Strangers

by C. L. Taylor

  The barman coughs lightly as she takes a sip. He coughs again, louder this time.

  ‘Sorry to eavesdrop,’ he says as she glances across at him, ‘but, um … quiet pub and all that.’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, I remember you. You were here a few days ago, weren’t you?’

  Alice sits up straighter. ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘The Simon you’re looking for … was he the blonde bloke who was sitting over there with a laptop?’ He points across the pub to an empty table.

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  ‘Then you need to try Radio Bristol.’

  ‘Radio Bristol?’

  ‘On Whiteladies Road.’ He spreads his hands wide on the bar. ‘He’s called Simon Hamilton, the bloke who was sitting there. Radio Bristol DJ. Comes in occasionally to work on his stuff for his show, pranks and that. I don’t think it’s funny.’ He shrugs again. ‘But some people must do.’

  Chapter 38

  Ursula

  Ursula walks slowly across the kitchen, her feet soundless on the tiled floor.

  Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch. The sound, like a nail being repeatedly dragged against wood, is coming from the bottom of the basement door. Ursula’s knees click as she crouches down to listen. There’s a pause in the scratching then, scritch, scritch, scritch, the noise starts up again. Pressing one hand against the wall for balance, she peers through the keyhole but it’s so dark on the other side of the door that she can’t see a thing.

  It’s just a rat, she tells herself as she backs away from the door. She looks back at the slab of corned beef lying on the chopping board and shudders. If there are rats in the basement they might be in the kitchen too. She’s going to have to call Edward and ask him to get vermin control in. If the rat makes it up to her bedroom she’ll … well, she has no idea what she’ll do. Stick it out or sleep in her van; that’s about as far as her options go.

  Scritch, scritch, scritch.

  She looks back at the door, weighing up the noise. That’s no rat. There’s no way little claws could make a sound that loud.

  ‘Go away!’ She stamps up and down, then grabs the knife and bangs the handle on the counter.

  The scratching stops, for a second or two, then suddenly starts up again.

  She turns on the radio and the chirpy, cheery voice of the presenter immediately blocks out the sound. She turns the radio off and there it is again, the continuous scratching and scraping. She stands very still, staring at the bottom of the basement door, her mind whirring. She assumed Edward had insisted on the radio being on at all times because he’s one of those people who can’t stand returning to a quiet house but now she’s not so sure. She sniffs the air. The horrible musky smell has definitely grown stronger.

  A cold chill lifts all the hairs on her forearms. A locked door. A bad smell. A missing knife. A newspaper clipping. A landlord obsessed with keeping his nails clean, who doesn’t get home until late. And a radio kept on 24 hours a day to block out the noise.

  No, she tells herself firmly, that would be ridiculous. There’s no way Edward is keeping anyone locked in the basement, no way at all. She takes her phone out of her pocket and looks on BBC news for coverage of the three Harbourside disappearances.

  There they are, the three missing men. She tries to match their photos with the black-and-white image she saw on the newspaper clipping but none of them look familiar. What if … her mind whirs … what if the photo she saw wasn’t of someone that Edward had kidnapped but someone who was next on his list?

  No, she tells herself firmly. There’s no way Edward would have advertised for a lodger if he was keeping people prisoner in the basement. Unless … a shiver runs down her spine … unless they were previous tenants. No, no, not possible. All the missing men were walking by the harbour when they disappeared. If Edward abducted them he would have had to smuggle them into the house while she was fast asleep in her bed. It doesn’t seem possible, although, looking at the dates on the website, one of the men disappeared before she moved in.

  Feeling vaguely ridiculous she gets down on her hands and knees, then flattens herself against the kitchen floor, her mouth inches from the basement door.

  ‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

  The scratching stops, making her catch her breath.

  ‘Are you …’ She pauses. She was going to ask ‘are you human?’ but that’s stupid. What’s a rat going to do, squeak no? ‘If you’re imprisoned against your will, scratch the door.’

  There’s a beat then a scratch, scratch, scratch against the wood.

  ‘Oh shit.’ She breathes heavily. ‘Do you need food and drink?’

  Silence, then a strange ugh, ugh sound like someone smothering a sneeze. Ursula backs away from the door, heart pounding in her throat. That has to be a person. She’s never heard an animal make a noise like that in her life.

  ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’ She moves her thumb over the keypad of her phone.

  9 – 9 –

  She deliberates. What if she’s wrong? What if the police come round and there isn’t a man tied up in the basement? What if she’s got it stupidly, ridiculously wrong and when they barge down the door they discover a rat? She’d never live it down and she’s had quite enough people laugh at her in her life. She could ring the RSPCA or pest control instead? No, she can’t because she’s got no way of letting them into the basement. But it can’t be a rat behind the locked door. And she’s never heard a dog or a cat go ugh, ugh.

  She needs to find out what’s going on in the basement and she needs to do it alone. If she could just peek through the keyhole or under the door. Or—

  A memory flashes in her mind as she looks towards the kitchen door. She saw a window yesterday, when she went outside to rescue the bird. It was half-hidden in the gravel against the wall of the house, the glass obscured with white paint.

  Ursula kneels on the pebbles at the back of the house, a large rock that she found at the back of the garden on the ground beside her.

  ‘Hello!’ she says. ‘I’m going to break the window and get you out.’

  She feels stupid even as she says it; the window’s sealed shut and she’s pretty certain that whoever, or whatever, is in the basement won’t be able to hear a thing.

  ‘Right.’ She sits back on her heels and picks up the rock. She holds it to her chest like a netball. The glass looks thick and she’s going to have to throw it with some force. ‘Here we go.’

  Before she loses her nerve, she says, ‘Three, two, one,’ and then throws.

  There’s an almighty crash as the rock disappears through the glass, then a boom as it hits the floor. Ursula listens for a scream or a shriek or a moan. When none comes she snatches up the wooden spoon she took from the kitchen and stabs at the sharp shards of glass still embedded in the window. When the most lethal-looking pieces have fallen away she places oven gloves on both hands, carefully grips the frame and eases her head through the gap.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice echoes around the basement. ‘Hello, is there anyone there?’

  It takes a while for her eyes to adjust to the gloom and at first all she can see are the stone stairs that lead up to the kitchen and a ton of cardboard boxes and then … she inhales sharply.

  ‘Oh holy fuck.’

  Chapter 39

  Gareth

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ Gareth stands in the middle of the near-empty car park, turning in a slow, tight circle. ‘Where are you?’

  He remembers making the same frantic cry when he became separated from his parents during their yearly holiday to Barry Island, a seaside resort in South Wales. They were on a mission to get fish and chips, striding across the pleasure park with a distant stand in their sights. He’d jogged behind, three years old, struggling to keep up. He’d stopped in his tracks when he spotted the ‘get the ball in the bottle’ stall adorned with huge cuddly teddy bears, soft toy bananas and brightly coloured buckets and spades hanging in a row. He stood to one side, watching open-mouthed as another young boy tried, and failed, to
land a single ping-pong ball in the wide necks of the clustered green bottles but was rewarded with a keyring anyway. Gareth turned, ready to shout to his mum for a go. Only there was no sign of his mum in her flowery summer dress and best M&S sandals, nor his dad in his knee-length navy shorts and open-necked shirt. There were just legs, so many legs. When he craned his neck to examine the faces all he saw were curious or indifferent eyes. Fear hollowed his belly as he ran, pushing through the crowds, shouting for his mum. When he saw her, in her lovely summer dress, he pulled at her skirt. A woman he didn’t know turned and looked down. She had soft, kind eyes but the disappointment made Gareth burst into tears. He was eventually reunited with his parents ten or fifteen minutes later, when they burst into the lost children shack after hearing a tannoy appeal. It felt like a lifetime to three-year-old Gareth. He thought he had lost them for good.

  It’s 3.34 p.m. now, nearly thirty-one hours since he last saw his mum, and nearly twenty-four hours since she walked out of the house. He’s looked everywhere. He’s been into every shop and asked every cashier and shop assistant he could find if they’ve seen her. He’s thrust ‘Missing’ posters that he knocked up on his laptop into the hands of every shopper he saw. But there’s no sign of her, not in the retail park and not in the surrounding area. He ran until his lungs burned, stopped to walk, then ran again, always calling her name, alternating between ‘Mum!’ and ‘Joan!’ In three hours it will start to get dark. His mum’s already been missing for one night. He can’t bear the thought of her being gone for two. His only hope is that she’s found some kind of shelter – an outbuilding, garage or shed. The nights have been so cold recently, dropping down to minus five. He’d struggle to sleep outside in this weather, even in a warm coat, and his mum’s seventy-nine years old.

  He looks at his watch again. It’s 3.35 p.m. Every minute feels like an hour. He wants to keep searching. When he’s driving or running or handing out flyers he feels like he’s helping, that he’s one street corner, one person closer to finding his mum; there’s hope mixed in with his desperation. But when he’s sitting at home alone, waiting, the only thing that he feels is fear.

  The house is a tip. Gareth has left no drawer unopened, no wardrobe unemptied and no pocket unchecked. He started in his mum’s room, searching through her possessions for something, anything, that might be a clue. But there were no answers to be found in her jewellery box, her dressing table, her wardrobe, her chest of drawers or even under the bed. There was nothing to explain where she’d gone, and as he stands in the doorway surveying the mountain of clothes on the bed, his mother’s possessions scattered around the room and the two postcards lying side by side on her beside table, it’s all he can do not to cry.

  Was another postcard delivered? Did it tell her to go somewhere? Has she got it with her, tucked in her favourite leather handbag? But how could a postcard arrive? He checked the CCTV and no one unusual approached or entered the house. Might Sally or Yvonne be lying? Did whoever wrote the postcards cajole or blackmail one of them into bringing a third message into the house? He dismisses the thought as quickly as it pops into his mind. But someone convinced his mum to leave, of that he’s sure.

  He received a phone call from the police shortly after he returned home. The woman he spoke to said her name was Lisa Read from Avon and Somerset Constabulary, one of the sergeants on duty today. She told him that all available officers were trying to track his mum down. There was a possibility, she said, that his mum had got onto a bus and she needed Gareth to confirm if a captured CCTV image was in fact Joan. He leapt to his feet, ready to drive to the station, but Sgt Read told him that she could text him the image instead. When his phone vibrated with a new message his heart was in his throat.

  ‘Yes,’ he told her on speaker phone as he gazed down at the blurry image. ‘Yes, the lady in the red coat with white hair is my mum.’

  Sgt Read went on to tell him that they also had CCTV footage of his mum getting off the bus on Park Street and walking up the hill, passing several shops. But then she’d turned a corner into a street with no CCTV and disappeared. ‘We’re looking,’ she told him. ‘Right now. We’re doing everything we can to find her.’

  When she ended the call, Gareth fought the urge to ring her back. Why hadn’t he asked her more questions – how many officers were out looking for his mum? What was the name of the street where she’d disappeared? How were they looking for her and what more could they do? The grainy image of his mum showing her bus pass to the driver had completely thrown him. It was years since she’d last got on a public bus; he drove her everywhere she needed to go, mostly to the doctor’s and the dentist’s for the last few years as well as the odd day trip. He didn’t even know where her bus pass was; he’d never had to look for it. It had probably been in her handbag, along with the other bits and bobs that she hadn’t used for years.

  He closes the door to her bedroom. He’ll tidy everything up after he’s had a cup of tea. As he heads into the kitchen a loud rapping on the front door makes him clutch the counter in alarm. It’s the police. They’ve found something. He heads into the hallway with his heart in his mouth.

  But it’s not a pair of police officers standing on the path beyond his front door. It’s Kath, holding a Pyrex dish, with Georgia behind her, red-eyed and kicking at the ground. The food smells of mince and there’s melted cheese and slices of tomato on top. Gareth’s stomach rumbles. He can’t remember the last time he had something to eat.

  ‘Can we come in?’ Kath asks, her bright tone a stark contrast to her daughter’s expression. ‘I’ve brought dinner. It’s lasagne. I don’t imagine you’ve been eating well.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ He stands back to let her in. Georgia doesn’t so much as look at him as she trails behind her mum, clutching a bag of salad, but she mutters, ‘thanks’, under her breath as she passes.

  A few minutes later they’re all congregated around the small kitchen table with plates, knives and forks and glasses of water in front of them; Gareth’s apologised for the lack of soft drinks.

  Kath looks across at him, wielding a serving spoon. ‘Big portion, Gareth?’ As their eyes meet she sniggers. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Mum, that’s gross,’ Georgia mutters, her face stony.

  Gareth smiles, for what feels like the first time in days. ‘I’d love a large portion please, Kath.’

  She ladles a hefty slice of lasagne onto a plate then gestures to the bowl of salad in the centre of the table. ‘Help yourself. Georgia, how much do you want?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ Her daughter pulls the sleeves of her jumper over her hands, then buries them in her lap.

  ‘Come on. You need to eat something. Just a little bit, and some of that salad.’ Kath hands her a plate. ‘Right, that’s me done. Enjoy folks!’

  Gareth gratefully forks a mouthful of meat and pasta into his mouth. He tries not to stare at Georgia, who’s sullenly pushing a piece of lettuce around her plate with her fork.

  ‘Ignore her,’ Kath mouths across the table. ‘Bullies.’

  Gareth nods then eats another mouthful of lasagne. It’s really quite good.

  ‘So,’ Kath says. ‘Any updates?’

  Her eyes soften as she listens to his reply. She rests her fork on the side of her plate as he tells her about the last phone called he received from Sgt Read.

  ‘Well that’s good, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘That they know where she got off the bus? It’ll help narrow down the search.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says wishing he could match her hopeful smile. Beyond the kitchen window the sun is starting to sink in the sky. In another hour or so it’ll be gone.

  Kath catches him looking. ‘They’ll find her. Someone’s bound to have seen her. Her photo’s all over social media.’

  ‘Is it? I didn’t know.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Georgia’s chair scrapes against the floor tiles as she pushes herself back from the table. ‘I’m just going to the toilet.’

  Neith
er Gareth nor Kath say a word as she leaves the room. Kath waits until the stairs stop creaking then gets up and shuts the kitchen door.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she says, taking her seat again. ‘Things at her school are unbearable. I spoke to her form tutor today and she says there’s a rumour going around that a group of girls – the bullies – are trying to get Georgia to bunk off after registration to go on the rob.’

  Gareth can’t imagine a group of teenaged girls breaking into people’s houses. He’s completely lost touch with the world.

  ‘Shoplifting,’ Kath clarifies. ‘At the Meads, where you work.’

  ‘Right.’ He sits up taller in his chair. He can’t do anything to help Kath and Georgia with school matters but if these kids are trawling round the Meads he could. ‘Have you got photos of them? These girls? I could keep an eye out the next time I’m monitoring the CCTV.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I’ve asked Georgia to tell me their Instagram handles but she won’t. And I can’t look through hers either because it’s private.’

  ‘Ah. The teacher didn’t tell you their names?’

  ‘I wish. It’s all “the other parties” this and “certain individuals” that. I don’t know what they think I’d do if they gave me their names. It’s not like I’m going to cosh them over the back of the heads when they leave school for the day.’ She laughs dryly. ‘As much as I’d like to!’

  ‘Could you take her out of school?’

  ‘What? And have her moping around all day, popping her head into my beauty room whenever she gets bored? Mum can I have a tenner? Mum can I buy this app? Mum, can I use your fake tan? I wouldn’t mind if she actually wanted to talk to me about stuff but it’s like she thinks I’ve got limitless funds. Sorry,’ she says, ‘I didn’t mean to come over here to have a moan.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Gareth reaches across the table to touch the back of her hand then thinks better of it and turns the movement into a strange, sideways bend instead. ‘We all need to talk.’