The Stranger

by Mark Ayre

  "So," she said once she was as settled as the chair made possible. "Let's hear it."

  Michael was looking at his drink, staring into the foam. He had yet to pick it up and try it. When Abbie spoke, he turned his eyes to her.

  "Where should I start?"

  "It's your story. I don't know what you have to say. Pick a place that seems sensible and just get talking. I have any questions, I'll ask."

  Michael looked to his side. A pot at the table's edge contained ketchup, brown sauce, brown and white sugar, milk pots. Michael stared at the condiments as Aladdin might have stared at the treasures found within the cave of wonders. Then looked back to Abbie.

  "You want to know what Ronson and Travis were arguing about yesterday?"

  "I want to know whatever you want to tell me."

  "Okay." He nodded. Seemed to derive confidence from this free reign. Abbie hoped he wouldn't start talking about his third birthday party when he fell and skinned his knee, and all the other kids laughed. She hoped he stayed at least vaguely on point.

  He said, "My father never wanted anything to do with me."

  Not only because she wanted Michael to feel comfortable, Abbie restrained from releasing a groan. After all, this could be relevant.

  "He and my mum were my age or slightly younger when they had me. Teenagers. Mum got pregnant. Dad wanted nothing to do. In the end, right before I was born, my grandparents sent mum and me away. Found her a job. Found us somewhere to live. My paternal grandparents paid maintenance at first, and dad’s given us money since he was old enough to get a job. But never a lot. And he never wanted to see me."

  Michael shrugged as though to say this was no big deal. A tough sell when Abbie could almost see the weight of disappointment crushing his soul.

  "Mum always struggled," said Michael. "She couldn't hold down a job. Always drank way too much. People knew it was a problem. I don't know how she managed to keep me. Why social services never got involved. But they didn't. We stayed together."

  He was looking at the condiments again. Abbie reached over and took a packet of sugar, began to work it between her fingers. This gave him the permission he needed to take one himself, to do the same. As though the sugar packet was a tiny stress ball. Abbie had to confess it felt nice.

  "I'm pretty sure it's only in the last couple of years she started doing drugs," Michael went on. "Weed at first, but more recently harder stuff. I've tried to make her stop, but she won't listen. We don't have any friends. No one we can turn to for help.”

  Michael paused, which allowed Abbie to say, "What about your father? I know he was never helpful before, but—"

  A shake of the head. "Doesn't want to know. I've never met him. We’ve spoken on the phone, and he’s always made it clear he would send money but didn't want to see me. Didn't want to get involved. He said he was sorry, and you know how much that means?"

  "Not a thing," said Abbie.

  Michael nodded. "Right. So, there was no help to be had, and things were getting worse and worse. All four of my grandparents died young, and mum’s mum and dad left us their house. That means there's no mortgage, which should make things easier, but it doesn't. There was still the bills, and I knew mum was taking out loans—bad loans from bad people, and not to help us out. Not to do what she should be doing. It's all going into her addiction. I've got a Saturday job, so that helps a little. I keep the money away from mum. Use it to pay the bills. That keeps the lights on, but what use will lights be when the loan sharks come calling? We'd be better in the dark. When I finish my GCSEs, I'll drop out of school, but by then, it’ll be too late. I needed something that would make a dent in our debts now."

  What Michael needed, Abbie reckoned, was for his mother to get proper help. As it stood, Michael might find a hundred grand down the back of the sofa, and that would keep them going a while, but not long enough. With her habit, his mother would eat up the funds. If she was taking out loans from dodgy people, unpaid bills would be the least of their worries. Michael's only escape might be forcing his mother into rehab or having her die from an overdose. Abbie doubted he could achieve the former and thought suggesting the latter might seem insensitive.

  "So you're desperate for cash," she said, trying to distract herself from the boy's plight, which she could do nothing to alleviate, "and what, Travis brings you a potential solution?"

  "Five grand," said Michael. "He comes to my house one night, about a week ago, and tells Clarissa and me if we do a job with him, we'll earn five grand each. He found the job so he'd take ten grand."

  Abbie released a low whistle. "Twenty grand is a fair chunk of change. What would one have to do to earn such cash, I wonder?"

  Michael stared at the sugar packet in his hand, then glanced left and right, surveying the room. Neither of the other two women in the cafe was within earshot if he kept quiet. Neither was paying Abbie and Michael any attention.

  "It weren't nothing too bad," said Michael. "We just had to steal some woman's bag when she was walking home one night. Simple as that. We didn't have to hurt her. I never would have, but our instructions were specifically to not hurt her."

  Abbie considered. Steal a bag, earn twenty grand. It was apparent the bag didn't contain money unless it was a considerable sum. Maybe diamonds. More likely something that wasn’t worth much, except to the one willing to pay such a sum for its acquisition.

  "This job," said Abbie. "It came from Francis?"

  Michael glanced around again, then nodded.

  "Direct?"

  Another nod. Abbie considered.

  "He worked with Travis before?"

  A shake of the head. "Travis has done a bit of dealing, but he worked for people who work for Francis. They'd never met before Francis asked to see him."

  So it was an off the books job involving something embarrassing. Something Francis didn't want his lieutenants to know. Except it hadn't gone to plan. In Travis, Francis had picked the wrong man.

  "How did the job go?" Abbie asked.

  "Good," said Michael. "We rushed her as one. Travis knocked her down, and I grabbed the bag. Then we ran. We had our hoods up. That was it. Easy."

  Abbie nodded. That told her what problem had forced Francis to involve those closest to him, like Ronson.

  "Let me guess," she said. "The job took place the night before last. Yesterday, Travis was supposed to take the bag to Francis. Make the delivery. Francis would pay up, and the three of you would go out that evening, last night, to celebrate. That about right?"

  A nod.

  "And you did celebrate. Though you had no reason to. Because Travis hasn't given the bag to Francis, has he?"

  Michael blushed and looked back to his sugar packet as though this was his fault. Of course, you could say he was stupid to trust Travis, and he was undoubtedly stupid to do the job in the first place. But he was desperate, and while the woman would lose her bag, no one would get properly hurt, so far as Michael could see. Except now they might. Unless Travis got wise real quick.

  "What did he tell you yesterday?" she said. "Travis, I mean."

  "He said the fact Francis had asked us, rather than his people, to steal the bag showed it was worth more than twenty grand. Said we had to ask for at least a hundred."

  They say a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing. True. So is a little bit of intelligence. Travis was smart enough to discern that this bag, whatever it held, was of unique value to Francis. But too stupid to realise the danger he was placing himself and his friends in by not giving up the goods for the agreed fee.

  "I tried to talk him out of it," said Michael. "But you saw what he's like. And Clarissa's in love with him. So she agreed. And he's so persuasive. Made me think his way was the right way, but it wasn't. All I wanted was enough cash to keep the sharks from my mother for a while. I screwed up."

  A pang of sympathy for the boy rushed through Abbie. A pang so strong she released her sugar packet and reached across the table. Caught herself a second or two bef
ore she lay a comforting hand on Michael's arm. She had agreed to help. She wasn't his mother.

  "You did," she said. "Can I ask you a question?"

  His eyes said he feared what this question might be. But he was brave enough to nod.

  "The people who sell your mother the drugs work for Francis?" she asked.

  A sullen nod.

  "And the loan sharks she approached when she got in bad debt?"

  "I get it," he said, and for the first time, his words contained a bite of frustration. "Mum buys the drugs from Francis' people until she runs out of money. Then she borrows money from Francis' people to enable her to keep buying drugs from Francis' other people. And when it all becomes too much, it's Francis who gives me the job that offers me cash with which I can pay back mum's debts, and that money goes right back into his pocket anyway. It's so fucked up."

  Placing her own sugar packet down, Abbie slid it away. Folding her hands in her lap, she waited until Michael met her eye.

  "Don't feel too bad," she said. "That's how these people work. They take over a town like cancer takes over a body. They get their hooks into you any way they can, then pull and pull until you've got nothing left to give. Then they tear you apart."

  His face white, Michael released a tear. "We owe 25 grand. If I don't start making repayments, they'll force mum to give up the house. We need money. I was desperate."

  No longer could Abbie resist. Leaning across the table, she placed her hand over his. As she moved, she tried to remind herself she was here to protect Eddie. Michael was a means to an end. But could she let his life fall apart, now she knew his story?

  "I want you to stay away from Travis," said Abbie. "I'll get hold of the bag he stole. I'll deal with him."

  "But the money—"

  "Forget about the money for now. Look after your mother. Do what you can to force her to bin the drugs. I have your number. I'll be in touch. But I need you to promise me you won't do anything stupid to try and get cash."

  Still shaking, he shook his head. His cheeks were wet with tears. "I've learned my lesson."

  "Good." Abbie released his hand. Leaned back. "Now, let me deal with this."

  He nodded. Abbie said, "One last question. This woman you mugged. Do you know who she was?"

  At this, Micheal released a bark of a laugh that drew the attention of the woman behind the counter. Renewed bitterness crossed his face.

  "I do now. If I'd known before, I don't think I'd have been stupid enough to get involved. Even though it was what Francis wanted."

  "Why?" Abbie asked. "Who was it?"

  Michael shook his head. "You won't believe it."

  "I'll try my best. Who did Francis want you to mug?"

  Michael gave a twisted, bitter smile.

  "His wife."

  Ten

  Abbie walked with Michael until she reached the street of Perfect Chicken, where he cut off to go home. Before he departed, she warned him again to avoid Travis, avoid anyone who worked for Francis, and to spend his time trying to convince his mother to give sobriety a go.

  Once he was gone, Abbie moved to the next street and extracted her car from the tiny gap she had trapped it in the previous evening.

  It was five minutes past midday. A quarter of Abbie’s time had now passed. At least a quarter, she should say. She had to get moving but couldn’t progress until she started the ball rolling on something else.

  Withdrawing her phone, she dialled a number she had years ago memorised and never wrote down anywhere. The phone rang three times, then an automated message responded.

  “Thank you for contacting SOMK Ltd. Your call is important to us. Unfortunately, there is presently no one available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.”

  Then the beep.

  “It’s Abbie. Your favourite consultant. I have an interesting project ready to go, which I think could be of huge benefit to your company. Could really take you to the next level. Cost would be twenty-five grand. Sterling. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

  She hung up. Dropped her phone into the bag. Dropped the bag on the seat at her side. How long before he called her back? And what would he have to say to her request when he did? No way would he give her 25k. That was her opening gambit. If she got ten, she’d be doing well. She feared he’d give nothing once he learning how she planned to use the cash.

  Thinking about it made her nervous. It was an unnecessary distraction. He would call when he called, and she would argue her case then.

  For the time being, she deleted the call from her phone log, turned to the address Michael had given her and set off towards Travis’ house.

  Travis’ home—or, more accurately, his parent’s home—was a sizeable five-bedroom residence. Detached with a double driveway and beautifully manicured lawn, it could only be the home of a wealthy family. Michael might have needed Francis’ payday to keep the wolves from the door; for Travis, it could only be about the thrill. The money was a bonus. Secondary.

  This eradicated any chance Abbie might sympathise with Travis’ decision to hold the bag to ransom rather than relinquish it to Francis at the allotted time for the agreed price. Travis was not desperate for funds. To him, this was a game. He wanted to get one over on the big dog.

  Clearly, Travis believed himself untouchable. Perhaps even immortal. Not an uncommon trait for teenagers born into wealth and subsequently spoiled. Money so often created arrogance, especially in those who had access to it but had not worked for it. Abbie wondered how long it would be before someone disabused Travis of this notion. And when they did, would Travis end up in hospital in possession of broken bones and a valuable life lesson, or in a graveyard before he had a chance to realise the error of his ways?

  Interesting, thought-provoking questions, none of which did Abbie have the time or the inclination to answer. She was here not because she wanted to protect Travis but to find out what might drive a man like Francis to pay a trio of teenagers to mug his wife, with the hope this might offer something she could use in her fight to protect Eddie.

  The double drive was empty. None the less, Abbie parked two streets away. Leaving her car out of the way, in the shade of a tree (not that there was much sun to cast a shadow on this grey day), she made her way back to Travis’ home.

  Still no cars in the drive. The street was quiet, but many people would be home on this drab Saturday. Some would be nosey. It was possible that, even now, she was being watched.

  Passing the front of the house, Abbie spied Travis through grand windows, lounging on the sofa in a living room that ran from one end of the house to the other. He had the telly up loud and looked half asleep. He might not have noticed had Abbie pulled open the window and tried to climb through. Still, he might not be home alone. Until she knew for sure, Abbie had to proceed with caution.

  Without his noticing, she passed the living room window and stepped onto the drive. Briefly, she considered knocking on the door and forcing him to tell her what she needed to know. Not a wise move if he wasn’t alone. Possibly not the best play even if he was. Abbie didn’t want to hurt Travis. Well, perhaps she was a little tempted, but her moral code forbade it. Better to try cut him out the loop altogether. Until she had no other choice.

  Passing the front door, Abbie crossed the double driveway on the diagonal. She neither hunched nor snuck but acted as though she had every right to be there, hoping that, if any nosy neighbour looked out, they would assume she was on Travis’ property by invitation and would not call the homeowners or the police.

  From the double driveway, Abbie stepped onto the side path and made her way to the side gate. It wasn’t locked. She turned the smooth, cold, metal ring and heard the bolt rise on the other side. Without glancing back, she pushed the gate open, stepped through, and closed it again, slotting the bolt back into place.

  From this side of the gate, Abbie could see much of the garden. Vibrant green grass and a border of flowers in all colours, shapes and sizes, bel
ied the winter sky above.

  Because Abbie was here to break and enter rather than offer a garden critique, she stepped away from the gate and to the corner of the house, which turned onto the back wall. From here, she could confirm the garden was empty. She turned the corner, putting her shoulder to the house wall. Ahead of her was a set of windows, then a door, then another set of windows. The second set of windows would offer a view into the living room, which ran from the entire length of the house. Abbie guessed the first set looked into the kitchen.

  Abbie could crawl under the window to reach the back door without being seen, but this would be a pointless move given the door no doubt opened into the kitchen. She would be heard by any occupants as she tried to pick the lock or seen if the door was open and she could walk right in. Also, crouching under the window would hurt her back.

  Before she reached the door, Abbie needed to know who was in the room.

  If it was a kitchen, the sink would be against the window. If anyone was washing the dishes or their hands, they would spot Abbie even if she only popped her head up for a split second. With that in mind, Abbie stepped away from the wall and put herself in full view of the window and whoever might be on its other side. If anyone was there, a brother or mother or father of Travis, Abbie would wave. The person in question would be shocked. Surprised. But there would be no fear once they got themselves together because murderers and burglars did not stand in the garden and wave at those in the house. That it was the middle of the day would also help Abbie in this regard, because murderers and burglars are like owls. They operate primarily at night. Abbie would still have to explain herself, but would be given more time to do so if the person to whom she was speaking did not fear she might be concealing in her bag a gun or other deadly weapon.

  In any case, it was irrelevant. Abbie stepped in front of the window and saw nothing but an empty kitchen. Keeping the non-threatening smile on her face in case anyone appeared, she proceeded on, past the window to the back door.