telling her they have it. Her eyes light up.

  ‘I’ll be right out,’ she says, then she comes back to the table and sits down across from me again.

  ‘Rebecca,’ she says, ‘it’s crucial we find that note. It was left at your address, so for now we have to conclude that you’re the person who made contact.’

  ‘It could have been stolen,’ I say.

  ‘Stolen?’ she repeats.

  ‘That’s right. I had a break-in at my apartment last week. Nothing was missing so I didn’t call it in, but someone was definitely there.’