The Stranger

by Mark Ayre

  “Ed, I promise you, by the end of tomorrow,” she said, “Francis will have received everything that’s coming to him.”

  Twenty-Four

  Sunday morning, eight am.

  Abbie rose to two texts. The first from Bobby, confirming her suspicions. The second from Eddie. He and Francis were due to meet at one of Francis’ nightclubs at midday.

  Midday.

  In the years Abbie had been both receiving and acting upon her visions, the final confrontation, during which Abbie would either succeed or fail to save the person seen in her dream, had never happened on day one.

  Only two final confrontations had taken place before midday on day two; eighty per cent occurred after sundown.

  For this reason, it was harder to save lives in the winter than the summer, when sunset is several hours later. Also because summer clothes tended to leave more room for manoeuvre when battling to the death. And everything is easier when it’s warm.

  On 17th January 2021, in Abbie’s part of the world, sunset would take place at 15:52. Abbie hoped, before that point, she would have permanently dealt with Francis and could spend the day’s remainder vigilant but in relative comfort.

  If she survived.

  There were almost eight hours between now and the sun dropping beneath the horizon. All the time in the world for Francis to kill Eddie, but what seemed like virtually no time at all for Abbie to stop the crook.

  Sitting up, Abbie grabbed her phone and replied to Eddie, replied to Bobby, and texted Ben. By the time she returned from the shower, the latter two of these three had texted back.

  Bobby was curious; Abbie fobbed him off and felt guilty for doing so. Ben’s text said only 09.30, followed by a location, a car’s make, model and colour, and a seemingly random word: Sparrow. Rather than replying, Abbie deleted the text stream, pocketed her phone, grabbed her drawstring bag, and went out.

  09.30. Just over an hour away.

  In Abbie’s mind, a plan began to form. After meeting Ben’s man and receiving the delivered package, Abbie would visit the nightclub. It didn’t open until three in the afternoon. She hoped no staff would turn up as early as ten am and that Francis wouldn’t arrive to prepare for his meeting until eleven at the earliest.

  Breaking and entering would be easy. In less than fifteen minutes, Abbie could familiarise herself with the building’s layout and plan several strategies based on what she found. The package, collected from Ben, she would conceal within the building, somewhere she could easily reach it when the time was right.

  None of this worried her, because it relied only on her. Abbie trusted herself if no one else. Francis could be trusted to act in opposition to her, and for his resistance, Abbie would prepare.

  Eddie was the last potentially controllable piece on the board. Someone who could be either asset or obstacle, depending on how he acted in the critical confrontation. If possible, Abbie would ensure he was not there when it went down. Something told her she would not get so lucky.

  Last night, before they parted, Abbie should have taken the time to run Eddie through several possible scenarios for the day to come and what would be expected of him in each. Usually, she would have. But she was angry following their discussions surrounding Leona’s pregnancy. Danny was dead. Eddie was the child’s closest family beyond the mother. Abbie had hoped he would step up when faced with the prospect of the cruel Leona, who he wanted to kill, raising his kin. When he had refused, she had wanted to part from him as soon as possible.

  Now he wouldn’t reply to her texts. When she phoned, he didn’t answer.

  Showing great restraint, she did not hurl her phone against the wall. Grabbing her drawstring bag and chucking the phone inside, she left.

  An hour until she was due to meet Ben’s guy.

  Time enough to knock Eddie into shape.

  At 8.45, Abbie knocked on Eddie’s door. What felt like an hour later, Jess answered; huffing, puffing, one hand on her lower back, the other clinging to the door.

  Before Abbie could speak, Jess said, “Thank God you’re here. I need you to get me out of these jeans.”

  “Eddie not here?” Abbie asked, trying to play it off as casual interest. Not that Jess would have noticed as she struggled up the stairs. Abbie’s hand was on the pregnant woman’s back, praying Jess didn’t fall, unsure she could keep the mother-to-be up if she did.

  “Went out this morning. For a walk, he said. But I could see something was wrong. Of course something’s wrong. He’s not been himself since Danny died, and I don’t know when he’ll be himself again. Why should he be? But I’m three days overdue, and all I can think is: what kind of father will Eddie be at the moment, with the spectre of Danny hanging over his shoulder? God, he’s just lost his brother, and that’s what I’m worried about. Selfish bitch, right?”

  “Not at all,” said Abbie as they reached the top of the stairs without falling. “You’re not worried about yourself but about your baby. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing. That’s a mother’s job.”

  Jess caught Abbie’s eyes as they moved from the rounded stomach. The mother-to-be’s cheeks flushed with guilt.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about this.”

  Abbie forced a smile. “Don’t worry about me. Now, these jeans…”

  They moved into Jess’ bedroom, where the almost-mum dropped onto the mattress with a puff of air. The bed was a king and dominated the room. Cramped in one corner was a wardrobe. There were two bedside tables, a narrow chest of drawers and very little floor space. Swinging a cat would be out of the question and not just on cruelty grounds.

  “Shouldn’t have put them on,” Jess said, referencing the jeans. “Why would I put them on? Baby could come today or tomorrow. Whenever. I should be in comfortable, loose-fitting clothing until at least after I’ve given birth. Don’t know what came over me.”

  “I get it,” said Abbie. “Been a long time since you felt normal, right? Pregnancy, sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad. But it’s never normal. Jeans are normal, so you think, if you can squeeze into them, maybe you’ll feel normal too. I remember that.”

  Jess opened her mouth. Closed it again. Having learned that Abbie had lost her baby, Jess had made the natural assumption that she had miscarried within the first trimester. Because that was when most miscarriages happened. But, of course, some happened later. As it went, Abbie hadn’t miscarried at all. It had been past that point.

  “I was a couple of weeks from full-term,” said Abbie. “I remember it all.”

  Jess put her hand to her mouth. Tears sprung into her eyes. Abbie wasn’t sure why she had said it. If only Eddie would come home. Then Abbie could get on with saving his life.

  Until then: “Jeans. Get them off. Where are your comfortable clothes?”

  Fighting the tears, dragging her hand from her mouth, Jess pointed to the wardrobe.

  “There’s a box at the bottom on the right side,” said Jess. “Loads of comfy clothes in there. You’re looking for a pair of loose trousers, halfway between pyjama bottoms and tracksuit. They have flowers around the waistline.”

  To open the wardrobe, Abbie had to turn away from the bed, from Jess. As she went to her knees in front of the mentioned box, she heard Jess sniff, then dry her eyes.

  As Abbie started routing through the box, Jess said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Blinking heavily, rapidly, Abbie didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. If she ignored it, maybe Jess’ sympathy and sadness would go away.

  The box was deep and packed tight with what appeared to be hundreds of comfortable clothing items, 99% of which must have been bought pre-pregnancy and none of which were what Jess had requested.

  While Abbie made her way through the pile, Jess shifted, uncomfortable, worried about something. Abbie had a nervous feeling she might soon need to make a decision.

  “I didn’t think Eddie would be gone this long,” Jess said at last, As Abbie reached the halfway point of the
box, moving into musty clothing territory. Clothing that needed airing out and washing or, more likely, binning.

  “He was out last night, too. A couple of hours around midnight. Told me he couldn’t sleep—a nightmare. I told him I’d happily come downstairs, and we could chat, or watch telly, or whatever, but he said I needed to sleep. And he needed to go out.”

  Three-quarters of the way down the box, Abbie’s hand became tangled in some tights and through the leg of a pair of boxers. Momentarily fearful she might find herself permanently trapped in this box in this wardrobe, Abbie had to restrict a yelp. This was stupid. She needed to calm down. Stupid Jess and her stupid questions, causing agitation.

  “When he came home,” Jess continued. “I was still awake. I asked if the walk had done him good, and he said it had. I don’t know if he thinks me an idiot or if he was too worked up to see, but he was worse than ever. His hands kept working, balling into fists and straightening. His skin was pale, and he couldn’t get to sleep. I’m sure he tossed and turned all night.”

  90% of the way through the box, Abbie paused. The question was coming. Abbie hadn’t yet decided how she should answer. Was there any option other than honesty?

  “Do you know where he was, Abbie?”

  Abbie closed her eyes. Until the last second, she had held some hope Jess would not ask, although she was always going to. And it could only get worse.

  “Was he with you? I did wonder when I saw him talking to you by your car when you left here yesterday. Did he ask to meet you?”

  Slowly, trying to make it last, Abbie continued to work her way through the box.

  “I don’t think you’re having an affair,” said Jess, but Abbie had known that. This wasn’t about cheating but lies. How much trouble did Abbie want to get Eddie in?

  “Abbie,” Jess pressed. “He’s the father of my baby. I need to know.”

  95% of the way through the box, Abbie paused again, and this time turned back to Jess. Removing her hand from the box, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded card.

  “I was with him,” she said. “He took me to a house he said belonged to Leona Roberts.”

  Jess gasped.

  “Well,” said Abbie. “It was a bungalow.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Jess. And Abbie resisted the urged to explain what a bungalow was. Rising, she moved to the bed and showed Jess the folded card, keeping it just out of reach.

  “Danny was sleeping with Leona. She convinced him to steal Francis’ money and then stole it off him. Eddie blames her, possibly rightly, for Danny’s death.”

  “Oh my God,” said Jess. “Was he going to—“

  “Whatever he was going to do,” said Abbie, cutting Jess off before the worried wife could begin theorising. “This stopped him. It was stolen from Leona’s bag.”

  Not sure if this was the right move, Abbie dropped the card on the bed and returned to the box. As she started working her way back to where she had stopped, Jess opened the card and let out a cry.

  “Danny’s?” she asked.

  “We believe so.”

  “Oh my God,” Jess said again. “What did Eddie say when he saw this?”

  Happy, this time, to dodge the truth, Abbie said, “He couldn’t process it. He went straight home.”

  Jess didn’t respond. Abbie returned to where she had left the box and pushed right through, searching for those trousers.

  At the very bottom, she pulled free an item of nightwear that was frilly, lacy, and see-through. A personal item of clothing Abbie was not supposed to have seen.

  “I don’t think your trousers are here,” she said to Jess, still staring at the lingerie.

  From over Abbie’s shoulder, Jess could see the item in her acquaintance’s hand. It was difficult to miss.

  “Oh, that,” said Jess, and Abbie could almost hear the flush enter her cheeks. “Eddie bought it for me. I’ve never worn it. Not really my style.”

  “Can’t imagine it would be anyone’s style,” muttered Abbie.

  Pushing the item back to the bottom of the box, Abbie said, “I don’t think your trousers are here.” Rising, she noted something at the foot of the bed. Nodded. “That them?”

  With some effort, Jess forced herself back to a sitting position. If her cheeks hadn’t already have been flushed after Abbie’s discovery in the comfortable clothing box, they would have flushed now.

  “Pregnancy brain,” she said.

  Abbie wondered. Had Jess forgotten where the trousers were, or was the box search a ploy to keep Abbie still while Jess asked the difficult questions?

  Nodding, as though she believed the excuse, Abbie grabbed the trousers and passed them to Jess. The mum-to-be put them to one side and started trying to remove her jeans. There was much heaving and puffing and sweating. It was difficult to watch.

  “Let me help with that.”

  As Jess muttered an embarrassed thank you, Abbie went down in front of the bed to assist Jess in undressing. While she worked, she caught the soon-to-be mother’s expression.

  “What?” Abbie asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Abbie shook her head. Let it go.

  Jess couldn’t.

  “I don’t know how you cope.”

  “They’re not that tight.”

  “Not the jeans,” said Jess. “I’m pregnant, and you’ve put up with me. Then you see this ultrasound and deal with Eddie, and all the time you have your…”

  Jess trailed off. Abbie looked into those wide, stricken eyes and could have slapped the mother-to-be.

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Sorry,” said Jess, looking away. “I didn’t mean to look at you like anything. “

  “It was twelve years ago,” said Abbie. “Every day, it hurts like hell. I’ll never get over it. But your pity won’t bring back my baby.”

  Jess hung her head.

  “You’re right. I’m so sorry.”

  Guilt crept over Abbie. She felt like shit. She put a hand on Jess’ shoulder.

  “Forget it.” She looked to the comfortable trousers at Jess’ side. “You need help with those?”

  Jess shook her head.

  “What are you going to do about that?” Abbie said, pointing at the ultrasound beside Jess.

  “I don’t know. When Eddie comes back, we’ve a discussion to have.”

  Abbie nodded. She didn’t know if she had made the right decision. This might impact Eddie’s ability to play ball later, but instinct had told her to be honest, and she always tried to trust her instinct.

  For now, for Abbie, there was no more to talk about.

  “Want a drink?” she asked Jess. “I can do hot chocolate.”

  That drew a smile, but Jess said, “Water is fine.”

  Nodding, Abbie disappeared into the hall. Pressing her head against the wall, she took a deep breath and prayed Eddie would arrive soon. Every second spent in the presence of that bump tore her heart into more and smaller pieces. She needed to escape.

  Emotional turmoil aside, Abbie needed Eddie to arrive before she left to collect the package from Ben. If he didn’t, if Abbie didn’t get a chance to speak to him before midday, she had no idea what he would do during the end game.

  She was building something. Her plan to destroy Francis was a precarious house of cards. One piece out of place, and the whole tower could come tumbling down.

  And if that happened, it wasn’t just her and Eddie who were done for.

  Twenty-Five

  By 9.10, Eddie hadn’t shown, and Abbie had no choice but to leave to ensure she made her meeting with Ben’s man.

  At 9.20, she left her car two streets from where the meet was due to take place. After locking the door, she stretched, working a kink out of her back. Then two meaty hands appeared out of nowhere, grabbed her hair, and smashed her face into her car’s roof.

  Unacceptable, unbelievable.

  Spinning, ringing, blurring.

  Some sense of that big
, meaty hand, still in her hair. Another hand, just like the first, in the small of her back. Pulling her head and shoving her spine. Pressing her pelvis into the side of her car and bringing her face beside his.

  Already, the dizziness was fading, the world returning to focus. That Abbie could taste no blood indicated her nose was intact. That was good.

  The clearer her head felt, the more her scalp began to cry out as her hair was pulled tighter and tighter. The palm in her back became the knuckles of those meaty fingers, pressing into the spine and pushing, sending waves of pain up her back.

  The breath of her assailant was minty fresh. Not a surprise. People often assumed the dental hygiene of petty criminals and hired muscle was below par. Not so, in Abbie’s experience. Most brushed twice a day, morning and night, just like the rest of us.

  Still, his knuckles pushed further into her back. His hand tugged harder at her hair until she started to wish she was bald and wore a wig. What a surprise if her hair flew away. Her assailant would have lost his balance. Abbie would have the upper hand.

  A low chuckle from her attacker. The bristles on his cheeks tickled her smooth skin. Somehow, the pain, which was fast nearing excruciating levels, did not override and make meaningless the sensation.

  Revealing his identity, her assailant said, “Oops, forgot flowers again,” and swung her forward, face first, for the second time towards the car’s roof.

  Swinging her free arms around, Abbie placed one hand over the other atop the car, so her face hit flesh rather than metal.

  Still hurt like hell. Nowhere near as bad as it could have.

  As soon as Abbie made impact, she retracted her hands, grabbing Ronson’s wrists at her skull and spine. Placing a foot on the car, she kicked back while twisting at the waist and yanking Ronson’s wrists in opposite directions.

  He was strong. Though Abbie took him by surprise, she could dislodge only one of his hands. As soon as his knuckles slid off her spine, Abbie released that wrist and elbowed Ronson’s kidney.