The Date_An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Louise Jensen

  ‘Was she working last Saturday?’ Jules asks. I shrug helplessly and notice Jules raise her eyebrows as she too begins to realise how fruitless this could be.

  ‘Have you seen me before?’ I ask the girl as I take a leaflet.

  ‘No,’ she says, but she’s barely glanced at me.

  Two bouncers flank the double doors leading into the bar.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ I ask one. He shakes his head.

  ‘Ooh is he your baby’s daddy?’ asks the other, and I feel a flush creep around my neck as I scuttle through the entrance. In front of me, bodies: a couple writhe to the music, alcohol loosening stiff joints and inhibitions.

  ‘Drink?’ Jules shouts over the music and, although I don’t want one, I need to talk to the bar staff and so I nod. Jules orders me a spritzer and herself a double JD and Coke, which she downs before she’s paid. ‘God it’s depressing being single,’ she says as she signals to the barman for another. ‘I feel too old for places like this.’ She doesn’t usually drink much, and I wish she’d slow down. I’ve enough to worry about tonight without adding her to the mix.

  ‘Were you working last Saturday?’ I say, as the barman sloshes another shot of amber liquid into Jules’s glass.

  ‘Yep. I work every weekend. Got to pay my way through uni somehow.’

  Jules throws back her second double and asks for a refill.

  ‘This is an odd question,’ I say. ‘But do you remember me being here last weekend?’

  ‘Had too much to drink, did you?’ He flashes a smile. ‘Got up to something you shouldn’t? With someone you shouldn’t?’

  Why would he say that? The features stiffen on my face as I try to keep my tone light.

  ‘Just trying to piece together a few things. You know how it is.’

  ‘You look kind of familiar. Did I serve you?’

  ‘You can serve me.’ Jules slaps another twenty on the bar. ‘Another two doubles. What?’ She catches my look. ‘It saves queuing.’

  ‘I was here with a man. And my friend, blonde, about my build. Chrissy.’

  ‘Oh, I know Chrissy!’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Jules mutters under her breath.

  ‘I remember seeing her. Not you though. Or the guy. Sorry.’ He turns to serve someone else.

  Dejected I carry the white wine spritzer he poured for me over to the booth in the corner. As I slide onto its sticky, plastic seat I’ve a strong sense of déjà vu. A thigh pressed against mine, a hand on my knee. A prickly, uncomfortable feeling. I scan the room. There’s a man leaning against the bar watching me. I tear my gaze away, and see another man awkwardly moving his body to the beat, and he stares in my direction. Panic wells as my eyes flit back to the bar. The man has changed position, standing tall now, and I think it’s not the same person, looking my way, or is it? It’s impossible to tell. His features have rearranged once more.

  ‘I think I’m being watched,’ I say to Jules, discreetly signalling with my eyes. Trying to appear casual as she steals a glance, I pick up my drink and pretend to take a sip, but my hands are shaking and wine trickles down the side of the glass. Two men hover by our booth, one whispers something to the other and he looks at me over his shoulder before turning back to his friend. They take a step nearer.

  ‘Jules.’ My heart is galloping now.

  ‘Ali, it’s a meat market. What did you expect, two women out alone on a Saturday night? Men are going to look. Usually that’s kind of the point.’

  My eyes scan the crowd. You’d think it would be easy to identify people you know by their clothes, their hair, the way they carry themselves but it’s our features that make us unique. Recognisable. Take those away and it’s like pebbles on a beach, too many similarities, and it takes patience and time to tell them apart. I don’t have much of either.

  ‘We shouldn’t have come.’ The music grows louder in my ears. Despite the fact I probably know a good few people here tonight, everyone is a stranger. It’s busier now. The drinks half price until midnight.

  ‘I’m sure if Chrissy was here you’d be having a good time.’ Jules knocks back her fourth double. There’s a slur to her words.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that ever since you moved in with her you’ve dumped me.’

  ‘I haven’t!’

  ‘Even tonight you’re looking for her.’

  ‘It’s odd we’re not Facebook friends anymore. I want to know why. I’m worried about her, Jules. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Not particularly. You drinking that?’ She nods towards my wine and when I shake my head she picks it up. ‘She’ll turn up Monday, when the shop reopens, and regale us all with some big adventure.’ She tips her head back and drains the glass.

  ‘Steady,’ I say. There’s a tension between us I don’t quite understand and part of me wishes I hadn’t coerced her into coming.

  ‘Why?’ Jules says and there’s confrontation in her tone. ‘I might want to get pissed and shag a stranger, the way Chrissy does.’

  ‘Just because Chrissy had a fling with a married man once doesn’t make her a slag.’

  Jules snorts.

  ‘And just because Craig slept around it doesn’t mean you have to.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  ‘Slept around? I thought there was only one? How many?’ Even in the green and red flash of the lights I can see the colour has drained from her face.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How many women, Ali?’ She thumps the table with her fist.

  ‘Honestly, Matt didn’t say…’

  ‘Matt’s a tosser too.’

  ‘Don’t call him that,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Why?’ She studies me. ‘Fuck. You’re not thinking of taking him back, are you?’

  I am forming the word ‘no’, but I can’t bring myself to say it.

  ‘Christ, Ali. Seriously. After the way he’s treated you?’

  ‘It’s been hard, yes, but marriage is hard, isn’t it? We’ve been talking, today. What happened to me has been a wake-up call to us both. He’s been different since I was in hospital. Nicer.’

  ‘Fucking brilliant. So you think couples should work through their problems? You hypocrite. You lost me my husband and now you’re…’ The bitterness streams from her lips, where it sits on the table between us, toxic and thick, while I cut in, my voice shaking with anger.

  ‘I didn’t “lose” you your husband. You left of your own free will when you found out he was a shit.’

  ‘At least he was my shit. You go around ruining lives.’

  ‘Ruining whose life?’ I’m shouting now. Again I can feel eyes on me but this time I don’t care.

  All of a sudden it’s as if someone has deflated her. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ She starts crying. Rubs her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t feel good, Ali.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have mixed your drinks. You always were a lightweight.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it. I just miss Craig. I miss being married. You understand that, don’t you?’ She’s crying harder now, and I slide around her side of the booth, put my arm around her shoulders and make soothing noises that I do understand, but inside I am reeling. Alcohol coaxes out the truth, Mum used to say. The truth is she is lonely. The truth is she blames me.

  * * *

  It’s almost midnight and we’re more than ready to go home. I’m coming out of the toilets, a wad of loo roll in my hand for Jules. All the emotions she’s felt since she found out about Craig’s affair have tumbled out tonight, and there’s a taxi on the way to pick us up. Before turning left to head back to the main section I glance to my right. At the bottom of the darkened corridor the fire exit sign glows a dull green, and the sight of it stops me in my tracks. That was what I’d remembered during my hypnotherapy session. I don’t want to. Being dragged outside. The rain. The cold. The door slamming shut. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to walk away but, tentatively, I take a step forward, and then another. I’m shro
uded in fear but I can’t turn back. I have to know if it will trigger more memories. The corridor is longer than I thought. The music fading behind me. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. My skin is crawling with recognition now, I’m almost at the door. Another step. I stop. Stretch out my fingers and touch the cool metal bar.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you.’ Hot breath against my neck. The hairs on my arms stand on end. Slowly, slowly, I turn around.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I say to the man in front of me. My eyes flicker to the right. My hands ball into fists.

  Run.

  My feet pound but before my mind registers I’m moving I’m being yanked backwards by the strap of my handbag. I fall against his chest.

  ‘You’re coming with me.’ Onions on his breath. Fingers clamp around my elbow. He drags me further into the blackened corridor, away from the crowd, where no one will hear me scream.

  SUNDAY

  24

  The DJ announces midnight and like Cinderella I am trying to make my escape.

  ‘Let me go!’ I wrench my arm away from the man, stumbling, as he releases me. I find my footing, thinking I can run for the exit – the taxi should be waiting outside – but before I can move he blocks the corridor with his sheer bulk.

  ‘What do you want?’ he growls, and I rub my elbow where I’d banged it on the wall.

  ‘What do I want?’

  ‘You’re a copper, ain’t you? Coming into my gaff. Questioning all my staff.’

  ‘God, no! I was in here last weekend with a man. A blind date.’ I study his face, as I speak, for signs he believes me, while I deliberate how much I should tell him. He isn’t likely to want his bar associated with an attack. ‘I really liked him.’ I tilt my head to one side and twizzle a strand of hair around my finger the way I’ve seen Chrissy do a hundred times before. ‘I can’t quite remember what he looked like. You know how it is.’ I giggle in what I hope is a girlie way, although to me it sounds too high. Too scared.

  ‘You were pissed.’

  ‘Yeah – well it was two for one on the shots. Look, I don’t suppose you could help me? Let me look at the CCTV.’

  He stiffens. Turns away.

  ‘Wait!’ I pull out my work ID from my purse. ‘Look, I’m not police, I’m a care assistant, for the elderly.’ I pass him my card.

  ‘My nana’s in one of them ’omes.’ He taps the card against the back of his hand while he thinks. ‘Okay. I’ll help you. Because it’s good. You looking after old folk. Cleaning up their piss and shit. This can be my good turn.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘For a price,’ he adds.

  ‘God, I feel rough,’ Jules says for the millionth time. She’s wearing dark glasses despite the lack of sun and clutching a bottle of Lucozade, her go-to hangover cure.

  ‘I’m not surprised. Thanks for coming with me.’

  ‘I owe you one. Sorry I was such a bitch last night.’

  ‘It’s all forgotten.’

  ‘I still don’t think you should do this though,’ Jules says, but I’ve already pressed the buzzer on the door. ‘It could be dangerous.’

  ‘It’s broad daylight and we’ve got each other. Safety in numbers. Carl’s bark was definitely worse than his bite,’ I say but there’s a brittleness to my voice and I can’t force my mouth to curve into a smile.

  ‘I don’t mean that sort of dangerous,’ Jules says. ‘I mean, what if you remember?’

  ‘That’s kind of the point.’ My breath clouds in front of me as I press the buzzer again, stamping my feet to keep warm.

  ‘But what if it’s too much for you to cope with? Too horrible.’

  ‘We went through this last night. It can’t be worse than the things already running through my mind.’

  ‘But this time it’s costing you money. You’re handing over £500 to a complete stranger on the off-chance that the CCTV recorded you last weekend. And what if it did? What then?’

  Before I can answer, the door swings open, and I feel almost victorious as I recognise Carl with his height and width, bulging muscles, sleeveless T-shirt despite the sub-zero temperature, black hair slick with gel.

  He slowly appraises me from my head to my toes and back up my body, his gaze lingering on my breasts, before his eyes meet mine. I can feel my cheeks burn hot as I pull the lapels of my coat closer together.

  ‘You came back then?’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Jules mutters, and I poke her in the ribs.

  I step forward but Carl angles his body, blocking the entrance, palm outstretched, eyebrows raised.

  I fish around in my handbag for the roll of notes I’d stuffed there earlier.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Jules asks. ‘I think you’re wasting your money, Ali.’

  ‘You’re wasting my fucking time,’ Carl growls, and I quickly press the money into his hand.

  ‘Come on then.’ Without waiting to see if we follow, he turns and strides past the sweeping staircase leading to what used to be a second bar that hasn’t been open for months. Sometimes there are barely enough bodies to fill the downstairs.

  Everywhere looks so shabby and old without the mood lighting, the softening haze of alcohol. The toilet doors are propped open, a whiff of bleach overpowers the lingering smell of urine. Jules and I both stop dead as we step into the main space that always seems so tiny but now stretches long and wide.

  There’s a bored-looking girl, jaw energetically working gum, dark roots morphing into a sharp blonde bob, swishing a mop over the floor which I’d never noticed before was parquet, and suddenly I’m transported back to a memory. Mum and Dad perched on too-small grey plastic chairs at the back of the school hall, me a Wise Man, draped in an old sheet, a tea towel covering my head, trying not to scowl at Melanie, who was playing Mary. She cradled a plastic baby Jesus who actually weed when you squeezed his tummy. A chubby Ben bounced on Dad’s knee, clapping in all the wrong places. Pointing and squealing my name over and over, while Joseph made his impoverished plea for a room for the night.

  ‘Ali?’ Jules places her hand on my arm bringing me back to now, where, instead of coat hanger tinsel stars, there’s a lonely disco ball twirling. ‘Are you having a flashback?’ Her forehead is furrowed in concern.

  I shake my head. I’m not. Not in the way she thinks anyway.

  Carl pointedly checks his watch, and I hurry forward again, peeling my shoes off the sticky floor. We pass the booth in the corner and I feel the same uncomfortable feeling wrapping itself around me like ivy. Instantly, in my mind’s eye, the lights strobe, music blares.

  As we pass the bar Carl tosses the roll of banknotes I’d given him at a girl who is chucking empty bottles into a green plastic grate. Jules grimaces at the sound.

  ‘Pay the supplier in cash when he comes. Stop him fucking whinging,’ Carl says.

  ‘What about?…’ The girl starts but Carl has already turned a hard left into the corridor, and as we pass the fire door I begin to shake. Please don’t. Please stop. I touch my cheek, expecting my fingertips to come away wet but I’m not crying, not now anyway.

  We push through a door marked ‘Staff Only’ and descend a set of grey, concrete stairs, a draught nipping at my ankles despite the lack of windows. Carl enters a darkened room. There’s a flicker. A humming. The fluorescent tube clinging to the low ceiling springs to life, and I blink in the glare.

  Even with only three bodies the ‘office’ is full. Carl squeezes past me, and my spine presses uncomfortably against the gun metal filing cabinet, but still his skin brushes against mine and I try to relax my features, knowing my face has twisted into a grimace. He leans over the battered desk, one drawer is missing, and fiddles with a small TV until it fizzes with static. I turn my head away from his armpit. Body odour and danger. An inked cobra wrapped around his bicep, a roaring tiger on his forearm and, touchingly, the word ‘Sharon’ on his wrist in uneven letters, the ‘r’ higher than the rest. I wonder if she’s his girlfriend or daughter.

  ‘The qualit
y is shit.’ He fiddles with a dial until a fuzzy image appears of the edge of the bar, timestamped Saturday. That Saturday.

  I sink into the faux leather chair, not caring it’s ripped and stained, orange stuffing spilling out like intestines. This could be it. The moment I find out the truth.

  ‘Most of the cameras don’t work,’ he says but I can’t tear my eyes away from the barman, shaking cocktails, making pitchers. Was one of those drinks for me? Did somebody slip something in it?

  ‘There’s hours of footage. I’ll be upstairs when you’re done.’

  Without an extra body the room feels even colder, and Jules picks up a kettle and tests the weight for water. ‘Start without me, I’ll make us a cuppa.’

  ‘I can hardly start without you, can I?’ I say, sharper than I intended as my eyes flit over the fragmented picture. I begin to doubt even Jules will be able to pick me out. ‘I’ll make the drinks.’

  The rims to the mugs are chipped, insides yellow, matching the nicotine stains on the ceiling. I pick out the two cleanest, ignoring the bare breasts pictured on one and the ‘fuck you’ slogan on the other and spoon out coffee.

  ‘Here you go.’ I set Jules’s mug on the desk. ‘I wouldn’t recommend drinking it, but you can warm your hands, at least.’ I slide into the chair next to her and study the ghostly faces on the screen. ‘Am I there?’

  ‘No, but this is giving me some idea of how you must feel.’ Jules turns to me, sympathy in her eyes. ‘Everyone looks the same.’

  ‘They do but I’m learning to pay attention to what people are wearing, how they speak, their mannerisms. Ben’s quite distinctive with his silver glasses. You always speak with your hands.’

  ‘Me? I don’t,’ Jules says. Pointedly I look at her hands: she had raised them to her chest as she said ‘me’.