The Strangers We Know

by Pip Drysdale

  Holy fuck.

  She was properly crazy.

  I looked up at the door, the same door that she was on the other side of, as I thought through the rest. What did all this mean?

  So Brooke had befriended me to get to Oliver. A man she was in love with. That’s why she’d been so interested in what we did and where we went. But wait – Oliver was dead.

  Surely Brooke couldn’t have killed him.

  It seemed too big. Too wild. Too insane to be true. And how would she have even pulled it off? How did she get into our apartment? Had she broken a window? Had she pressed the buzzer? No, surely not. What if I’d been there?

  But hang on, that wasn’t a risk for her: She knew I wasn’t there. Because Justin wasn’t the one who’d been watching me, nor was Machado. It was Brooke. She already knew Oliver was back in the UK – I’d told her just the day before – and thanks to that tracker, she knew he was alone.

  But when had she put it in my bag? At Pilates? At the shop when I was out back? And how long had she been watching me?

  Shit. I thought of how I’d told her we were moving. If she’d been stalking him, that would have worried her: the thought that she might lose track of us. Of him. Was that why she went there that night? Because she loved him? Or was it a if-I-can’t-have-you-nobody-can scenario? If she was planning on killing him, the thought we were moving would definitely have expedited her plan. She already knew the layout of our house. She’d already had a plan. She wouldn’t have wanted to do all that legwork again.

  Had my lies been the thing that killed Oliver in the end?

  But if she killed Oliver, she knows he’s dead. That I’m lying to her about why I’m here. And she’s playing along, toying with me … Why?

  And then I thought of her interest in Oliver’s emails, his files. Why? What did she think was in there? And if all this was true, why had she reached out to me and pretended to help? And then, just like that, I knew: it was to cover her tracks.

  If my new friend disappeared directly after Oliver died, wouldn’t she immediately seem suspicious?

  No. She needed to continue as though she had nothing to hide. She needed to hide in plain sight.

  Which she would have managed to do if I had never seen that picture. Because in my mind she had never even met Oliver, so why on earth would she kill him?

  It was the perfect crime.

  I struggled to control my breathing, holding onto the wall for support and looking over to the white door even though I knew I’d locked it.

  The room was spinning like I’d downed half a bottle of Scotch as all the pieces fell so perfectly into place. I could hear her voice echoing in my head: Oh, and your wish bracelet’s gone.

  I’d never mentioned my Bahia bracelet to her.

  Had she seen it on my Instagram story?

  Was she @lover7?

  The one who’d been watching me on Instagram?

  But what had I ever done to her? And how could she really have believed she could get away with it? That she could go into our house, kill Oliver and blame me?

  Because, you know: DNA. Her DNA would be in our house, they’d know she’d been there. It would all be okay.

  But then: Oh fuck, she’d covered her bases. She had a really good excuse for her DNA being in our house if it ever did come to that. She’d been there just the day before he died. She could explain it away that way.

  Why is she doing this to us?

  Then I thought of Alyssa. Had Brooke targeted her too? Was that why she’d killed herself?

  My stomach turned to oil as I looked around the room. What the hell was I going to do? What would Amy in Gone Girl do? Or that blonde woman in Killing Eve? That’s who I needed to be right now, a little less me, a little more sociopath.

  There was a window, a small rectangular window that looked out onto the back garden. I could fit through that. I knew I could. I left the shower running then got out and quietly unlatched it. But what the fuck – my computer and any proof I had that Brooke had ever met Oliver was in the other room. And what was I going to do: jump out the window, hope she didn’t notice and just run? Of course she’d notice.

  No. The only way I could get out of this was to play her at her own game. I’d need to just pretend I had no idea it was her.

  And so I turned off the taps, dried myself off, dressed in my clothes from the day before, adding a polo neck this time as it looked cold outside. There was nothing for it other than to play along. My bag was lying there on the floor, dangerously close to a puddle, so I picked it up, rifling through it until I found my phone and frantically turned it on, desperate to see the screen flash white, that little Apple sign appear, and to turn it off airplane mode for good. How quickly things had changed.

  Now I wanted the likes of DCI Holland to be able to find me if things went wrong.

  Staring at the bathroom door, I took a deep breath to calm myself, opened the door and went back to the living room.

  I could hear the hairdryer going – so Brooke was back in her bedroom now. My eyes immediately moved to my laptop to check for the USB stick I’d had in it with the photograph – the only thing I had linking Brooke to Oliver, to Alyssa.

  It was gone.

  I had a split second to decide what to do: say something or pretend I hadn’t noticed.

  I needed that USB – without it, I had nothing. But she wasn’t going to give it back to me, was she? And she’d killed Oliver. She had that in her. And I was in her flat. I didn’t know about the locks. They could be double-bolted. And if she was smart enough to plan all this, I needed to be careful. Who knew what sort of contingency plan she had in place if things went wrong.

  I needed to make her believe she’d got away with it. Otherwise, she probably would.

  7.59 am

  It’d never made much difference to me whether I was three minutes from the station, four minutes from the station or eight. I’d read those sorts of descriptions in Flatshare ads: Only three and a half minutes walk to the station and thought ‘Wow, because that extra thirty seconds really matters’. But that morning, it did matter.

  The eight-minute walk to the station with Brooke felt like eighty. Eight hundred and eighty.

  Stilted conversation. Hot cheeks. Blurred vision as I visualised the Tube map in my mind, trying to figure out whether we were going to be heading to the same platform, all the while trying to hold a polite conversation. Then came the realisation that I’d fucked up: I’d said I was going to the shop (Notting Hill Gate) but now, thinking of the Tubes and which ones we’d each be catching, I realised I needed to change tack. Brooke’s temp assignment was in Moorgate and that would mean we’d both be taking the Hammersmith and City line for at least part of the way. I couldn’t have that. But what could I say?

  Clarence.

  I’d need to pretend I was going to Clarence because he was in Monument. That meant a different Tube. And so about four minutes into our eight-minute walk I pulled out my phone, pretended to see a new voice message and, as Brooke watched, I listened to one of DCI Holland’s messages from the day before.

  ‘Charlene, it’s DCI Holland calling again. We need to speak to you immediately. It’s about your husband, Oliver. It is extremely important. Call me.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I said, hanging up.

  ‘What?’ Brooke asked.

  ‘I have to go and see my agent. Can I get to Monument from your station?’

  ‘I think so,’ she said. I don’t know if she knew I was lying. But it didn’t really matter as long as she didn’t know why. So I spent the rest of the walk staring down at my phone, zooming in on a TfL Tube map, pretending to check my journey.

  But I wasn’t doing anything of the sort. I was deflecting.

  The effort of keeping up that act, combined with the muffled grief and fear brewing just below my skin, made me feel like I’d run a marathon by the time we got there and headed through the turnstiles with the crowds.

  A man in a charcoal suit bumped into me
as I got through and I almost fell. I steadied myself. Then Brooke was through, her Oyster card still in her hand, saying ‘Shit, are you okay?’

  She seemed so nice. This woman in my husband’s photographs. This woman who had lied to me. Who killed him.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I said. ‘Thanks so much for last night, hon.’ I air kissed her cheek and every single one of my cells recoiled.

  ‘No problem. I hope everything works out.’ She smiled, her brown eyes flecked with orange, steady on mine. I studied the thoughts behind them. There was nothing readable in her eyes or her mood. She seemed calm, like she didn’t know I’d seen that photograph. She didn’t know I’d noticed the USB was gone. She didn’t know what I was planning.

  But could I trust that? Because I’d only ever seen the version of her that she’d shown me: my friend, a girl new to London, a harmless stylist. And she’d only seen what the entire world saw when they looked at me: the token blonde wife with the movieworthy marriage.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and then I turned and moved towards the platform for the District line. I didn’t look back – it would be too obvious – so I just needed to trust that she was heading to her platform too.

  There was a busker playing a violin at the bottom of the stairs, and the air around him was damp and mossy. I moved past him and onto the platform, my pulse racing. It was rush hour so soon the platform was almost full. White shirts. Shiny shoes. And there we were, a platform full of strangers. All of us living out our own stories, each of us just the background extra for someone else.

  Everyone was either texting, scrolling or standing at the edge of the platform, listening to music and trying to avoid eye contact. I was the only one looking around.

  There was a dark-haired woman with a small burgundy handbag hanging from her shoulder to my right, but I couldn’t tell if it was zipped shut. There were lots of men with briefcases and pockets. But that was risky. Then, to my left, I saw a blonde woman with a charcoal grey Longchamp bag over her shoulder. There was a white rolled up piece of paper sticking out one side, making it impossible for the zipper to shut properly. She’d do.

  As I moved closer to her, I reached into my bag for my box of tampons, opened it and pulled out the little white tracking disk, clenching it in my fist.

  It was then that a distorted voice came over the loudspeaker announcing that the next train was approaching. I followed the woman with the Longchamp bag to the edge of the platform, standing close behind her in the queue, and stared down the darkened train tunnel. A white light. A rush of air. Dust in my throat. The screech of brakes. I grimaced at the sheer volume and then the doors pinged and opened.

  The carriage was already sardine tin full – I could see that through the windows. Then came ‘Please mind the gap’, a few people got off and then we all kept our eyes down as we slowly pushed to get on. But the moment I could, the moment I felt sure nobody would see what I was doing, I dropped the tracking device into that woman’s bag. Then I turned and pushed my way off the train again, moving towards the back wall.

  I stood there, listening to the doors beep and close, and watched as the train, the woman with the Longchamp bag and that little white disk disappeared.

  Now, if Brooke checked the tracking app, I would be somewhere far, far away.

  8.21 am

  The wall was hard and cool behind my back – I was pretty sure I was standing in (or near) a puddle of dried urine – and I needed coffee. My eyes were strained by lack of sleep and as I stared down at my phone, a new set of passengers filled the platform to wait for their train. This would be the third train since I arrived down here. It’d been around ten minutes since Brooke and I parted ways.

  I re-read the instructions on my screenshot for the fifth time, committing them to memory. People gathered by the edge of the platform, a high-pitched screech filled the air and then: beep, beep, beep, ‘Please mind the gap’. But as everyone else on that platform piled onto the train, I switched my phone to airplane mode, turned it off and headed back out through the exit.

  Brooke should be gone by now.

  Soon I was heading back past the spot we’d said our goodbyes, and out into the cool morning air. I turned left and moved quickly towards Campbell Road. When I was past the pub I could see the signage of the Texaco to my left. People bustled past me on their way to the station as I crossed the road and headed all the way back towards Brooke’s black front door.

  But I turned right just before I got there. I wasn’t going in through the front.

  My blood rushed through my veins as I unhooked the latch on the dark green gate. I reached for a wheelie bin and pulled it behind me, closing the gate before anyone could see. I knew the layout of her home now, the way she had known the layout of mine by the time she let herself in to kill Oliver, and so I pulled the bin beneath the bathroom window that I’d unlatched before I left.

  I stared up at it, then around behind me: nothing but fences and neighbours who wouldn’t see me unless they were peering over. I made a quick assessment – no movement, so hopefully they were probably all heading to work by now.

  But shit, was I insane?

  I ran the information through my mind one more time. I was about to potentially add ‘breaking and entering’ or ‘trespassing’ to my current list of charges. Did I really want to do that?

  The problem was, I didn’t see any other way out of it. There was only one thing I had linking Brooke to Oliver, and it was on that USB stick. The one she’d taken. Yes, the police could probably piece it all together, find the connections for themselves, but that all depended on them believing me in the first place. On them doing the digging. And as there were no strong links between Brooke and Oliver, they weren’t just going to bash down her door with a warrant. They’d call her first. Have a nice polite chat. And she’d have plenty of warning, plenty of time to come up with excuses and ditch the evidence.

  I placed my hands on the cool plastic of the wheelie bin, took a deep breath and hoisted myself up onto it, scrabbling for balance and taking care not to break through the weak spot in the middle. I gently pried open the window then held my breath, stood dead still and listened.

  There was a chance she was still in there. That she’d clocked the change in me and had returned from the station too.

  But there was no sound coming from inside.

  And so I peered through the window: there in the far corner was the bath-slash-shower I’d stood in just that morning when all the pieces of the puzzle had first fallen into place. There was the loo to the right of the window. And beneath the windowsill was the basin. I’d stand on that. But first I needed to get my bag inside.

  I lowered it gently into the sink, letting it fall into the middle.

  I’d never actually broken into a house before but I’d seen it done in movies. It didn’t look that hard.

  Well.

  Let me tell you something about pulling yourself through a little window: it’s very, very, very hard.

  You need a lot of upper body strength.

  Upper body strength I didn’t have.

  I placed my palms on the cool and dusty paint of the windowsill and tried to pull myself up. But I was too heavy. Shit. So now I was breathless. But I needed to do this. Not just because of all the reasons I had before, but because now my laptop was inside, wasn’t it? And it was going to look pretty bloody suspicious if I just left it there.

  I clenched my eyes shut and ran through every movie scene I’d ever watched: How did they do it?

  Legs.

  Legs first.

  Thankfully, what I lack in upper body strength, I make up in flexibility. So I reached one leg in first, using my arms to pull me up until I was straddling the windowsill then, with a bit of contortion, in went the other. My feet hit the basin – Shit, is that my computer? I quickly moved them to the edges as my body followed through. I stepped off onto the bathroom floor quickly, before I could break anything. My heart went wild in my chest, like a butterfly caught in a jar
.

  But I was in.

  Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

  Now what?

  I stood dead still, adrenaline zinging through my veins as I listened again for sounds. Someone else breathing. The creak of a floorboard. But there was no movement in the flat. No noise. Not even the sounds of traffic. Just me. My beating heart. My breathing.

  She definitely wasn’t here.

  I swallowed hard, grabbed my bag and moved out into the hallway. To the left was the living room and kitchen, the sofa I’d slept on. And to the right was Brooke’s bedroom. I tiptoed in even though I was alone. I dropped my bag by the door so I wouldn’t forget it and looked around. She’d made her bed that morning while I was having a panic attack in the shower. The turquoise bedspread lay perfectly centred over white sheets below a set of three gold throw pillows. Beside the bed was a big oak closet and a white IKEA set of drawers.

  I was looking for a computer: if there were answers, they’d be on there.

  And so I began in the place where I hid mine: the set of drawers.

  I pulled open the first one: a tangle of underwear, balled socks, unclipped bras and loose stockings. I felt around. Nothing.

  The second: long-sleeved polo necks and the like, all in perfect Marie Kondo rolls. I reached beneath them but all I felt was wood and potential splinters.

  Then the third: workout clothes, old t-shirts, pyjamas …

  Then something hard.

  Maybe plastic.

  I pulled it out into the light.

  It was black.

  It fit in my hand.

  A taser.

  And now it had my prints on it.

  Fuuuucckk.

  I ran to the kitchen, looking for something to wipe it down with. But I needed to make sure there was not a single trace of me on it, and so I did the only thing I could think of: I filled a sink with water, squeezed in some soap, swished it around and then dropped the taser in there. I stared down at it, submerged beneath the bubbles. It was probably broken now but that was better than creating more evidence against myself. There was a dishcloth and a small grey washing-up brush sitting behind the taps so I covered my hands with the cloth and roughly cleaned off the outside with the brush.