Familiar Strangers

by Jackie Walsh

  I stand there looking at him, wondering what to say. How can I take that broken soul look from his face? But I don’t get the chance. As he zips closed the bag, Bert says, ‘I see that young girl who was looking for you is dead.’

  So much for the sadness. It hasn’t diluted his curiosity.

  ‘I know. Dreadful, isn’t it?’

  ‘What did the police have to say about it?’

  How does Bert know the cops were talking to me? I didn’t tell him. And how is he so sure it’s the same girl who was looking for me?

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police, I saw them at the Wall’s a couple of days ago.’

  ‘The cops?’

  ‘Yes, when I arrived back from the hospital they were walking out of the yard.’

  ‘Was Dad there?’

  ‘I don’t know. They were leaving at the time, so I don’t know if they got an answer. Did your father not mention it?’

  What will I say? My heart is beating like a late night party and Bert is looking at me for an answer.

  ‘No, I haven’t spoken to him yet, maybe he wasn’t there when they called.’

  ‘Oh. Well, his van was outside.’

  I’m ready to explode. Surely Dad would ring me and tell me if the cops called asking about me? He would, I know he would. He must have been down in the shed at the end of the yard and never heard their knock.

  ‘He was probably out back,’ I say, wanting Bert to stop talking about it.

  ‘I guess so,’ Bert replies, placing the bag on the floor. I hope he didn’t talk to the cops, that he didn’t tell them Katie Collins was at my dad’s house.

  ‘Did you talk to them?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The cops?’

  ‘God no, Becca, none of my business,’ he says.

  ‘I think I better go, Bert. Dad is waiting for me. I’ll call into the hospital tomorrow or the next day and check up on you. And you have my number if anything happens.’

  ‘Thanks Becca, it was nice to see a friendly face,’ he says, walking me to the door.

  ‘I’m sure the nurses are friendly, Bert.’

  ‘Oh they are, they are. Just not the kind of friendly you want.’

  Stepping out onto the porch, my thoughts are twisted. Did the cops say something to Dad? Maybe they didn’t get to speak to him; it’s possible he doesn’t even know they called. His van would have been there if he’d gone to the bar. I want to ask Bert what time he saw the cops, but I don’t want to bring up the subject up again. But Bert will not let up.

  ‘Did you ever find out why the young lady was looking for you?’ he says.

  ‘I never did,’ I say, turning to walk away.

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I thought you might have got some idea from the note she left you.’

  * * *

  I’m glad my back is to Bert because my face has probably turned grey. That’s it: the note. Katie Collins did not deliver the note to my apartment, she delivered it to my Dad’s house. Wherever she got her information from, it was not updated with my move to the city.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dad’s van stands in the usual place at the side of the yard but when I get inside, the house is empty. I call out his name but there’s no reply, so I go upstairs to see if he is still in bed. If he’s not, this is my opportunity to search for the note.

  The door to the bedroom is closed. With my hand on the handle I slowly open it and peep inside.

  ‘Dad, are you here?’

  The room is empty, a cool breeze drifting through the open window. A tall freestanding wardrobe sits in the center of the wall. At the front of the wardrobe a dark suit hangs against the door with a tie hung over the right shoulder. A black tie. A pair of newly polished black shoes sit on the floor below. My heart shudders, sending a shiver through my body. I cross over and take a sleeve of the suit in my hand. I see him. Walking behind the coffin up the aisle of the church, standing by the grave tossing a rose into the ground. One last rose, one last goodbye.

  Is Mom going to die soon? I’m scared, worried. Why is Dad getting ready? In the early days, before Mom took sick, Dad was always ready and waiting for whatever was going on. No last minute rushes there, not like me. Mom said it was the army that had him like that. She would laugh at his efficiency, at how he spent so much time standing, waiting for the rest of us. But that all changed. Now there are days when he doesn’t even shave.

  If the note is anywhere it’s probably in the kitchen, amongst the piles of papers that seem to sprout from every counter. I hope Joanna hasn’t done one of her mighty clean-ups this week. If she has, the note is probably playing its part in a recycling center by now. My big secret, beginning a new career as toilet paper. Pushing myself through the gap between the bed and the wall, I stretch to close the window. My foot bumps something under the bed. I reach down to see what it is and pull a pile of newspapers from under the bed.

  My heart skips a chorus when I see Katie Collins staring back, her blue eyes focused, her blonde hair with its center parting. It’s one of those high school yearbook photos, I think, but what a coincidence that the newspaper is folded open on the page covering her story. Even from the other side the woman seems determined to find me.

  Only it’s not a coincidence. Taking the pile of papers from the floor I toss them on to the bed. Each newspaper is folded open on the page covering the Katie Collins story. What is Dad doing? Fear threatens to pull me to the ground. Does he know? Does Dad know I’m a suspect?

  I’ve been doing my best to keep this drama away from his door, but somehow it arrived, knocked, and got an answer. Oh poor Dad, he certainly does not need any more worries. Maybe he’s just intrigued by a local murder story. Most people are; it can inject a bit of excitement into an otherwise bored community. But I don’t think Dad’s like that.

  I shove the newspapers back under the bed, praying Dad doesn’t know Katie Collins came looking for me. Then it occurs to me – the note. Did he find the note and recognize her name at the end of it? Did that send him into a panic, send him rushing out to buy newspapers? Or did Turner actually get to talk to him? Oh God, I don’t know what to think. Surely if she did speak to him he would have told me, or at least Danny. Yes, he would definitely have told Danny, and Danny would have called me by now.

  The kitchen is a mess, mugs and plates piled up in the sink. A half eaten block of cheese stands on the counter uncovered. There are bite marks in it, where Dad didn’t even bother slicing it up before he ate. The floor and table around his chair are covered in crumbs and bits of wrappers and there’s a loaf of bread going hard on the countertop. Things have definitely changed around here.

  At least that means there’s a chance the note is still here somewhere. I check the drawers in the dresser and the units. No sign. Though I’m not really sure what it is I’m looking for. A piece of paper? Was it written on a card? I should have asked Bert what he saw but I’m not going back there now.

  After exhausting the kitchen, I’m about to turn my attention to the hallway when I see a piece of paper sticking out from under a half dead plant sitting on a little shelf by the kitchen door. Pulling a chair from under the table, I step up and slip the piece of paper from under the pot. My mouth is dry, stomach turning. I turn it over and read Remember to take your memory tablets.

  Mom’s handwriting. This note hung on the refrigerator door when she was first diagnosed and able to medicate herself. Taking a deep breath, I start my still heart beating again. As I get down from the chair I hear a key in the front door, so I push the chair back into place by the table and sit on it.

  Dad startles when he sees me.

  ‘Jesus, Becca, you frightened the life out of me.’

  ‘Didn’t you see my car outside?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘But it’s Sunday, Dad. Where’s Danny and Joanna?’

  ‘They’re not coming today. Didn’t Danny text you? He was supposed to text you.’


  Dad crosses to the refrigerator and stocks it with the beers he takes from the brown bag in his hand.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yeah?’ he says, twisting the cap off a bottle of beer and lifting it to his lips.

  ‘I’m looking for a note that was left here for me. Have you seen it?’

  ‘A note?’

  ‘A friend of mine left it here with her number for me to call her.’

  ‘I didn’t see any note,’ he says. ‘When was that?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘How do you know someone left you a note if you didn’t get a note?’ he says, turning to face me.

  ‘Bert saw her leave it in the mailbox.’

  ‘Bert.’ He swigs some more beer. ‘That old man is half blind. How would he know what he saw?’

  ‘She spoke to him.’

  With the bottle to his lips he stops drinking and gazes at the wall for what seems like an age.

  ‘I didn’t see any note, Becca,’ he says eventually. ‘Hey, do you want to go to Benny’s for lunch?’

  ‘Did the cops call here?’

  ‘What?’ Dad splutters, almost choking on his drink. ‘Cops? Here? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Bert said they called here the other day, what did they call for?’

  ‘No cops called here Becca, not to my knowledge. Sounds like that Bert fella is losing it, Becca. Seeing things. There were no cops here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Dad puts his beer down and turns his head to look directly at me. ‘What is going on, Becca?’ His pale face scrunches up, looking worried.

  ‘Nothing, it’s just Bert said…’

  ‘Stay away from that mad man, Becca. I don’t trust him, never did.’

  ‘So you didn’t speak to the cops… and you didn’t see a note?’

  ‘No Becca, I didn’t, now do you want to come to Benny’s or not?’

  But before I have time to refuse his offer my cell rings. It’s Bert. Edith is dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Pulling the duvet over my head, I close my eyes, hoping to get a couple more hours sleep. I was with Bert until late last night, pouring him whiskey and listening to his pain until eventually he nodded off on the sofa.

  I hear knocking. At first I think I imagined it but then it comes again. Someone banging on my door. I check the time: 8.45am. It’s a bit early for Jeff but who else could it be? Turner, maybe? I hope not. Hoping whoever it is will leave, I tuck the duvet tightly around my neck. If it is Turner she will probably leave, presuming I’ve already left for work.

  When the banging stops I creep out of bed and tiptoe out to the living room. But when I’m crossing to the kitchen to put the kettle on, the knocking starts again. This time I decide to answer it; no point in prolonging the pain. If Turner wants to speak to me she will get to me somehow.

  Checking the peephole, I can only see the warped picture of an empty corridor. Whoever it was is gone. Pulling my bathrobe tight, I unlock the door to glance outside and make sure. The moment I pull on the handle the door swings into my face, knocking me to the ground.

  ‘You bitch,’ he snarls, his face distorted by anger. Red eyes, burning skin, teeth displayed like a pouncing wolf, he storms into the room. ‘I told you what would happen,’ he says. ‘I warned you.’

  Stephen Black is scaring the life out of me. I try to stand up but he walks over, plants a Prada shoe on my hip and pushes me down again.

  ‘Did you think you’d get away with it?’

  He turns away, giving me the chance to lurch upright. That’s when I realize my bathrobe is wide open and I’m naked underneath. Tugging it tightly around me, I search for the belt that’s swinging somewhere at the back. I can’t find it, so I hold the robe closed and slip in behind the couch to protect myself.

  ‘You’re going to have to take it back,’ he growls, his eyes popping in their sockets. I have never seen anyone so angry. He looks possessed, like he could sprout horns and a tail at any moment.

  My body is shaking, teeth chattering. Blood rushes to my head. I don’t want to anger him any more but I don’t want to be a victim of his bullying either.

  ‘I can’t take it back,’ I say, in a voice I can barely hear myself.

  ‘What? What are you saying?’ he snarls through expensive porcelain teeth as he walks behind the sofa. Clenching his fists, he pushes his face up close to mine. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I can’t take it back,’ I say, louder this time.

  ‘You will take it back, because I’m going to deny it, say you made it up, that you have a crush on me.’ His eyes are wild, almost on fire, spit flecking his lips. ‘And who do you think the cop will believe, me or you?’ He looks away, down to the shaking hands holding my bathrobe closed. ‘Me, the successful lawyer with an impeccable reputation?’ Reaching for my hands, he grabs them and pulls the gown open. His eyes travel up and down my naked body. ‘Or you, Rebecca Wall, the little slut?’

  I open my mouth to cry for help but the words are stuck somewhere; all that comes out is a squeaky whining noise. I try again but I still can’t talk. I’m dying here, I feel like my soul is being crushed. I want to puke, to run, but I can’t move. Sucking air into my lungs, I know I must keep breathing. No, please, no. I feel the heat of his hands travel down my arms, taking my robe with them. No. No, please don’t. I can hear myself pleading on the inside but for some reason the words won’t come out of my mouth. Please don’t rape me.

  I fall back against the wall, as if I’m going to collapse, but it doesn’t stop him. My robe is now crumpled at my feet. Closing my eyes, the noise of his belt opening screeches in my ears. Something inside me dies.

  ‘Get the fuck off her!’

  I’m frozen, unable to open my eyes, unable to move from the wall. But I know it’s Jeff.

  Now he is threatening Black, but for some reason Stephen isn’t fighting back. As I allow my eyes to open, a blurred picture unfolds. Jeff, gripping the collar of Stephen’s jacket and pushing him out of the room. Jeff, with something in his hand.

  I think it’s a gun.

  When the door slams, I slide down the wall, pulling my robe over me. My body has never shaken like this before. I can see it – my hands, legs, feet – but I can’t feel it. Every part of me is numb. I don’t cry, there’s no point, tears can’t express how I feel now. I’m not sad. I’m broken.

  Jeff slides down the wall and rests his body beside me. He places his hand on mine but doesn’t speak, just sits by my side, squeezing my hand every now and then, letting me know he is there. Gradually the fear holding my body hostage starts to evaporate. Heat is the first sensation I get back. It travels into my hand from Jeff’s grip.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The smell of garlic is making me sick. Clouds of steam surround Jeff as he stirs something on the hob, making him look like he has appeared as the result of a magic trick.

  I have to eat. It’s Jeff’s answer to everything.

  I’m trying not to think about what would have happened if Jeff hadn’t been going past my apartment. If he hadn’t rushed back to his own apartment and grabbed the guitar tuner, which held in a certain way resembles a gun.

  ‘Spaghetti or linguini?’ he says, opening one of the cupboards

  ‘Is there a difference?’

  ‘Of course there’s a difference,’

  ‘Well…’ I’m not about to ask what the difference is because Jeff can go on for hours about food and wine and tastes and textures. ‘Whatever you think,’

  He looks up to the heavens. Maybe he’s right, maybe I’m not his type.

  * * *

  Letting the room darken around us, we sit and eat the spaghetti – or linguini, I’m not sure. It’s been two days since Stephen Black assaulted me and I haven’t been outside the door. No one has called, no one has missed me. Everyone is caught up in their own shit. I thought Turner might call, that she might have found out something, but no, nothing.

  ‘Do you think eve
ryone has forgotten I exist, Jeff?’

  ‘What?’ Jeff laughs. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, no one has bothered ringing me to ask me how I am.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone what happened?’

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘Becca,’ he says, turning to face me. He has that expression, the one he seldom calls on. The one he wears when he’s about to say something serious. ‘Becca,’ he says again, placing his hand on my leg. ‘It’s time.’

  ‘Time for what?’

  ‘Time to get your act together. You’ve been wallowing in self-pity for two days now and, well, it doesn’t suit you,’

  It doesn’t suit me? Has he any idea what I’ve been through?

  ‘Get up, get dressed and get focused,’ he says. He gets up from the sofa, walks to the fridge and pulls out a big bag of greens. Bill and Hillary, Jeff’s sister’s rabbits, bounce to the front of the cage when they see him coming. ‘Do you still want to find out why Katie Collins was looking for you?’

  ‘What? Yes, of course,’

  ‘Right. Well, let’s do that then. Let’s see what Thomas Collins has to say.’

  * * *

  Back in my apartment, Jeff waits while I shower, change my clothes and put on some makeup. I feel better now, not so much a victim. But I’m still nervous.

  It won’t take me long to empty out this place when I leave, which I will have to do as soon as the landlord realizes I haven’t paid my rent last month, and won’t be paying it this month either. Everything is spiraling out of control. I need to find out why Katie Collins was looking for me. Maybe if I get some answers then I can start to rebuild my life.

  Jeff is suggesting I leave my apartment now, and take his sister’s room until she gets back, whenever that is. He doesn’t know. I’m not going to make any decisions at the moment because everything is so fucked up. ‘Let’s wait and see what happens,’ I tell him.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ Jeff says when we get back to his apartment.