The Busker: A gripping psychological thriller

by M. J. Patrick

  Ah, she was getting it now, she was beginning to have an idea of who he was.

  Under his arm were tucked two black cases. They were long and wide. Delicately, he placed them on the pavement and unclipped their locks. From one of the cases, he drew out a microphone stand. Like the jacket on the ground, it was also black. He straightened the microphone stand, standing it next to the leather jacket. And from the other case, adorned with multicoloured stickers which Sally guessed were flags or logos, he carefully pulled out a guitar. He inspected the instrument for a moment, checking it over with his eyes, then he wrapped the guitar’s strap around his shoulder.

  Without waiting for a cue or even an audience, he began to play.

  From where she was at the art gallery, Sally could only hear a faint echo of his song. She watched his hands strum the strings of the guitar. He was singing. So, her suspicions were right.

  He was a busker.

  But was he the man who’d pushed her, that push that made her let go of Ashley’s phone?

  Sally believed it’d been no accidental push. The force of it was strong. Direct. Whoever had done it, they didn’t stop, and they didn’t apologise to Sally. Why?

  She tried to remember the man she’d seen when she fell and dropped Ashley’s phone. It could’ve been the Busker. How would she know without getting closer to him?

  ‘You shouldn’t move around so much,’ Ashley said, lowering the phone so Sally could see her frown. ‘It makes you blurry on the photos.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Sally replied dryly, gesturing at the phone. ‘Just go ahead and take the damn photo.’

  ‘I will if you stop moving.’

  ‘I’m not. I wasn’t,’ Sally protested. If Ashley noticed she was checking the Busker, there was sure to be a fuss. Questions. The last thing Sally wanted.

  ‘Yeah, you were moving,’ Ashley said. ‘You’re a very difficult model.’

  Sally flicked her hair. ‘I think you’ll find I was finding my best angle.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Ashley snorted. ‘Hang on.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Sorry, my precious queen. I’m changing the filter so you don’t come out as too ugly.’ Ashley tapped at the screen, giggling. ‘And the filter is going to have to work hard.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I get it,’ Sally replied. ‘You’re a comedian. Fine, just hurry up and take the photo. I want to visit the beach at some point today.’

  ‘Hang on, you want to look good in this, right? This holiday is the best opportunity to get some good photos of you. I bet I can find you the perfect boyfriend with my editing magic, or at least I can help you find some fun on the side. Whatever you want, I’m not judging.’

  ’Not this again.’

  ‘All I’m saying, Sally, is that you need some fun. And this,’ Ashley said, indicating at the phone. ‘This is the way to make that happen.’

  With Ashley preoccupied, jabbing at the phone’s settings, Sally chanced another peek at the Busker.

  Standing there by the harbour railings with his guitar, he looked like a mess. Judging by the line of shadow around his jawline he hadn’t shaved in days, possibly weeks. His black curly hair hadn’t seen a cut in months. More homeless than a Busker. Sally would describe it as an unkempt hipster look. He wasn’t exactly like the homeless man from earlier, the Busker was younger and more handsome, but he was nothing like the other performers hustling for money along the promenade with their flashy signs and extroverted gestures. No spare change dropped into his tray, and he didn’t seem to care. He didn’t even try to create an audience around him. No talking, no interacting with the crowd like with the other promenade buskers. It was like he wasn’t bothered about making any money. He just played and played and played. No care at all.

  That was what made him so interesting to Sally. Something about the way he moved, the confidence he had in his own body. He owned the space around him. He didn’t care what the tourists thought. He flicked his hair and casually strummed his guitar with such confidence that Sally couldn’t help but stare.

  She realised what it was. The Busker intrigued her.

  God, did she fancy him?

  ‘So, what or who are you staring at?’ Ashley asked. Sally spun around to face her friend, blushing that she’d been caught looking at him.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. Why did she always want to shirk away and make excuses for herself? She tended to apologise for everything. Her music taste, her reading habits, even the men she fancied. She hated herself for it.

  ‘Tell me who you were staring at, Sally,’ Ashley asked.

  ‘It was nothing. I was only looking.’

  ‘Something appears to be more important than my amazing photography skills. Who or what is it?’

  Might as well tell her. ‘That busker over there,’ Sally said, pointing at him and Ashley turned in his direction. ‘He might be the guy who pushed me before.’

  Oblivious to the two backpackers observing him, the Busker continued to strum at his guitar. Sally watched his hands move, the delicate precision of his fingers stroking the strings. Smooth. She could watch him play all day.

  ‘So, he’s the one who broke my phone?’ Ashley asked.

  Sally shrugged. ’I think it’s him, but I’m not one hundred percent sure.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was true. What could she do?

  She imagined storming over to him, demanding an apology. Accusing him, stabbing her finger towards him. You pushed me, and that made me break my friend’s phone. You owe me a new one. Explain why you did that. And what could he say to that? He’d respond with what any sane person would, that she had no proof, that she was crazy.

  But Ashley expected a new phone from her, and Sally didn’t have the money for one.

  Maybe she should leave it. She wasn’t that type of person to storm over and demand something, that wasn’t Sally. But Ashley was. She was that type of person, and Sally had always been the shy one. It had been like that all through university when she had relied on Ashley for her social life. Confidence by proxy, as Sally liked to think of it. Sally’s friends had been Ashley’s friends first. And this was going to be another one of those times when she just hid away. Another time when Sally ran away from her problems.

  She wished she had Ashley’s confidence.

  ‘This is a good photo,’ Ashley said, changing the subject, not caring about the Busker. She tapped away at her phone, already moved on. ‘I’ve taken so many photos of you I’m worried it’s taken up the phone storage. You better do the same with me. Let’s see if I can make this photo look better. I’ll do some of my world-famous editing magic on it.’

  The Busker’s music faded into the cacophony of the crowd. With Ashley distracted, Sally turned to look at him again. He’d stopped playing, and there were now three men surrounding him. Where had they come from? In appearance, they all resembled the Busker with their unkempt hair and tight clothes, and Sally guessed they were all the same age, in their mid-twenties.

  One of the men was in the middle of talking to the rest. His head bowed like he was sharing a secret. The Busker nodded along to whatever the man was discussing, his guitar loosely hanging over his shoulder. The Busker flicked his hair again and replied to the first man calmly. The others listened with stern faces. Sally guessed the conversation was about something serious.

  Sally didn’t stop staring at the Busker, She was being silly. Girlish. Like an infatuated schoolchild. She scoffed at herself. Maybe she did fancy him.

  No, it was curiosity. She’d been pushed, and he was the prime suspect. What she was doing was making sure for certain. She had to find out why. She had to figure out how to get money for a new phone.

  One of the men surrounding the Busker, the one who’d been talking first, had a packet in his hand. Sally could tell it was a packet of cigarettes. He pulled one out and offered it to the Busker, who lifted it to his lips and muttered something. The other three men laughed, and the Bu
sker smiled. It was a wide smile. A nice smile. His sunglasses lit up from the flame of his lighter.

  The Busker murmured something else, pivoted, and pointed at her.

  He was pointing at Sally.

  6

  Shit shit shit.

  Sally spun around and rested her head on Ashley’s shoulder, pretending to be interested in her friend's photo editing.

  She hadn’t imagined that, did she? He’d pointed at her.

  ‘That’s a good one,’ Sally said at the photo Ashley was playing with. She didn’t really think it was a good photo, her smile was too lopsided, but she kept her eyes on the phone. She made encouraging noises at Ashley. She just wanted to keep her focus away from the Busker’s direction and away from his hand pointing at her.

  Shit shit shit.

  Had he been pointing at her? The guide book said they were in tourist trap central. He could’ve been gesturing at any number of things. The famous bridge or the art gallery, perhaps? Okay, calm down, Sally. Be calm. Breathe.

  ‘Right. I definitely think I’ve found the perfect photo for you. I can work on it later,’ Ashley said, locking the phone. Sally thanked her, resisting the urge to look back at the Busker.

  ‘My turn,’ Ashley said, as she offered Sally’s phone back.

  ‘How do you want it?’

  Ashley skipped over to the art gallery stairs, where Sally had been for her photo. ’Try to get the water and the blue sky all in together,’ she said. She smoothed her shirt and checked the view behind her. ‘Make sure it’s perfect.’

  Sally nodded. ’Gotcha.’

  Ashley licked her lips and patted her hair. ‘Is the bridge in it?’ she asked.

  Sally readjusted the phone’s angle until the beams of the bridge were in shot. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh, and get me in it, of course,’ Ashley added with a wink.

  ‘Well, obviously.’

  Sally had every right to stare at the Busker. She didn’t do anything illegal. It wasn’t a crime.

  Ashley tugged at her hair. ‘Let me straighten up for a second.’

  ‘Take your time.’

  He was a busker, he was performing at the busiest spot in the city, of course people would stare. It was perfectly fine for her to do so. So why did he he point at her? Why single her out to his friends?

  Come on, Sally, stop being paranoid, he hadn’t pointed at you. No way.

  What’d her Dad say to her if he saw this? She knew what he’d do. Her Dad would march along the promenade and talk to the Busker, describe the situation, and get an explanation. Maybe he would even get money for a new phone. Yeah, that’s what he’d do, but Sally wasn’t her Dad. She’ll do nothing then regret it afterwards. She was a coward.

  ‘Okay, I’m ready for my photoshoot.’ Ashley pouted and sprayed her arms in the air like a model in a magazine.

  Sally had to get out of her head. She had to be like her Dad, take action. She didn’t want to lose the Busker. She couldn’t stay standing at the art gallery’s entrance taking photos of Ashley.

  Sally had to do what her Dad would do.

  She had to stop being a coward.

  ‘Strange question,’ she said.

  Ashley sighed. ’I’m ready for my photo,’ she replied curtly, still holding position, arms out. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you have any spare change or something?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like, do you have any loose coins?’ Sally asked.

  ‘I think I do,’ Ashley said, already sensing something was wrong. She dropped her pose for the photo. ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Sally replied. ‘Forget about it if it’s weird.’

  Ashley tilted her head. She saw right through Sally. ‘Is this about that guy over there?’

  ‘Maybe. Yeah.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the money?’ Ashley asked, catching on. ‘You’re not going to talk to him are you?’

  Sally had to tell her friend the truth. It was impossible for her to lie to Ashley. ‘Possibly,’ she replied.

  ‘What are you planning to do?’

  Sally shrugged. ’I guess I'll put the money in his tray as bait. It might make him talk to me. He owes me an explanation or at the very least some cash for the phone.’

  ‘Sally, don’t do this. Especially if all you’re going to do is tell him off.’

  ‘I need to find out,’ Sally replied. ‘I’ll be alright. I won’t get angry with him.’

  Ashley crossed her arms. ’It could be dangerous,’ she said.

  ‘He’s a busker,’ Sally replied. ‘What’s he going to do? Sing me to death?’

  Her friend shook her head. ’You know what I mean.’

  ‘We’re in a public place. All I’m doing is dropping some money in his tray to get his attention. He’s a busker, after all. Trust me. It’ll work. And I won’t be rude, you know me.’

  ‘I know you too well. That’s why I’m worried. You have to be careful.’

  ‘I want to find out why he pushed me,’ Sally said. ‘It wasn’t an accident. I know it wasn’t. Please give me a chance.’

  ‘Sally,’ Ashley said with a stern tone.

  ‘I want an apology from him, especially if I have to get a new phone.’

  ‘You’re always so stubborn.’

  ‘Please,’ Sally asked. ‘Trust me. I’ll be fine. I only want to talk to him. Can I steal some money from you, please? It’ll be an easy way to get his attention.’ She held out her hand, confident Ashley would bend to her request. Her friend bit her lower lip, her thinking face. A pause. Then Ashley dug inside her pockets.

  ‘Fine. If you reckon this is the best way to get his attention,’ Ashley said as she pulled out a few coins. ‘But you do put yourself in some bad situations sometimes.’ She handed over the dollars.

  ‘Thanks,’ Sally replied with a grin, gripping the coins in her hand. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Ashley warned.

  ‘I won’t,’ Sally said, handing her phone to Ashley.

  ‘And you owe me a photoshoot now, as well as a new phone.’

  Speeding down the stairs of the art gallery, Sally shot back a smile at her friend. Ashley stared after her, still biting at her lip.

  Sally charged back on to the promenade, pushing through the crowd. The sun beamed overhead. The harbour overfilled with tourists in the sunshine, more and more were streaming in from boats, hotels, and buses. There were too many people, the crowd had blocked the Busker out of Sally’s sight. She searched for him in the crowd, and then she glanced over her shoulder at the art gallery. She could make out the outline of Ashley, standing next to their bags. Using the art gallery as a guide, Sally continued in the direction of where the Busker had been performing. What was she going to say to him, and with what tone? Aggressive? The adrenaline pushed her, forced her, towards him. No turning back now.

  Drop the change in his tray, get him to talk to you. Be reasonable.

  Sally had reached the harbour railings. Below was the steep drop into the water. This was it. She stopped, he should’ve been there, he should be at that very spot where Sally now stood, but he wasn’t.

  She double-checked where she was, to make sure she was in the right place, double check she was where the Busker had been.

  But he wasn’t there. No sign of him, no jacket on the ground, no tray for spare change.

  This was what she’d been afraid of happening, he'd disappeared into the crowd. She’d been too late. So much for acting assertive, so much for pretending to be like her Dad, so much for not being a coward for once.

  She stood at the railings and swore at herself. Typical. She peered through the crowd, and there was a flash. A black jacket. The case with flag stickers plastered all over. Was it?

  Yes.

  It was him, standing a few yards away.

  The crowd surged in front of her, and her view was blocked. A tourist passed by, and she could see again.

  It was him, h
e was wearing the jacket, he had the two black cases in his hands, standing a few feet away from Sally.

  He was staring at her.

  Smiling, he was smiling at her.

  Someone else walked into her sight. She couldn’t see for a few moments. The crowd parted again, but it was too late. The Busker was gone.

  7

  Sweat trickled down her back, and it clung to her shirt in wet patches. Wiping her face, Sally’s hand dripped with sweat. She glanced around the bus, other than the two people up front and the driver, the vehicle was empty except for her and Ashley.

  ‘It’s so hot,’ Sally said. ‘I’m sinking into this seat like it’s quicksand.’

  The bus seat’s texture was like carpet, its thick hairs brushed against her, warming her shirt, generating even more sweat in a continuous ugly cycle.

  ‘We are sitting in an actual oven,’ Ashley said, fanning herself.

  The bus seat stuck to Sally’s back. With her free hand, she rearranged her shirt, redistributing the sweat running down the middle of her shoulders. It was hard to do so without dropping the ice cream cone she was holding in her other hand. Her attempts weren’t working, her sweat pooled everywhere.

  When she’d sat on the bus, Sally had tried to open the closest window. On a lock system, the windows only opened a fraction. Presumably, it was to stop people accidentally falling out, but the locks were no help in the scorching summertime heat.

  The bus pulled away from another stop. Outside the window the city scrolled past, a rolling grey of concrete buildings and traffic signs. Finally, they were heading away from the harbour, away from the crowds.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ashley said. ‘This is hotter than any summers back home. Where’s the air conditioning?’

  ‘I didn’t see any vents when we got on,’ Sally replied.

  A teardrop of ice cream oozed from the top of Sally’s cone and dripped on her hand. It crept down her thumb, leaving a sticky white trail, chilling her skin. Placing her lips over the escaping droplet, Sally sucked her thumb dry with a satisfying pop.