Strangers (ARC)

by C. L. Taylor

  One side of Edward’s mouth twitches up into a lopsided smile.

  ‘Plus deposit.’

  Ursula’s smile slips. In her excitement she hadn’t even considered the prospect of a deposit. If he asks for three months’ rent in advance she’s screwed.

  ‘How much would that be?’ she asks, tightening her grip on

  the mattress.

  ‘Call it £500 all in.’

  ‘So . . .’ She tries to remember the last time she checked her bank balance. It would be tight and she’d have to live on beans on toast for the rest of the month but it’s just about doable.

  ‘One month’s rent in advance and £150 deposit?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She considers her options. There’s no doubt that Edward is

  a little on the eccentric side but then again she’s not exactly normal and he hasn’t asked for a reference – something Charlotte might struggle to provide. If she takes the room she’ll be absolutely skint until next payday but at least she won’t have to

  shell out for a hotel. She gazes around the room, taking it all in, weighing it up, then lets out a little ‘ooh’ of surprise as she notices something unusual about the door. There’s a huge great hole, stuffed with tissue paper, just under the handle.

  ‘There’s no lock.’

  ‘No.’

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  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I had to break in.’

  ‘Why?’

  Edward doesn’t shift his gaze from the door. ‘I’d fit a new

  lock,’ he says quietly. ‘If you’d like the room. You are . . . female after all.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ She frowns.

  ‘Like I said, there are other interested parties but I did promise you first refusal so it’s up to you.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she says before she can change her mind. She’s got some packing tape in her bag. She’ll plaster over the toilet roll stuffed hole before she goes to bed, and put the chair in front of the door. It’s not the right height to jam under the

  handle but the floor’s wooden; she’d hear it moving. And besides, she’s a good eight inches taller than Edward and at least eight or nine stone heavier. Unless he’s a knife-wielding maniac she can fight him off.

  I won’t need to fight him off. She catches the dark thread of

  her thoughts and mentally shakes herself. He’s a bit odd but

  that doesn’t mean he’s a psycho. I’m a bit odd and I’m perfectly well balanced. Well, a little bit off-balance, but harmless. Mostly.

  ‘Excellent.’ Edward nods curtly. ‘If you could furnish me with the £500 we can discuss a move-in date.’

  Ursula’s heart sinks. ‘Oh. I was hoping I could move in tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes . . . I . . . um. I . . . er . . . I’ve got all my belongings in my van outside.’

  ‘You’ve got nowhere else to stay?’

  ‘No.’ She says a little prayer, not to God – she’s already broken her promise to him about not stealing again – or the universe, but to the only person who ever really loved her. If you’re there, if you’re listening, please help me out.

  Edward gives her a long look over the top of his rimless

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  glasses and she braces herself for the inevitable ‘no, sorry’, but then he gives a faint shrug.

  ‘I don’t see why not. If you can get the money tonight I’ll

  give you a hand getting your stuff out of your van.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ursula practically bounces to her feet. ‘I’ll do

  that now. Give me five minutes to find a bank and I’ll be right back. Oh.’ She pauses, halfway across the room. ‘I think I can only get £200 out of the bank today.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Edward says. ‘You can write me a cheque for the other three hundred. It’s not as if you can do a runner.’ His eyes glint behind his glasses. ‘After all, I know where you live.’

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  Chapter 10

  Alice

  Alice closes the door, rests her back against it for a few seconds, then heads into the kitchen where her daughter Emily is sitting at the table, glass of red wine in hand. There’s a scarlet smudge around her lips and the bottle is half empty.

  ‘You okay?’ Emily asks as Alice sits down and helps herself

  to a glass. ‘You didn’t shut the living room door properly, by the way.’

  ‘So you heard everything?’

  Emily shrugs. ‘Pretty much. He sounds like a freak. What did

  the police say?’

  ‘I have to go in to give an official statement, and they’re going to speak to Michael.’

  ‘And the other guy?’ She nods towards the bouquet of flowers,

  still in their cellophane wrapper, on the kitchen counter.

  ‘Simon? He needs to give a statement too. I gave them his

  number and . . .’

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  But Emily has stopped listening. She’s tapping away at her

  phone with both thumbs, her brow furrowed, her lips set in a

  tight, hard line. It’s the same expression she had as a child when she thought some kind of injustice had occurred – a friend took her toy or Alice announced it was bedtime.

  ‘Everything okay with you, love?’

  ‘Fine.’ Emily reaches for her wine glass and takes a long swig.

  ‘How’s work?’ Her daughter’s been working as a receptionist

  for a property maintenance company in the centre of town for

  the last year and she knows she finds it boring.

  ‘Crap. Sooner I get a new job the better.’

  ‘And Adam?’

  ‘Adam’s a cock.’

  Alice raises her eyebrows. Emily and Adam have been together

  for about eighteen months and it isn’t the most harmonious of

  relationships; even the start was rocky. Adam was dating Laila, one of Emily’s friends and there was some ‘confusion’ over when that relationship ended and his relationship with Emily began.

  The two girls had a massive falling-out and Laila successfully managed to convince most of their friends that Emily was a

  bitch. The experience threw Emily and Adam together in a way

  that Alice didn’t find particularly healthy but there was no talking her daughter into slowing things down. Suddenly it was ‘Adam

  this’ and ‘Adam that’ and she barely saw her for weeks on end.

  About three months in, Adam finished things with Emily out of

  the blue and Alice nursed her daughter through the toughest

  break-up she’d ever experienced – cuddling her on the sofa,

  making her endless cups of tea as Emily poured her heart out.

  And then Adam reappeared. He’d made a mistake, he said, he’d

  freaked out at the speed things were progressing but he wanted to give it another go. Emily, who’d heard from one of her few

  friends that Adam had been cheating on her, was sceptical but

  her love hadn’t faded and he didn’t have to work very hard to

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  talk her into taking him back. Then things returned to normal

  – three or four nights spent at home during the week then every weekend doing whatever it was Adam wanted to do.

  It had hurt Alice’s heart, seeing her vibrant, confident daugh -

  ter shri
nk into Adam’s pocket, fitting herself into the tiny

  girlfriend-shaped space in his life. Did she learn that from me?

  she wondered. Had Emily watched her kowtow to Peter’s demands, putting his happiness before her own? Or perhaps she thought

  she hadn’t been compliant enough and that’s why he’d left?

  ‘What’s Adam done?’ she asks as her daughter’s phone bleeps

  with a reply.

  Emily shakes her head, her lips stubbornly pressed together

  as she recommences her attack on her phone’s keypad.

  ‘Ems . . .’

  ‘Leave it, Mum. You wouldn’t understand.’

  Sighing, Alice gets up and begins unwrapping the flowers. If

  there’s one thing Emily has inherited from her it’s her stubborn-ness. She wouldn’t have opened up to her mother at that age

  either. She steps on the pedal bin and drops the cellophane inside then takes the white card that was stapled to one corner from

  out of her pocket. There’s something about the scrawled message

  – Sorry, Simon – with his number written underneath that stops her from throwing it away too. Simon went to so much trouble

  to check she was okay; the least she can do is do is let him

  know she spoke to the police.

  She slips her phone out of her work trousers and taps out a

  message.

  Thank you again for the flowers, you really shouldn’t have.

  I’ve spoken to the police and they took your number. They said they’d like you to go in to give a statement.

  She pauses, unsure what else to add, so ends the message with

  her first name, presses send and drops the card, along with the cellophane, into the bin. As she fills a vase with water a stern 52

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  voice on the radio cuts through the tinny pop song and announces that it’s eight o’clock and time for the news. Alice half-listens as she trims the ends of the flowers and arranges the stems in the vase. More political upheaval, an ageing celebrity has died and . . . her ears prick up at the mention of Bristol, unusual given the fact that, thanks to Emily, the digital radio is permanently tuned in to Radio 1. A young man has gone missing after

  a night out, last seen walking along Bristol Harbourside. Forty-eight hours have passed since he was last seen. Alice sighs softly, thinking of the anguish his poor parents must be going through.

  The number of twenty-somethings who’ve died after getting

  drunk, getting separated from their friends, stumbling home

  alone and falling into the river Avon . . . She’s lost count of the number of times she’s drummed it into Emily to make sure she

  always leaves a club with a friend. Not that she goes out with her friends very often. It’s all Adam, Adam, Adam.

  Her daughter’s shriek makes her turn sharply. Emily’s on the

  phone, her mobile pressed to her ear and the fingers of her other hand curled around the wine bottle as she tips it into her glass.

  ‘No, Adam. I won’t calm down. You fucking know how I feel about Laila and I know for a fact that that she was there last night. Don’t you dare lie about—’

  A question forms on Alice’s lips but Emily angrily waves her

  away. Sighing, Alice leaves the kitchen, the vase of flowers in her hands. As she sets it down on a window ledge in the living room her phone vibrates in her pocket. It’s a message from

  Lynne:

  How did it go with the police?

  Alice taps out a reply: I need to go in to give an official statement.

  A couple of seconds later Lynne texts again.

  Are you ok? Have you heard from Michael?

  No, she types back. Haven’t heard a thing. Thank goodness.

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  from the kitchen Alice shuts all the curtains. She turns on the TV and sits on the sofa then gets up to adjust the curtains again.

  She sits down again and flicks through the channels, watches a few seconds of a property programme about homes abroad, then

  checks her phone. No reply from Lynne. No reply from Simon

  either. She feels unsettled after speaking to the police. Maybe she needs another glass of wine, take the edge off her nerves.

  That’s if Emily hasn’t finished the bottle. Her phone bleeps as she crossed the living room.

  It’s a text from Simon:

  Police rang me. I told them everything I can remember and said I’ll go in tomorrow. I hope it helps. How are you doing?

  I’m okay, she taps out. How are you?

  She rereads her reply then deletes it and tries again:

  Thanks so much. I am feeling a bit unsettled but

  For a second time she deletes what she’s written. Why is she

  deliberating over every word? She didn’t agonise over the reply she sent to Lynne.

  Thank you, she types. I really appreciate you doing that. I’ll be honest. I’m quite freaked out by what happened but the way you reacted has reassured me that not all men are drunken, dangerous arseholes. Need a drink (or two).

  Send.

  As she steps out of the living room her daughter bursts out

  of the kitchen, phone still clamped to her ear. She grabs her coat from the stand and snatches her keys off the sideboard.

  ‘You’re not driving, are you?’ Alice asks, horrified. ‘You’ve

  had the best part of a bottle of wine to drink and—’

  ‘I’ve booked a taxi to Adam’s. Don’t stress.’

  And then Emily is gone, the silence she leaves behind pulsing

  in Alice’s ears. Sighing, she heads into the kitchen and picks up the empty bottle of red wine from the kitchen table and drops

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  Bombay Sapphire gin that Lynne gave her for Christmas. She

  pours out a large measure, adds a splash of tonic, then heads

  into the living room. As she settles back onto the sofa her phone bleeps again. Two new messages, one from Lynne and one from

  Simon:

  Have you seen that new reality show on Channel 4? OMG.

  Makes me SO glad I’m not in my twenties again.

  Alice skips over Lynne’s message to get to Simon’s.

  Ah, I have my arsehole moments that’s for sure but I’d never do what that guy did. If you hadn’t dropped your purse I would have lamped him one myself, that’s for sure. What are you

  drinking? I’m on the gin.

  Alice smiles.

  I’m on the gin too. Bombay Sapphire.

  Her phone beeps.

  I’m an Adnams Copper fan myself.

  Alice taps the Chrome app on her phone and googles ‘Adnams

  Cooper’. She gives a little laugh.

  An artisan gin! Get you. Hipster!

  She takes a sip of her drink. A second or two later her phone

  bleeps again:

  Hipster?! How very dare you. I’ll have you know that a) I

  don’t have a beard, b) I can’t stand craft ale and c) my thighs are far too chunky for skinny jeans. Although I have been known to crochet a cabbage and stew my own pickle juice.

  Alice laughs loudly. What the hell’s pickle juice?

  You know how Peter Parker was bitten by a spider and became Spiderman? Pickle juice is like that but for hipsters. It gives us superpowers.

  She takes another sip of her gin as she composes her reply in

  her head. There’s something hugely enjoyable about bantering

  with him like this – batting silly
comments back and forth

  without second-guessing herself.

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  As her phone vibrates again she glances down at it. Her fixed

  smile fades. Someone called ‘Ann Friend’ just sent her a Facebook friend request with a message. She clicks it.

  Whatever you do, don’t trust Simon.

  What? She clicks on Ann Friend’s profile. The photo is a black square and there’s nothing in the cover photo space either. No friends, no information. Just the name – Ann Friend. It has to be Michael, lashing out and angry because she called the police.

  Anger bubbles in her belly as she taps out a reply.

  Leave me alone, Michael. I’ll be passing that message on to the police and any other message that you decide to send me.

  Don’t EVER contact me again.

  Hand shaking, she sets her phone down on the table and

  reaches for her glass. She knocks back the last of the gin then refills it. As she raises it to her mouth her phone bleeps with a new message. It’s from Ann Friend again.

  Who is Michael?

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  Chapter 11

  Gareth

  Gareth waits for the familiar dum-dum-dum music that signals

  the end of EastEnders then crouches beside his mum’s chair. She leans away from him, startled by his proximity.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He holds out the postcard, showing her the image of the

  dancing couple. ‘When did this arrive?’

  His mother looks vaguely in the direction of the card and

  squints. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a postcard, Mum. Put your glasses on.’

  She reaches a hand over to the side table, her hand spidering

  over the surface until her fingertips find the rough tapestry of her glasses case. She snaps it open then places her specs on the end of her nose. She holds the card at arm’s length.

  ‘Isn’t that lovely, a postcard from your dad.’

  Gareth frowns, trying to read her face. The gaps between her

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  sure which state she’s in now. The latter probably, if she thinks the postcard is ‘lovely’. At a guess she’s firmly caught in the first fifteen years of her marriage when his dad was in the navy and would be away from home for months at the time. Gareth knows