All These Perfect Strangers

by Aoife Clifford

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  I nodded my head, unable to speak. Resting my arms on my knees, I let my head hang, my mouth still gulping for air. I had been close to blacking out, perhaps even dying. All I could hear was the rasp of my own breath and I wondered if this was what it felt like to drown. Is this what it had been like for Rachel? Had she tried to fight it? She had been all alone, struggling to breathe with no one to help her. The thought almost overwhelmed me.

  It was a couple of minutes before my breathing slowed enough to take air in through my nose and close my mouth. Michael had already disappeared back into the melee and several other people had been pulled out. The girl next to me was excited, as though she had been on a show ride. ‘They just picked me up and dragged me along,’ she said in a tone of amazement. ‘Nothing I could do.’

  It was a strange combination of riot and party. Crowds kept pouring through the front door. Another door was opened further down and people came through that as well. Someone got to the stereo system and turned the music up full bore. There were yells and screams and it was hard to distinguish the range of emotions involved, everything from jubilation to fear. I tucked myself into a tight ball, out of the way, and stayed still for a long time.

  When I finally decided to move, every part of me feeling battered and bruised, I pulled myself to standing, using the wall behind me for support. I was wobbly but I was OK. I wanted to get outside but there were still too many people between me and the entrance, so I began to follow the herd and made my way down the internal stairs towards the bar, keeping to the edges as far away from the crowd as I could. I never wanted to be stuck like that again. It took a while for me to make my way down and even longer to get around the corner. The music was changed from an aggressive fast metal to something more mellow, and the place began to settle into something of a carnival. Marchie boys were behind the bar, handing out free drinks. People were dancing to the music, starting to migrate towards the pool tables and beginning to look back at the outside world and wonder how on earth they ended up here. There were some injuries. One girl was crying on the floor, cradling her wrist. No one paid her any attention. There were other people with cuts from the broken glass, being mopped up by their friends, but on the whole most people seemed to have got in unscathed. I couldn’t see the bikers anywhere.

  ‘Pen,’ I heard a voice call from behind me. It was Toby, sitting at a table, drinking a beer, with Nico’s backpack at his feet. He was holding another unopened beer to his face.

  My adrenalin started to slow. I felt shaky like I couldn’t walk any more and collapsed on the seat beside him. ‘You got the petrol,’ I said.

  ‘And saved Nico from a whole heap of trouble, not that he appreciated it. He punched me right in the head.’

  ‘You OK?’ I pulled the beer away to have a look. His eye was already closing and around his cheekbone looked puffy.

  ‘I’m gay and Asian. I’ve had worse beatings than this, believe me.’

  ‘You going to report him?’

  Toby shook his head gingerly. ‘Poor bastard, he’ll have enough people at him. Anyway, how about you? Feeling peachy?’

  I nodded wearily, too tired to explain.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said, and handed me the beer that had been chilling his face.

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  ‘No greater sacrifice.’

  We clinked bottles.

  ‘Well, Rachel would have loved this,’ Toby said, as he chugged down his beer. I nodded my head, not trusting myself to talk. It was impossible not to think of what had happened last time I was at the bar. Looking around, I kept expecting Rachel to be in the thick of it, grabbing the free alcohol, trying to break the storeroom open.

  ‘Where are the bar staff, or for that matter, those bikers?’ I asked.

  ‘The staff are over there.’ Toby pointed to a group of black polo tops playing pool at a nearby table. Like the experienced bar staff they were, they seemed to be turning a blind eye to the mayhem and going with the flow like this was just a normal shift. Occasionally, one of them looked over towards their white-suited replacements and sort of gave a shrug. ‘Pete and the bikers beat a retreat via the fire exit.’

  ‘Those bikers just left?’ I asked, surprised. I had visions of pool cues as weapons and people getting chairs smashed over their heads.

  ‘A strategic retreat. They’ve played it smart and won. No one can accuse them of this. Tonight, we are seeing the last glorious stand of the Marchmains. Tomorrow they will be no more.’

  I looked over to see Nico jubilant, standing on the bar, holding a stolen bottle of champagne in his hand, reminiscent of the first time I had ever seen him. He was joined by a pimple-encrusted boy wearing a faded yellow Che Guevara t-shirt, yelling something about a new world order.

  ‘How much trouble is Nico going to be in?’ I asked, trying to catalogue the list of offences that had been committed, outside of assaulting Toby.

  ‘I’ve seen more damage on an average Friday night here,’ said Toby. ‘Some broken glass, some broken bones. Mind you, there usually is a full till in compensation. That ain’t happening now.’ A couple of enterprising Marchies were trying to jimmy a register open.

  ‘Pete will call the police, won’t he?’

  ‘Na, they’ll just patch everything up and reopen tomorrow like nothing happened. If I was Nico I’d be more worried about Leiza catching up with him.’

  ‘Where is Leiza?’ I asked.

  ‘Haven’t seen her,’ said Toby.

  Toby managed to finagle another couple of beers, as we watched what seemed like the whole university parade past. A student band turned up and began to give an impromptu concert, their politics more developed than their musical ability. The crowd began to thin in response. We had probably been sitting there at least an hour when the sirens started. One siren joined another and then another until there was a perfect circle of noise in the room.

  ‘The police,’ I said, to state the obvious. People pushed towards the large glass floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Quadrangle to see what was going on.

  ‘They’re coming for us,’ squeaked a nervous girl sitting at the table nearby. A boy with long black hair tied in a lank ponytail started shouting that we should all be prepared to go to jail for the cause, but wasn’t specific as to what cause he thought this was.

  ‘I can’t believe they called the police,’ said Toby.

  Around us, Marchie boys had already begun to mobilise by building barricades. I could see Nico was leading the charge.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said to Toby.

  ‘Right behind you,’ he said. ‘I’m much too pretty for a police cell.’

  The boy with the Che t-shirt was yelling out instructions to link arms on his command, and even the bar staff seemed to be involved in a discussion about whether you could drag the pool tables over to wedge in front of the broken windows. A stream of people had already started towards the fire exit.

  ‘I have an alternative,’ said Toby. He led me over to the window that I had seen him use the night Rachel had died. Fiddling with the lock, he pushed it open and scrambled through. My body had seized up from sitting for so long and I was still a bit woozy, so I nearly fell through it, but Toby was waiting for me and half caught me, half guided me to the ground. We were in the beer garden.

  ‘What about the petrol?’ I asked.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Toby. ‘We don’t want to be caught with that. Anyway, let’s go down the back where the fence is lower, jump it and head home.’

  It sounded like the best plan I had heard. We were climbing over when we heard: ‘Police. Don’t move.’

  We froze, me straddling the fence, Toby already over the far side.

  ‘Put your arms above your heads.’

  We did and I wobbled. From up on top of the fence I had a clear view of the road. There was a red glare from a jumble of cars blocking it, blue lights on roofs lazily ticking over. Figures in unifo
rm gathered around them. Behind us, I could hear a different voice on a loudspeaker, a man’s voice, telling people to evacuate the building. ‘Immediately through the front doors. I repeat, through the FRONT doors.’

  A policewoman came towards us, blocking our way. She was in the process of cordoning off the area.

  ‘You can’t get through here,’ she said. ‘Turn around and go back the way you came.’

  I recognised her and at the same time she recognised me. ‘Wait a second, I know you. You found the girl who drowned.’

  It was Constable Morriset.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked me. But it was Toby who answered, spinning her a line about having a quiet drink at the bar when all of a sudden there was an invasion and we had no idea what was going on but decided to sit tight and drink more beer.

  ‘We’re just going back to Scullin now,’ I said as meekly as possible, and then because I couldn’t resist, ‘What’s going on?’

  The action seemed to be concentrated in front of us, in the direction of the river, rather than behind us at the bar. The constable followed my gaze. ‘This is a crime scene. You are going to have to go back the way you came.’

  Just then, another car came up the road, but not a police car this time. It parked on the grass, not far from us. We watched as a pudgy man in crumpled clothes got out. Constable Morriset swore. ‘Right, you two, you can go through but follow the path straight back to your college.’ She motioned us past her and moved towards the man.

  ‘You can’t enter here,’ she said to him. ‘I’ll ask you to return to your car . . .’

  But the man kept walking. ‘What have you found, Constable?’

  ‘There will be a statement in due course.’ Constable Morriset blocked his way, pulling out her torch and shining it directly in his eyes. ‘Sir, I must ask you to—’

  ‘Four cars, must be serious,’ said the man, taking out a notebook. ‘Not just some student protest getting out of hand now, is it? Another attack, I’m guessing.’

  Other police were closer now. ‘Here already, Joe?’ called out one. ‘Another lonely night with only a scanner for company.’

  ‘Doing my job, Sergeant, just like you. What have you got this time?’

  Constable Morriset took a step away from him, and noticing us still standing there, frowned. ‘I told you to get going. Move it.’

  · · ·

  All the lights were on at college by the time we got back. A knot of people was standing in reception. We tried to slip past but heard someone yelling my name. Kesh came running over.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Kesh, hugging both of us and crying. ‘You’re safe. You’re safe.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Toby.

  Kesh’s pale face became even paler.

  ‘There’s been another attack. A girl’s dead. People are saying it’s Leiza.’

  Toby asked more questions and Kesh began to cry but all of it was slowly drowned out by the pounding of my heart. I felt a chill on my arm, as if someone was taking hold of my hand and dragging me down into deep water.

  *

  ‘A lot to talk about today,’ says Frank, and there is a faint sense of accusation that I’ve lumped all of this in together. ‘Let’s start with the crush. Were you scared?’

  I think about it. ‘There wasn’t enough time to be scared. It happened so quickly. I felt angry afterwards, sitting there looking at the people still coming through, thinking you nearly trampled me for this.’

  Frank nods. ‘So you felt angry.’ He ponders this as if it is something significant. ‘Do you often get angry?’

  I wonder if he’s deliberately trying to make me angry now, because that seems the only rational response to such a dumb question.

  ‘You’re not allowed to feel angry when you almost get crushed?’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’ Frank gives me one of his long-suffering looks. ‘A threat can generate a fear response or an anger response. Some people might panic being in large crowds after that, other people might shut down and avoid shopping centres or sporting events. Some people’s first response will be to react angrily, to lash out. Does that sound familiar?’

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘I’m the more panicky-in-crowds type.’

  Frank clicks his pen, which means he disagrees. ‘Who was it who pulled you out of the crowd? Who rescued you?’

  But I don’t want to cooperate any more. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know who saved your life?’ he asks. ‘Don’t tell me it’s another stranger.’

  I frown because I am not sure what he means.

  ‘You know, like the person who kissed you that night at the bar crawl.’

  And for a moment everything is still. No man from the gift shop to distract us. I can’t hear Ivy’s heels click-clacking down the hall. There are just the two of us in here, playing games with my life.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘He was a perfect stranger.’

  ‘University must have been a big place with all these perfect strangers,’ Frank says.

  There is something funny about the way he says this. He means it as an accusation, but at the same time it is also the truth. Being amongst strangers was exactly what I had wanted and it’s definitely what I got.

  It is a long wait before Frank speaks again. I look down at my diary. I had worked so hard on it this week, underlining the sections I was going to read to him and practising it at home so that the jumps seem natural, so it sounds like I am telling him the whole story.

  ‘Did you go to Leiza’s funeral?’ he asks, eventually.

  ‘Only the memorial.’

  It had been held in the Examination Hall, a barn-sized room that smelt of paper and disappointment. Despite it being the largest space on campus, so many people turned up that we were packed in together and latecomers had to stand outside.

  For some reason, Frank doesn’t seem to think the memorial was sufficient because he reminds me that I didn’t attend Rachel’s funeral either. He doesn’t ask for an explanation or a response, but instead leaves the comment to hang in the air for me to contemplate.

  Sometimes I wonder if Frank is very good at his job or whether he is just a doctor who didn’t like the sight of blood. Once I asked him what his actual job description was and he told me it was to ask intelligent questions, which sounded like a complete cop-out. Surely, intelligent answers would be much more useful.

  I shuffle in my seat and glance out the window. The shopkeeper is still not outside. He must be tucked away under the beady eye of his mother.

  ‘Did you cry?’ asks Frank.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you cry at the memorial?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There must have been people around you crying,’ he comments, another implied criticism couched in deliberately non-judgmental language.

  I think back to Emelia and her cronies who had sat in front of me, crying just enough to hold tissues under their eyelashes so their mascara wouldn’t run. Rogan sat next to Emelia, looking worried. I heard she went straight to her Accounting tutor afterwards to try and get special consideration on her assignment because of it.

  ‘Leiza’s parents didn’t cry,’ I say.

  They had sat in the front row dry-eyed, staring at Marcus while he made his speech. Within two weeks, their lawyer would serve papers on the University.

  ‘Did you think they should have cried?’

  ‘Not if they didn’t feel like it. People should act how they feel.’

  ‘How do you think they felt?’

  Her father was angry. It sparked off him as he stalked down the aisle when the ceremony was over. He had left his wife stranded, having to deal with the long line of well-wishers mouthing platitudes before they returned to their safe lives. I remembered her face clearly. She was beyond crying. She was listening to each person tell her how sorry they were, and many of them were in tears, as though she was comforting them. But I understood that she had been hollowed out from grief,
and that her egg-shell veneer was all that was left.

  I try to explain this to Frank.

  ‘How did you feel?’

  And I know I am expected to have some insight into my own lack of crying, that somehow I am hollow or angry, but I am sick of all this. So I don’t tell him I felt a mixture of fear and guilt, or that very deep down I was almost relieved because I thought no one would even think about Rachel’s death now.

  ‘Sad,’ I say. ‘Just sad.’

  Frank frowns but he doesn’t push it. Instead he asks, ‘When was the last time you cried?’

  I shrug my shoulders and think about making one up, but I can’t find the words, so I sit there. I know exactly when it was. The day the policeman told me that the trial wasn’t to go ahead. That they wouldn’t need me as a witness. The day I decided I wouldn’t do any more counselling.

  Frank senses I am not going to talk about it, because he changes topics.

  ‘Have you written down anything about the events of three years ago in your diary, Pen, like we discussed?’

  I don’t answer him. Instead I stare at the fleck of white paint. I am sure it is getting bigger.

  I can feel his eyes on me.

  ‘We don’t need to talk about that. That isn’t why I’m here.’

  ‘I disagree. I don’t believe that what occurred this year is some kind of coincidence, that “bad things” just happen to you. I believe we need to explore what really happened before with that policeman. To talk openly about what your role was, not just put all the blame on Tracey. You need to face what you did or this pattern of behaviour may keep on repeating.’ The words tumble out of him as if there is a lot more he wants to say.

  I move my gaze from the wall to his face.

  ‘What pattern?’ I ask.

  There is a moment of silent confrontation, a battle of wills, before he looks away and starts scribbling something on my file. He doesn’t answer me but instead talks about revisiting places from that night with Tracey. ‘It could assist you. Perhaps walk up The Hill,’ he says.

  When I leave, I tell Ivy that I can’t make the next appointment and that I will call to reschedule.