A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I’m taken back out of the conversation by the beeping of my phone as I scramble into my bag to shut it up. It’s buried underneath the envelope of money, but, by the time I get to it, all that’s on the screen is another missed call from ‘unknown’.

  ‘My friend’s dog-sitting,’ I say, holding up my phone. It’s not quite a lie. Karen is keeping an eye on Billy – but it has nothing to do with the phone in my hand.

  Harry asks if everything is okay and I tell him it is.

  After that, the food finally arrives. We eat and we chat. I find myself trying to listen to him, while compulsively adding up what each mouthful of food costs. Aside from that, it’s all very pleasant. Very… normal. It feels as if I’ve got rid of the madness and, now it’s in the open, I can attempt to be a human being capable of having conversations about the weather and whatever else it is people talk about.

  I sometimes think most of the struggle in being an adult is maintaining that fraudulent face of normality. If others knew half the mad things that jump into a person’s thoughts, everyone would be single and have no friends.

  I take my time with the food – it’s the most I’ve eaten in one go for weeks. Harry finishes first, but that’s fine because he’s telling me about the American states he’s visited through the course of his work. It’s the kind of thing I used to dream about, perhaps even plan. I wonder if I ever told Ben about it. There was always something about the top-down road trip of Hollywood movies that seemed so romantically appealing, even if real life would make that impossible because of the heat and wind. Then life gets in the way and, before anyone knows what’s going on, existence is a one-bedroom flat and forty-hours-a-week on a checkout till.

  The waiter returns and removes our plates, before asking about dessert. My mouth waters and I so want to say yes – but it’s an extravagance too far. Harry has no such reservations, opting for some cherry-chocolate thing and specifically asking for two spoons.

  We sit for a few moments, neither quite sure what to say.

  It’s Harry who breaks first. He angles his head towards the street. ‘Would you like to do this again?’ he asks.

  If I’m honest, it’s not felt like a date; more a meal out with a colleague. That’s my fault, of course. I’ve never been a big believer in the fairy-tale world of love at first sight and butterflies in the stomach. I’m not sure if I think soulmates are a real thing, either. I never had that with Ben, nor with anyone else. I didn’t feel it when I first saw Harry, or when we shook hands. It might be me. I know that.

  ‘Sure,’ I reply, almost through politeness. It should be him that’s running for the hills, who’s texting mates to say, ‘I ended up with a right basket case tonight’. It feels wrong that he’s asking about a second date and I’m the one who doesn’t know.

  He claps his hands together softly and breaks into a grin. ‘Fantastic. How about this week? There’s a big bonfire out at—’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘It’s Billy. He’s scared of the bangs and people will be setting fireworks off all week. I can’t leave him alone.’

  Harry scratches a little behind his ear. ‘I’d invite you over to my apartment – you and Billy – it’s just off Livingstone Street, but there’s the no pets rule.’

  There’s a moment in which I could be honest, say I’m not sure I’m ready for all this. And yet, if I don’t believe in love at first sight and all that, then it follows that it would take a few meetings to get to know someone.

  ‘I suppose you could come to mine,’ I say, instantly panicking that he’ll see my one-room bedsit and figure out that I really am a lost cause.

  ‘I don’t want to intrude,’ he says.

  ‘It’s fine. We can figure out a day later in the week.’

  ‘Great! I’ll bring dessert…’ He pauses. ‘And wine!’

  The waiter chooses this moment to return with Harry’s cherry-chocolate thing and the two requested spoons. Harry forces me to try a bit and it’s hard not to feel a stupid sense of longing that this is the kind of life I’ve not been able to lead. It’s not much to ask for, is it? The odd meal out without hyperventilating over how much it might cost.

  By the time we finish eating, the restaurant has almost cleared. Hours have passed and I’ve barely noticed. I ask Harry to tell me more about the states he’s visited and it’s nice to listen to someone else talk. He claims he drove through a place called Bald Knob in West Virginia – although it sounds suspiciously made up.

  The spell is broken when the waiter arrives with a bill.

  Perhaps Harry’s one of those gentleman-types who wants to pay for everything, or maybe he senses the intake of breath I take.

  ‘I’m paying,’ he says firmly, reaching for the leather card.

  ‘I should pay my half,’ I reply.

  He picks the paper out from the little booklet and waves the waiter back. ‘I insist.’

  I should let it lie. Not everything has to be a tug of X chromosome versus Y. Of feminism against patriarchy. Sometimes, one person can buy another a meal and that’s the end of it. I can’t stop myself, however. I know I’ve only spent fourteen pounds on the pasta, but before Harry can get his credit card out of his wallet, I’ve plucked a twenty-pound note from the envelope in my bag and dropped it on the table.

  ‘That’s my share,’ I say.

  He frowns at the money and then at me. ‘You’re not going to let me pay, are you?’ he says.

  ‘No.’

  Chapter Eight

  It’s gone eleven as I make my way down the stone steps of Hamilton House in my socks. I’ve always done my laundry late, mainly because it lowers the chances of running into anyone else. There’s also a strange, melodic peace about the rumble of the machines that makes me feel tired enough to sleep.

  I’m not even on the ground floor when the thumping beat of someone’s terrible music infects my ears. Why is it always the people with appalling taste who feel the need to crank up the volume?

  It’s coming from the door at the opposite end of the corridor from the laundry room, so I sigh in my very British way and ignore it.

  The laundry room itself is more of a large cupboard, with two washers, a single dryer and twine that’s been looped around the light fittings to create something close to a washing line. There’s not really room for more than one person, which is why there’s a small yelp of alarm as I push my way inside.

  ‘Oh,’ a woman’s voice says, ‘it’s you.’

  Vicky is a single mother who lives on the ground floor. She has short blonde hair in a pixie style that I’d never be brave enough to try to pull off, as well as a ring through her septum. She’s so tiny that it’s hard to believe she gave birth relatively recently. We’ve occasionally played cards together or shared well-thumbed paperbacks.

  She glances across to where a crib is blocking the dryer. ‘Sorry,’ she adds. ‘I didn’t think anyone would want to do their washing this late.’ She yawns and it’s immediately infectious as I find myself doing the same. We smile through watery eyes to one another.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  Vicky rubs her eyes and fights another yawn. ‘Mark’s having a party next door to me and Yasmine can’t sleep. I brought her in here. I think she likes the hum of the water going through the pipes.

  I peep towards the crib, where Yasmine is bundled under a series of blankets, her eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling. It’s hard not to envy the peace and beautiful unawareness.

  ‘Do you think she’d mind if I put the washer on?’ I ask.

  Vicky laughs and it’s so wholesome, so full of charm, that it’s hard not to join in.

  ‘You can ask her if you want,’ she replies. ‘But I don’t mind. The clocks go back tonight anyway, so we all get an extra hour’s sleep.’

  I take my dirty clothes out of the bag and cram them into the washer, before pushing two fifty-pence pieces into the slot to set it going. The resealed envelope of money is left at the bottom of the bag and I fold the mater
ial around it. I don’t like letting it out of my sight.

  I’d almost missed what she said but reply with an unsure: ‘The clocks go back?’

  ‘Mum messaged me on Facebook earlier. I didn’t know. I never know if they’re going forward, back, or whatever.’

  I think that’s probably true of everyone. The only thing of which we can be sure is that they’re definitely going back or forward an hour. I nod up to Karen’s party poster that’s stuck to the back of the door. ‘Are you going?’ I ask.

  The smile has left Vicky’s face. She’s resting her elbows on her knees and doesn’t look up. ‘I have no money,’ she says, bigger things on her mind. ‘They’ve stopped my benefits again.’

  ‘Why?’

  She holds both palms up. ‘I had to turn down a job because the hours were all over the place. It would’ve cost too much to put Yasmine into care. I’d have ended up losing money overall, plus seeing less of her. I couldn’t afford to take it – but when I turned it down, they stopped the benefits. I was screwed either way.’ Vicky rubs her eyes and sighs once more. ‘Rent’s due on Monday,’ she adds. ‘Do you think Lauren will give me a couple of weeks?’

  I want to be supportive but I’ve been living here long enough to know that Lauren is only acting on behalf of the building’s owner. Rent extensions do not come often.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘How short are you?’

  ‘A hundred. I’ve got the rest. I’m hoping I’ll be able to scramble something together.’ She nods at the crib. ‘Her dad’s behind on maintenance and my Mum’s always saying she’ll help.’ Vicky huffs out a long breath but doesn’t need to say it. There’s defeat in going back to parents, or asking for money – if only in perception.

  We’re interrupted as the music from down the hallway is nudged up a notch and starts to battle with the washer for dominance. Yasmine rolls over in her crib and there’s a moment in which it feels as if she’s going to open her eyes. I can sense Vicky holding her breath until her child settles once more.

  ‘I’ll have a word,’ I say, indicating the corridor.

  It takes three separate knocks until Mark opens his door.

  It’s not that Mark and I have never got on, more that we’ve barely exchanged anything other than a glance to acknowledge we recognise one another. Sometimes people know when they have nothing in common. When he first moved in, he was carrying a life-sized cardboard cut-out of some semi-naked model under his arm and I knew then we were very different people. He’s tall and broad, the type of person who is intimidating simply because of size. Mark is clinging onto a can of Stella in one hand as he nods towards me. I’m still cradling the envelope that’s wrapped in my dirty washing bag.

  ‘A’ight?’ he says.

  ‘Could you turn the music down a bit?’

  He stares at me as if I’ve thrown some advanced algebra in his direction. The stench of weed floats out from his apartment and I struggle not to cough.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘The music… it’s a bit loud.’

  Mark turns between me and the inside of his flat. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. ‘How about you mind your own business, yeah?’

  I step away and then turn back and sniff the air dramatically. ‘That’s fine. I’ll call 999 instead. I think there might be something on fire in here.’

  His eyes narrow and there’s a moment in which I think the subtlety has gone over his head. It takes a couple of seconds, but it’s almost as if a light bulb goes off behind his stare. His top lip curls and he thrusts a pudgy finger in my direction. ‘You should watch yourself,’ he says with a snarl.

  ‘I will,’ I say politely. ‘You should turn the music down.’

  He stands his ground for a second and then steps backwards, slamming the door behind him. Moments later, the volume dims.

  Just another day at Hamilton House.

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday

  I slept with the envelope under my pillow last night. It’s mad, I know. Ridiculous, really. I put it in the drawer underneath the television at first but found myself lying awake thinking about the cash. Poor old Billy wasn’t happy at being accidentally kicked awake as he slept on my feet – but it was only when the envelope was safely within touching distance that I finally started to drift off.

  The first thing I did after waking up was fumble under my pillow to make sure it was still there. After that, I lay the cash out on the table again, counting the full £3,620. I can replace the £20 I spent. I’ll use my credit card to withdraw the money so that I can return the full amount.

  I find myself sitting in the window, watching the street below. The bins have been kicked over, but that’s about the most controversial thing that happens around these parts. There’s not a soul outside, not a car passing. This serenity is part of my Sunday routine and yet I feel the constant tug back to the money on the table. I make a cup of tea to distract myself and then check last night’s lottery numbers. Our work syndicate didn’t win, so that’s another pound gone. Another pound wasted.

  A text is waiting for me from Harry:

  Last night was great. How about we do it again on Tuesday? Do you still want me to come to yours? We can go out if you want?

  I read it a couple of times but leave it for the time being.

  Google still offers no information about missing or stolen money in the area, so I go to the local police website, but there’s nothing there. I search Twitter, Facebook and anything else I can think of, but there are no clues. I keep thinking someone will come asking for the money. Cash doesn’t just appear. It doesn’t grow on trees and drop into envelopes. It has to belong to somebody.

  Billy is sniffing around the sink, so I give him his food and watch him eat. It’s only as I’m doing that I realise I’m not hungry myself. I’m so used to the gurgles and groans, to having to fight the cravings, that it’s an alien feeling to actually be… satisfied.

  When he’s finished, Billy licks his chops clean and then crosses to the door. He is many things, but subtle is not one of them. I pack the money back into the envelope, resolving to leave it there this time. I can’t keep removing it to count. It’s becoming an obsession.

  I put on my trainers, but they instantly feel looser than yesterday. It’s hardly a surprise – there’s a reason shoes aren’t held together with sticky tape. If I’m lucky, I’ll get another day out of them before I have to figure out something new.

  We do a lap of the estate and Billy’s in a particularly inquisitive mood, dragging me off into every alley we pass to have a sniff. My phone rings twice – both times ‘unknown’. I miss the first call but answer the second, only to discover the same as before – that there’s no one there. I stop and peer up at the buildings around, wondering if the phantom caller is watching. It’s starting to feel ominous, more than an auto-dialler at a call centre that won’t give up.

  Billy eventually leads us back to Hamilton House and sits expectantly on the doorstep as I fumble for my key. When we get into the flat, he finds his spot next to the sofa and sits waiting for me to join him. Sunday is the day I get most of my university work done and, aside from walking Billy, it wouldn’t be uncommon for me to spend the entire day here.

  It’s hard, but I have to force myself not to touch the envelope of money that’s in the drawer. I missed handing it in yesterday and the police station will be closed today – presumably because no crime ever happens on a Sunday – so I’ll have to do it tomorrow. I tell myself I’ll definitely do that.

  Billy finally puts his head down when I sit on the sofa with the laptop. He nuzzles into my foot until he’s comfortable and then closes his eyes.

  The computer goes through its usual routine of considering booting without actually doing it and I use the time to tap out a reply to Harry’s text:

  Tuesday is fine. I’m busy in the day, so 7pm?

  His reply takes barely thirty seconds:

  Fab! Let me know your address and I’ll see y
ou then.

  There is a part of me that’s wary of letting him know where I live. It’s probably one of those things on every guide about dating – public places, good lighting: that sort of thing. But it’s hard not to think that, of the two of us, I’m the nutty one. I dropped bombshell after bombshell on him and he still wants to see me again. After a minute or two, I reply with my address and leave it at that.

  The laptop is still booting as I rub Billy’s ear with my big toe. He lets out one of those huge, appreciative huffs that never gets old. After what feels like an age, the laptop finally stops whirring and allows me to load the web browser. The Open University site is set as my homepage, but, the moment it loads, the screen flickers and goes dark.

  The first time this happened, I panicked, partly because I thought I’d lost my work – but also because I knew I’d struggle to find the money for someone to fix it. I’m calmer now as I hold down the power button and count to ten. If only this worked with people. Everything gets a bit mixed up, a bit out of sync, and all it takes to fix is a ten-second press of a button.

  I let go of the button, wait and then tap it to start the laptop booting all over again.

  Nothing happens.

  It’s now that I feel my chest tighten. I’m holding my breath as I press the button once more. The laptop crashes more often than an F1 driver on a wet track – but it always starts again. Always.

  Not this time. There is only a blank screen.

  I spend more than a minute staring at it, hoping for a miracle. When that doesn’t arrive, I close the lid, unplug it, plug it back in and try again.

  Still nothing.

  The rushing begins immediately. It starts with the walls zooming towards me and then it’s like I’m being swallowed by something much larger than myself. Billy pushes himself up and clambers onto the sofa, resting his head on my lap and staring up at me.