The Stranger

by Mark Ayre

  “I’m still not sure I trust you, mind,” the cop said at the door. “But, according to Jessica Dean, if not for you, the kid might have killed both her and Eddie, and we know for sure your actions saved Mr Dean’s life.”

  “More’s the pity,” muttered Abbie.

  “Well, maybe keep comments like that to yourself, eh?”

  Abbie nodded, but the move was non-committal. She wanted to move on. To get away. After all, if Sanderson didn’t trust her now, how would he feel once the bodies of Francis and his henchmen were found? If they were found.

  After knocking on the door, she placed a hand on the smooth wood and prepared to push. Before she could, Sanderson lay a hand on her shoulder.

  “Five minutes, okay? No more. I’ll be out here.”

  Abbie nodded. Shoved the door. Went inside.

  In the private room, Michael lay in one of the more comfortable hospital beds Abbie had seen in her lifetime. In one corner of the room was a pot of flowers. On the wall was a telly, turned off. A door across the room led into a tiny en-suite. A single window offered views but no access to the outside world. It was both locked and too small to fit through. Because of this, and because there was a cop stationed outside Michael’s door at all times, he wasn’t cuffed to the bed. Not that anyone believed he was an escape risk in any case.

  Upon entering the room, Abbie at first waited by the door. Michael had taken a second to see who had arrived when she stepped in, then had returned to lying flat on his back, his arms by his side, his head twisted towards the wall, looking away from where Abbie stood and from where anyone else might enter to see him.

  After a minute of waiting, Abbie left the door and crossed the room, taking a seat in the padded chair situated by his bed. On the bedside table were a plastic jug and two plastic cups. The pitcher was three-quarters filled with water. If there had ever been ice, the cubes had melted since the drink had been delivered.

  “How are you feeling?” Abbie asked. She was on the side of the bed Michael was facing away from and could only see the back of his head. She fought the urge to stroke his hair.

  “Stupid question, I suppose,” she said. “You must be awash with grief, with guilt. You probably hate yourself right now. You definitely hate your father. All those things are understandable. They’re okay, too. I know how you feel.”

  Michael gave a strange snort. “Yeah, right.”

  “Ah, yes, you’re a teenager, and when bad events happen in a teenager’s life, they are bound by the pact of adolescence to assume said event has happened only to them. No adults have experienced dark times, and, oh my God, don’t I sound like an old person? That’s a horrible turn of events.”

  Slowly, as though it was mounted on a rusty hinge, Micheal’s head turned to face Abbie. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes asked the question she had expected.

  “By the time I was a few years older than you,” said Abbie, “I had lost my baby days before it was due to be born and seen my brother go to prison for assaulting and hospitalising one of the people who raped me. Naturally, I believed I had suffered more than any one person should in a lifetime and that I was therefore done. It would be plain sailing for the rest of my life because that was fair. But as you’ve known since before you could walk or talk, life isn’t fair. And just when I thought the pain could get no worse, I lost the last thing that meant anything to me in my crappy little life. My beautiful sister, Violet.”

  Abbie reached for the jug on Michael’s bedside table to distract herself from the image of her little sister, which flashed into her mind. As she took it, she looked at Michael.

  “Do you mind?”

  He shook his head. Abbie poured a helping of water into one of the cups. Gestured to the other with the jug.

  “Want one?”

  “No,” said Michael. “Thank you.”

  Abbie nodded. Replaced the jug and collected her glass. She sipped and found it was as warm as expected. Not nice, but a semi-decent distraction.

  “How is my sister’s death relevant?” Abbie mused. “Because it led to a furious fight between my mother and me. A fight in which she might have killed me with a kitchen knife if I hadn’t wrestled it from her and knocked her down. Standing over her, losing blood but as full of hate as ever I would be, I wanted to kill her. If I had taken the decision to, there would have been nothing my mother could have done to stop me.” Abbie glanced at Michael over her glass. “But I didn’t. As you didn’t. But now you know, however shit your experiences, you’re never the only one to have suffered them. What’s that saying? There’s nothing new under the sun. So true.”

  For a little while, Michael watched Abbie drinking. There were tears in his eyes. She knew he wanted to say something that might comfort or appease her after his initial comments, but what would that something be? Abbie knew there was nothing, so didn’t mind when he looked to the ceiling, dried his eyes, and returned to his own pain.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to live with it.”

  Abbie knew Michael wasn’t referring to Eddie.

  “At first,” he said, “I didn’t feel anything. I went on as normal, and that was fine. Then yesterday, when I got that gun, it all came apart. I fell to pieces. I felt lost, then, suddenly, it clicked. I blamed Eddie, and I blamed myself, so the answer was simple. I’d kill us both, and that would make it right. But I didn’t kill Eddie, then I couldn’t kill myself. Even if you hadn’t stopped me. I knew it the moment I put the gun to my head. So what do I do now?”

  Abbie had killed plenty of people. Most of them deserved it. Some were borderline. At least one didn’t. Even those who deserved to die had left families behind. Some of the most abhorrent people insulated their children from their true selves. Some of them loved and cherished their families. Abbie knew how it felt to lose a sister and baby, yet how many siblings, children, spouses had she left without their loved ones?

  Possibly, Abbie could have lied to the boy. What use would that have been?

  She said, “You suffer.”

  Michael looked at her with big doe eyes. They might have been begging her to say something else. Anything else. But Abbie couldn’t.

  “You’ll spend your days trying to distract yourself from the nasty thoughts that never leave you alone. Your nights will feel near impossible for a long time. Expect insomnia to be your friend. Expect eight-hour stretches, which feel more like eight-day stretches, spent lying on a mattress, tormenting yourself with the memories of what you’ve done. You’re going to suffer. You took the life of an innocent man. You should suffer.”

  Replacing her glass on the table, Abbie leaned forward and clasped Michael’s arm.

  “You’re going to prison,” she said. “But nothing they do to you in there will be a fraction as bad as what you’ll do to yourself in here—“ she tapped Michael’s head. “I don’t tell you that to scare you or to make you think life isn’t worth living because I believe it is. I believe life is always worth living, even in prison, and even haunted by what you’ve done. Because it’s never too late to make amends. Nothing is preventing you from improving yourself behind bars. Take your suffering and use it; let it drive you to be a better person.”

  There was a knock on the door. Abbie rose, knowing Sanderson would enter any second to break up this party.

  “I don’t believe in balancing the scales,” said Abbie. “I don’t believe any good deed can erase the bad. You will always have killed Danny; you’ll never make up for it, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take every opportunity you can to improve the lives of others. To make yourself a person of whom you can be proud. I don’t think I’ll ever see you again, so this is up to you. But I hope to hell you don’t let yourself down. And I hope you don’t let Danny’s memory down either.”

  The door opened. Sanderson stepped inside. Abbie turned to meet him, and, as she did, she saw Michael’s hand raise. Turning, Abbie took it. She offered the boy a sad smile, and he offered the same in return.

  Cry
ing now, he said, “Thank you.”

  Smiling but holding back her own tears, Abbie nodded, squeezed Michael’s hand, and left the messed-up teen alone in his bed to suffer for what he’d done and to await whatever punishment was coming his way.

  Thirty-Five

  Before leaving the hospital, Abbie visited the maternity ward. Through the narrow window in one of a row of doors, Abbie observed one of the world's newest mums.

  Jess' skin shined with sweat. Her expression and frame indicated utter exhaustion. In her eyes, there was the deep, endless sadness of loss. The loss of the man she had loved, who might as well have been dead, replaced by the liar, the cheat, the coward who she would have to decide whether to allow into her newborn's life. Having committed no crimes, Eddie would be free to leave the hospital as soon as his shoulder wound had recovered. What happened next would be up to Jess.

  Despite the exhaustion and the loss, there was something else to be seen in Jess. A glimmer of hope. Because no matter what had happened to her on this day, something wonderful had also taken place. She had given birth to her first child.

  Abbie watched as Jess cradled the tiny bundle in her arms. As she managed a smile for the little person despite the pain she had endured. Jess might have to tackle motherhood alone, but Abbie felt sure she would cope. Her baby would grow up happy, healthy, loved.

  A hand on the door, Abbie almost knocked and went in. As she looked down, she noticed her other hand was on her stomach, massaging a bump that had been gone over a decade. There were tears in her eyes; she would be unable to cope if she went inside. She would weep uncontrollably, and her loss, plain for Jess to see, would be yet another anchor of misery weighing down the new mum's glimmer of hope, which was already fighting to stay afloat.

  Unable to put either herself or Jess through any more pain than was necessary, Abbie took her hand from the door, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and left the hospital.

  In the fading darkness of early morning, Abbie leaned against a railing covered in chipped red paint. Behind her was one wall of the hospital. Ahead, a segment of carpark. Keeping her drawstring bag over her shoulder and placing the cash bag between her feet, Abbie breathed in the cold air, clearing her lungs and thoughts. And she waited.

  Ten minutes after Abbie stepped outside, Bobby arrived. She watched him walk onto the lot and weave through the cars, casting his eyes to the hospital. When he caught sight of Abbie, he raised a hand in greeting, then jogged to and up the steps onto the raised section on which Abbie stood.

  "Are you not cold?" he asked as he arrived and placed his hands on the railing beside her. He wore cargo trousers and a thick jacket atop an even thicker jumper. On his hands, he wore gloves and atop his head was a woolly hat. Conversely, Abbie wore jeans that left her ankles exposed and a jumper that was not much thicker than the t-shirt beneath it.

  "A little," she said, then raised a hand. "Don't offer me your coat."

  Bobby had already grabbed the jacket to remove it. Flushing a little, he dropped his hands by his side, then placed them back on the railing. He looked a little awkward and a little downbeat. Abbie sighed into the cold air.

  "I'm not staying long," she said. "My car's over there."

  She pointed. Bobby followed her finger. Nodded. Abbie looked at the man at her side. The only man to take her on a date in who knew how long. The only man to kiss her.

  "That's a cute bobble," she said, pointing to the top of Bobby’s woolly hat. Self-consciously, his hand rose to the top of the hat, and he flushed again. But he relaxed when he saw her smile. Realised she wasn't teasing.

  "I'm a cute person," he said.

  "You are," Abbie agreed. "But are you a good one?"

  This earned her a curious look. Abbie met Bobby's eye but offered no follow up comment.

  "Haven't you formed an opinion on that yet?" he asked.

  "I had. But of late, my opinions have seemed to bear little relation to reality."

  Another curious look. Bobby didn't know what Abbie was getting at. Why would he?

  "I went after Francis to help three people," said Abbie. "Now Francis is gone, and I learn, of those three, one is a child abandoning, lying, cheating, arsehole. A coward who cares only for himself. Another is a messed up kid who murdered his uncle and will now spend years in jail." She looked at Bobby. "That leaves you."

  He was staring at her. Wide eyes filled with fear and something that resembled wonder. Abbie knew on which point he was hung up.

  "Francis was a monster," she said. "Best not to worry about what happened to him and instead focus on the positive: he won't be bothering you or your father any longer. Someone might take over his little empire, but your debt was personal to Francis and Leona and so will be forgotten."

  Bobby was almost afraid to ask the next question. Forced himself to proceed. "Leona's gone too?"

  Abbie jerked a thumb back to the hospital.

  "Our cheating liar, the one I mentioned earlier, knocked Leona up. Our uncle killer then accidentally put a bullet in her hip. Both she and baby will be okay, but the police are after her for another teen's murder. Leona'll fear going to jail and losing the kid. If she can, she'll flee town ASAP. Hence, I think your debt is gone. But you still haven't answered my question."

  They stood side by side in the cold, Bobby processing Abbie's Francis implication. Trying to decide whether to push it further. Eventually, he let it slide.

  "I've never rescued a stray dog or saved a kid from a burning building. Don't give much to charity. But I like to think I'm a good person."

  "Can you convince me?"

  "No," he said without hesitation. "I can offer you only my word."

  "Good," said Abbie. "I'd be deeply suspicious of someone who said they could prove they were good on the spot."

  From between her feet, Abbie grabbed the bag of money and dumped it into Bobby's hands. He stared at the canvas but made no move to unzip the top.

  "I'd like to hire you to do some good deeds."

  "Good deeds?" said Bobby. Bemused. A little worried. "What's in the bag?"

  Abbie tapped it. "Not padlocked, is it? Why don't you look?"

  Bobby moved his hand to the zip. Hesitated. Took a breath and forced himself to peek. When he saw the rolls of cash, he took another deep breath. Abbie thought he might faint.

  "How much here?"

  "Eighty grand."

  Bobby let out a low whistle. Fainting was not yet out of the question.

  "And this money belonged to—"

  "The money belongs to me," said Abbie. Finders keepers, losers weepers. "I want to give a chunk of it to you. In return, these good deeds I mentioned."

  "And they are?"

  "Details are in the top of the bag, on that pad of paper," she pointed. "In short, I'd like you to offer to clear a drug addict's debts and try convince her to enter a rehab program; send a small recurring payment into prison for a boy named Michael; and keep an eye on a new mum named Jessica Dean, who's going to need plenty of support. You do all that; the rest of the money is yours. Use it to rebuild your life, give it to charity, or burn it. Whatever you want. I need only believe you'll carry out the tasks on here."

  She tapped the pad Bobby had removed from the bag. On it, Abbie had written several pages of detail and specific instructions to ensure Bobby, if he wanted to help, couldn't go wrong.

  Bobby stared at the list for a long time. After a while, Abbie removed her hands from the railing and rubbed her arms.

  "Alright, it's bloody cold out here; why don't you just give me an answer so I can go?"

  Bobby looked from the list to Abbie as though he had forgotten she was there. After a second of adjusting to her presence, he nodded.

  "I'll do it. Of course I'll do it. Thank you."

  "Great," said Abbie, and suddenly a hateful wave of awkwardness washed over her, and she could do no more than pat Bobby on the arm. "Nice knowing you."

  She stepped past him. Walked towards the steps Bobby had come up.


  As she went, he said, "It's been amazing knowing you. And I think you're an incredible person."

  A couple of paces from the steps, Abbie stopped. There were tears in her eyes again. How pathetic was that?"

  "Only a fool could mistake me for incredible."

  "Then call me a fool because from what I can see, you've freed this town from the clutches of a monster and, rather than taking eighty grand as payment for the job, you're dishing it out amongst those you feel need it. You don't think that's pretty amazing?"

  Still facing away from Bobby, Abbie dried her eyes. She took a deep breath to give herself the strength to walk away, then spun on her heel and returned to Bobby. From his hand, she took the pad, ripping free a sheet of paper, and from her pocket, she took her phone. With a pen from her drawstring bag, Abbie referenced her phone and began to write on the sheet of paper.

  "What are you doing?" asked Bobby.

  Abbie finished writing, put the pen away, and turned the paper to allow Bobby to see what she had written.

  "That's my phone number," he said.

  "Nothing gets past you."

  "But... why?"

  Folding the sheet, Abbie slid it into her pocket. Her phone, she showed to Bobby.

  "After I leave town, I'll destroy this phone," she said. "Tomorrow, someone will send me another. New handset, new sim, new number. Any contacts I've accrued over these last couple of days will be gone." She patted her pocket, where she had slid his number. "This won't be."

  "You're going to call me?" he asked. Was that hope she heard in his voice?

  "Don't know," said Abbie. "I might text. I'll understand if you don't reply. Given what I said about Francis."

  "I thought you didn't keep contact with anyone from the towns you left behind?"

  "I didn't."

  The wind whipped across them, making Abbie shiver. As she went to cover her arms, Bobby did it for her. Leaning in, he kissed her. When he pulled away, he was smiling.

  "I'll reply," he said.