by Mark Ayre
"Wouldn't that be exciting?"
"I'm sure you can't wait," said Sanderson. "Now, let's get you out of here."
Sanderson showed Abbie out. On the steps of the police station, she paused and replayed his expression when she had mentioned Francis Roberts. That name, that man, he really did loom large over this town. A black cloud always threatening poisoned rain. Abbie wondered how long it would be before she met Mr Roberts.
And found herself quite intrigued by the prospect.
Eight
Before they split, Sanderson suggested to Abbie that she steer clear of Eddie, given his beliefs about her involvement with Danny’s murder. This seemed like wise enough advice, and Abbie told Sanderson so. She did not tell him she would have to disregard it, because Eddie’s life was in danger and she needed to save him. Of that, he would disapprove.
But she wouldn’t disregard the advice immediately. Given the clock had just ticked past eleven, she could not afford to leave it too long, but turning up right after leaving the police station would not be smart. Instead, she would attempt to sort her sleeping situation for the night, then she would have some lunch, then, maybe, she would visit Eddie. If nothing else came up.
The sleeping situation was a pain. Abbie had paid for two nights at Glenda’s hotel, but Sanderson said her room would be cordoned off for at least as long. He did not offer to reimburse her. Perhaps because she’d revealed her consultancy job paid silly money.
Having liked Glenda, Abbie returned to the hotel. She was pleased to see a couple packing cases into their car and preparing to drive away. She hoped this was the natural end of their stay. That the murder upstairs had not encouraged them to check out early, to request their money back.
Abbie stepped through the front doors, into the lobby, and saw the beaming face of Bobby behind the receptionist’s desk.
She double-took and looked around. As if expecting rowdy, drunken patrons to appear behind her and deep fat fryers and colleagues with no personal hygiene to materialise behind Bobby. As though she was being dragged back in time to the previous night.
From some paperwork he was filling in, Bobby looked up to catch her expression.
“Hi there,” he said. “I hear your interesting evening didn’t end after you left Perfect Chicken? Don’t worry, no need for that look. I’m not following you. I work here.”
“You work here?”
“Yes.”
“And at Perfect Chicken?”
“That’s right.”
“How awful.”
Bobby shrugged. “I need the money.”
“How sad.”
He shrugged again.
She said, “You didn’t mention you worked here when you gave me the address and Glenda’s number.”
“I thought it would be a nice surprise.”
“That so?”
“It is so. And is it? A nice surprise.”
“It’s certainly a surprise.”
Bobby chuckled, then drummed his fingers on the desk. A nervous look entered his eyes, though the smile didn’t drop. Abbie was starting to wonder if it might not be fixed on.
He said, “If you’ve come for a refund—“
“I haven’t. I’ve come for a room. Another room. I saw a couple out there, looked as though they were leaving.”
“Early,” said Bobby. “Two days early. They felt uncomfortable about the number of murders happening in the vicinity of where they were expecting to sleep.”
“It was only one.”
‘Yes. I think that was one more than they were hoping.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” said Abbie. “Well, in that case, all the more reason to take my money. I suppose you gave them a refund?”
“I did.”
“Not good for business. Lucky I came along.”
Abbie moved to the desk, withdrew from her drawstring bag her wallet, and took out her credit card, placing it on the wooden surface. Bobby looked at the card. Then at Abbie. That nervous look was back again.
“I’m not sure—“
“I’ll pay double rates.”
“There are other hotels.”
Abbie still had her fingers on the card but didn’t remove it from the desk. She could stay somewhere else. She didn’t know why, but she felt it might be valuable staying in the hotel where Danny had died. It was at times like this Abbie wished she had ditched her hoody and spent some time learning how to use her cleavage and the suggestive touch of a finger to the back of her target’s hand to get her way.
But she never had. Luckily, what she lacked in flirtatiousness, she made up for with money.
“Triple rate,” she said. “One more night.”
Bobby looked down the hall, towards the only downstairs room: Glenda’s room. The conflict was apparent in his eyes. He knew he should push to turn Abbie away. Unfortunately for him, sexual desire is so often more powerful than rational thought. Even if Abbie was wearing her hoody and had yet to make physical contact.
“Double time,” he said, “and you and I go for a drink this evening.”
“In different places?”
“The same place. Together.”
“Sounds like a date.”
“How about that.”
Abbie sighed. That was the last thing she wanted. It was one thing being suggestive to get her way, but actually going on a date? No. That was different.
“Not a good idea,” she said.
“Why not?”
“When people find out what happened here, they’re going to think I had something to do with Danny’s death. Eddie already thinks I killed his brother.”
“And maybe you did,” said Bobby. “But don’t worry. I was going to suggest we meet somewhere public.”
Abbie shook her head. “I’ll be gone tomorrow or the day after. What do you gain from this?”
“You’re interesting. Different. Like no one I’ve ever met.”
“Bit early to be making that call.”
“I can tell.”
Either he had good instinct, intuition, or he thought she was hot and was just trying a line. Not that it mattered either way.
“If you’re only here a night, what have you to lose?”
More than he could imagine.
“Bobby. I hate to let you down—”
“Easy solution to that.”
“But I have to.”
Bobby sighed. Shook his head. He was handsome in his disappointment. And how was that a helpful thought? From beneath the desk, he drew a piece of paper and a pen.
She asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to note down the numbers and addresses of a couple of nearby hotels. Good places. You won’t get the service you do here but…” shrug.
“You’re soliciting a date out of me,” said Abbie. “You’re either trying to make me a prostitute, or you’re blackmailing me. Neither is cool. Neither is an attractive quality.”
Bobby paused. Any bravado he had conjured flooded away. He cast his eyes to her, then shot them back to the desk. Placing the pen in a pot, he scrunched the paper and chucked it in a bin at his feet.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He glanced again down the hall, towards Glenda’s room. Shook his head.
“Triple rate is too much. Pay double. That will help me convince Glenda it wasn’t an awful idea letting you back here.”
“Okay,” said Abbie. “Let’s do this.”
They did this. Bobby was quiet, reserved as he worked following her blackmail/prostitution comments. She felt bad for him. Found she wanted to make it better. Not a good idea. Never truly connect. That was rule number one. Fake connection and do so only with the ones who mattered. She had to keep that always in mind.
When she had paid, Bobby presented her with a new key.
“I’ll try not to offer my room to anyone else this time,” she said. It was a mistake. Humour was not good. It was inviting. She hadn’t been able to help herself. His smile had dimmed, and h
is face didn’t seem right without it.
“Probably wise,” he noted.
Abbie nodded. Hovered. Almost said something else then caught herself. She stepped away from the desk towards the door, only stopping when Bobby called after her.
“Abbie. Did you keep the piece of paper I gave you yesterday?”
Abbie considered lying. Then said, “Yep.”
“I meant what I said. Even if you leave tomorrow, I’d love to buy you a drink tonight. No pressure, no blackmail, no expectation. So, if you change your mind, you give me a call.”
Abbie closed her eyes. He couldn’t see her, so it didn’t matter. She hovered by the door. Would a drink really hurt? It didn’t have to mean anything, and it had been so long since she’d had a chance to sit down and enjoy chatting with someone without it meaning anything; without her having to lie or worry.
Except she would be worried.
“Thank you for the room,” she said.
Without looking back, she pulled open the door and stepped from the hotel.
Nine
Abbie was a step off the hotel’s property and onto the pavement when her phone began to ring. From her drawstring bag, she drew the handset. She didn’t recognise the number but expected it would be her new friend Sanderson, so was surprised when she answered the phone and heard the voice of a much younger man.
“Hello, hi, you gave me this number. I’m sorry. I don’t think you said your name.”
It took a couple of seconds to click. When Abbie got it, she said, “Young Michael.”
“Um, yeah?”
“Is that a question? Are you Michael or aren’t you?”
“I’m… yes. I think we met last night in—“
“Perfect chicken. Yes. Awful place. My name’s Abbie, by the way.”
“Hi.”
“Hi. You want to talk with me about what happened last night? About Ronson?”
There was a pause, the first one since the call had begun. Right now, Michael was doing the calculations. He was afraid. That much was obvious. And why not, if he was entangled with Francis, and if Francis was half as bad as everyone made him out to be.
“Michael?” she said. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need.”
Still, he didn’t speak. This went on long enough that Abbie wondered if he might not have suffered a heart attack. Could he now be lying beside a road somewhere, his phone at his side, his hand clutching his chest as though that might get it to start beating again?
She was about to prompt him by once more saying his name when he spoke.
“Can we meet?”
“Of course we can, Michael. You just name the time and the place.”
The time was right away. The place a drab playground fifteen minutes from where Abbie had taken the call. She arrived at 11.38.
The playground, circled by a rusting metal ring, contained little—a swing set which had once offered two swings and now offered only one. A see-saw with one end planted firmly into the ground, as though weighed down by an invisible child. A roundabout which looked as though it had been neither around nor about in many years. And a small climbing frame complete with a slide that had had its bottom end snapped off, creating a jagged metal spike that might permanently disable anyone that chose to come down the death trap. Once upon a time, all these playground accessories had been bursting with colour. Over the years, the brightness seemed to have faded, as though someone had switched an old telly from colour to black and white. The sky above was grey. Standing in this place, you got the impression the atmosphere here was always bleak. That the sun never shone on this playground.
Completing the picture was Michael. A miserable, frightened sixteen-year-old sitting on the one available swing. His feet were planted in the chipping that covered the ground. He kicked with the energy of a tranquillised sloth, and the swing moved an inch forward, an inch back. When Abbie entered the playground, he looked her way. No hope entered his expression. The poor boy had called out of desperation but expected Abbie to fail him.
Arriving at the swing set, she pointed to the chains upon which had once been attached the second swing.
“Looks like someone took my seat.”
“Here—“ he began to rise. Abbie stilled him with a hand.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just spent over an hour crammed into a chair in a police interview room. Fresh air and leg stretching are what I need. So long as you don’t mind if I pace.”
“No,” Michael said. For the next three seconds, he avoided asking the burning question. Then it came. “Why were you at the police station?”
As good as her word, Abbie had already begun pacing. Despite the fifteen-minute walk from the hotel to the playground, it felt good to keep her limbs moving, even on the awkward chipping carpet.
“You know the name Danny Dean?” she asked.
Michael hesitated, then shook his head. The hesitation might indicate either that Michael had considered and then decided he didn’t know Danny. Or that he knew the name and was deciding whether or not to lie. So despondent did Michael look, it was impossible to tell which was the truth. Abbie chose not to press him on the matter. To take his answer at face value.
“Last night, someone murdered him.”
“Oh,” said Michael.
“He was staying in my hotel room at the time. Though I hasten to add, I was not present. I was staying elsewhere.”
“Why was he in your room?”
Abbie ceased pacing a moment. She wanted to pay attention to Michael’s next reaction.
“I was trying to keep him hidden from the man who wanted to kill him. That man being the boss of your friend Travis. Francis Roberts.”
There was no warmth in the air that day. Neither was it particularly cold. Regardless, Michael shuddered as though a whisk of freezing wind had swept across his skin. Already, he had looked afraid. At the mention of Francis, he was terrified.
He asked, “Who are you?”
“Did I not say? I’m Abbie.”
She began pacing again. Michael shook his head.
“But why are you here? Why did you piss off Ronson and then try to hide someone from Francis Roberts? Do you have—“
He stopped himself. Abbie said, “A death wish?”
Michael shrugged. “Well, yeah.”
“No. I don’t think so,” said Abbie. “As for who I am. You ever read or watch any Spider-Man?”
“Yeah.”
“Course you have. Who hasn’t? Well, when I was a kid, I was obsessed with the Spider-Man animated series. I used to watch re-runs all the time. Whenever I could. Like I said: obsessed.”
She paused to remember. She could see the living room. See herself, sitting on the floor, surrounded by unoccupied sofas, eyes glued to the television screen. How rare it was for her to think of that simpler time. Back when she possessed both the innocence of childhood and something resembling an everyday life. Before the responsibility. Before the dreams.
The past was a dangerous place. Before it could trap her, Abbie tried to climb out. To focus on Michael.
“I’m like Spider-Man,” she said. “I believe with great power comes great responsibility, and so here I am, swinging in to save the day in your boring town.”
“It is boring,” Michael agreed.
“It is. Yet here I am. Granted, I’ve got off to a bad start on the day-saving front with Danny, but that means things can only get better. I can help you, Micheal.”
“Why would you?”
It seemed clear the answer he was looking for was not, Because I suspect helping you might bring me closer to helping the guy I actually came here to save. So she said, “Because you asked. And as a wise man or maybe God once said, ask, and you shall receive.”
Again, she stopped pacing. She twisted her feet, planting them within the chipping, as though afraid a wave might otherwise appear from nowhere and knock her down, wash her away. She faced Michael, who struggled to look back at her.
“Of course,” she said, “there’s a catch.”
“A catch?” His face somehow went even whiter with fear.
“Duh,” she said. “There’s always a catch.”
Michael looked further away. He was afraid she might ask something untoward or dangerous of him. She crunched through the chipping and knelt before him, which was not comfortable on the knees.
“Michael, the catch is you have to be honest with me. That’s going to make you feel uncomfortable because I know you’re afraid of Francis and fear he might hurt you if he finds out you’ve been talking. And maybe you’re going to worry about your friends. Betraying them. But let me be clear: if you are not going to tell me the truth, all of the truth, there is no point going down this road. Because I can’t help if I have only half the story. Does that make sense?”
Feet still planted, Michael pushed, extending at the knees, moving his swing a little further from Abbie. Getting the message, she rose from kneeling and took a step back. Whatever he needed to feel comfortable.
“I can do that,” he said.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Yes, please, I need you. Please help me.”
“I most certainly will. But can we do it somewhere else? Turns out I was lying about not wanting to sit down.”
They found a cafe five minutes down the road. It was small, with only a handful of tables and fewer patrons. One woman sitting in a corner staring at her phone. No one else but the bored lady who stood behind the counter, staring into space and presumably dreaming of sunny beaches and cocktails.
Michael chose a table. Abbie ordered drinks. Latte for him, black Americano for her. No sugar for either. When the barista placed the drinks on the counter, she looked over Abbie's shoulder at the boy. Her look questioned if Abbie was a young mum or a paedophile.
"My nephew," said Abbie. "That alright?"
The woman grunted. Said nothing. Abbie paid and took the drinks to the table.
"Yours," she said, sliding the latte over and taking the chair opposite Michael. It was plastic. Uncomfortable. Even more so than had been the seat in the police station. That was okay. Abbie was used to discomfort.
