Strangers (ARC)

by C. L. Taylor

  exhales shakily. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No need to be sorry. The room’s still available if you’d like to see it.’

  ‘Is it? Brilliant. When could I move in?’

  There’s a pause, then, ‘Are you free to see it now?’

  ‘Yes! No.’ Her heart sinks as she remembers the thirty-odd

  parcels squeezed up against her belongings in the back of the

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  van. ‘I’ve got to finish my round first, but I could be with you about sixish. Is that too late? I do really want it. I’m very keen and, as I said, I’m very reliable and tidy and—’

  More laughter. She’s not entirely sure if he’s laughing at her or with her. ‘You haven’t seen it yet. You might hate it.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t. It sounds perfect.’

  ‘Listen, no one else has booked in to see it today and, if

  anyone does ring, I won’t make any decisions until after you’ve come round. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ A warm wave of optimism courses through her. She’s

  not going to end up penniless or on the streets. Everything is going to be okay.

  ‘All right then,’ says the male voice. ‘I’ll see you about sixish.

  I’m number fifteen by the way.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Oh.’ A thought hits her. ‘One more question

  before I go.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘It’s Edward.’

  ‘Edward what?’

  There’s a pause, then Edward laughs lightly. ‘Goodbye, Ursula.

  Looking forward to seeing you soon.’

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  Chapter 6

  Alice

  Alice catches Lynne staring at her as they sort through the rail of rejected clothes outside the changing rooms and pile them

  over their arms, preparing to return them to the racks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re amazing. You know that?’

  Alice laughs. If Peter had been as ready with the compliments

  they might still be married. Actually, no, they wouldn’t. Nothing would have allowed her to forgive him for his infidelity, but

  she might have left the relationship with a tiny amount of self-confidence.

  ‘Why am I amazing?’

  Lynne lugs a heavy coat off the hanger and loops it over her

  arm. ‘Most normal people would have gone home after what

  happened to you.’

  ‘So I’m not normal then? Cheers.’

  Now it’s Lynne’s turn to laugh. ‘You know what I mean. I’d

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  have been straight under my duvet. Or . . .’ she gives her a sideways glance ‘. . . at the police station. Are you sure you don’t want to report him? I don’t want to go on at you but—’

  Alice sighs. That was what Simon said – the man who’d nearly

  given her a heart attack by running after her all the way from the pub to the mall with her dropped purse. He’d seen the whole thing and was willing to make a statement to the police. She’d said no, she just wanted to forget it, but her decision has been rankling at her ever since. What if she wasn’t the first woman Michael abused on a date? What if there were dozens of other

  women he’d creeped out and hurt? She realised she was going

  to have to report what happened but now she had no way of

  getting in touch with Simon, the only witness. She’d gone back to the shop without getting his details, desperate to put the

  whole episode behind her.

  ‘Oh, crap.’ She swears softly under her breath, causing Lynne

  to look round. It’s not long until they close and a customer has just wandered in.

  ‘It’s her.’ Lynne sidles up beside her and hisses in her ear. ‘The one I told you about.’

  Alice watches the customer as she drifts from rack to rack,

  trailing her fingers over the clothes. She’s the tallest woman Alice has ever seen – at least six foot three or four – with wide shoulders, a weighty physique and a large face with a broad forehead that her fine fringe draws attention to rather than hides. She’s dressed casually, in jogging bottoms, trainers and a lumpy wool coat.

  ‘Last time she was in she took a size eight skirt,’ Lynne hisses.

  ‘One of the new lot of stock – the ugly blue floral design none of us like. And she’s at least a size twenty-four.’

  Alice’s gaze flicks towards the door where Larry, their

  sixty-something security guard, is staring longingly out towards the concourse. Probably desperate to get home.

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  ‘Did he catch her?’ she asks Lynne, already knowing the

  answer.

  ‘He didn’t even notice and there was nothing on the CCTV.’

  Alice sighs softly. Chances are the woman’s stealing to order

  – probably has a list as long as her arm. The regular shoplifters are known to every manager in the Meads. They’re all banned

  but it doesn’t stop them from chancing it if Larry’s distracted and the staff are busy. But this woman isn’t on the printout

  Alice has got pinned up in the back of the shop.

  ‘But she definitely took it?’

  ‘Yeah. I saw her stuffing it into her jacket, but I had a customer kicking up a fuss about a button coming off a pair of trousers she’d bought two months ago. The next time I looked up,

  Godzilla over there had disappeared. So had the skirt.’

  Alice watches as the tall woman drifts towards the back of

  the store where they keep the handbags and jewellery.

  ‘You cash up,’ she tells Lynne. ‘I’ll tell her we’re about to

  close.’

  She follows the shoplifter across the store, dawdling at the

  racks en route, sorting the sizes into order as she keeps an eye on her. It doesn’t seem as though the woman’s looking for

  anything in particular but there’s a strange, tense air about her as though she’s holding her breath or she’s primed for a fight.

  It reminds Alice of her daughter and the way the air in the house changes when she gets back from work. There’s no point talking to Emily for at least half an hour after she comes in. Alice has to wait for her to stomp along to her room, get changed, stomp back down again to the kitchen, open the cupboard, uncork the

  rioja and glug a sizeable measure into a glass. Then they both relax.

  ‘Excuse me?’ The tall woman with the fringe appears beside

  Alice, making her jump. She looms rather than stands, her

  shoulders curved inwards, her head slightly bowed. The blue/

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  grey eyeliner under her lower lashes is smudged and there’s a

  faint tint of pink lipstick on her top lip.

  ‘Yes?’ Alice tries to read her body language. Most shoplifters are harmless – they want to get in and out without being spotted.

  But there’s another, more dangerous, breed: feisty and desperate women who’ll threaten anyone who gets too close with a dirty

  syringe. This woman doesn’t look like a druggy but there’s an

  edgy vibe to her that puts Alice on her guard.

  ‘There’s a man over there who’s trying to get your atten-

  tion.’ The shoplifter raises a long arm and points over Alice’s head.

&nbs
p; Standing near the cash desk, shifting awkwardly from side to

  side with an enormous bouquet of flowers in his hands, is Simon.

  Lynne, still behind the counter, catches Alice’s eye and pulls a face as if to say, ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Alice abandons the shoplifter and hurries across

  the shop towards Simon. He clears his throat as she draws closer, the base of his neck flushed red.

  ‘I . . . um . . . sorry, this is probably a bit weird but I . . .

  er . . . I’ve been wrestling with what happened earlier. I can’t help but feel that I should have stepped in or done something

  and I really didn’t help matters by chasing you down the street so um . . .’ He thrusts the bouquet of lilies and roses at her.

  ‘These are to say sorry. For what you went through and me . . .’

  he clears his throat again ‘. . . being a bit crap.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Alice feels herself flush as she takes the flowers. She buries her face in the blooms, sniffing to give herself a couple of seconds thinking time. She can’t remember the last time someone gave her flowers. Peter was never much of a

  romantic; she was lucky to get a card on Valentine’s Day and

  she’d always receive something functional and lacking in romance on her birthday.

  ‘My . . . um . . .’ Simon taps the cellophane wrapper. ‘I wrote 31

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  my number on the florist’s card. Just in case you changed your mind about talking to the police.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Alice raises her eyes to meet his. ‘You really

  didn’t have to do this. But it’s very kind of you.’

  He smiles awkwardly, one side of his mouth lifting more than

  the other. He’s not an attractive man per se – it’s not just his mouth that’s asymmetrical; there’s something about the balance of his face that’s a little bit off – but his grey eyes are soft and warm and his voice is deep and melodic.

  ‘Okay then.’ He shrugs and half-turns to go.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Alice says.

  Simon stops walking and looks back at her, surprise registering on his pale, freckled face.

  ‘About the police,’ she clarifies. ‘I’m going to ring them when I get home.’

  ‘Of course.’ He gives a small sharp nod, his eyes flicking

  towards the hulking woman who slips between him and Larry

  and trots out of the shop, arms folded tightly over her bulky

  coat.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Lynne breathes from behind Alice. ‘She’s nicked

  something else.’

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  Chapter 7

  Gareth

  Gareth is still fizzing with irritation as he parks up outside the house he shares with his mother. How dare William Mackesy

  scare his mum with a message like that? She suffers from dementia

  – something Mackesy knows perfectly well – and a comment

  about Gareth being in danger could easily make her have one of her turns. It wouldn’t just be a momentary upset either; she could be unsettled for days. It was a ridiculous thing to say. Of course he’s at risk from harm. He’s a security guard: there’s always the possibility that someone he apprehends could be carrying a

  weapon. Hell, just the other day he read about an ASDA guard

  stabbed in the arm and leg trying to stop a shoplifter.

  Bloody William Mackesy with his weasely little face, dark,

  shiny ball-bearing eyes and balding comb-over. He’s only met

  the man twice – once when he accompanied his mum to one of

  the ‘services’ at the church and once when he returned home

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  of his mug. Gareth’s mother Joan, a book-keeper pre-retirement, had always pooh-poohed religion but she’d been talked into

  going to the spiritualist church by a friend (some time before she developed dementia). She’d find some comfort, the friend

  said, in knowing there was an afterlife, even if she didn’t get a message. Gareth tried to talk his mum out of it but somehow

  found himself going along too.

  It was mostly women in the small, packed room, their coats

  and bags gathered onto their laps, their eyes fixed on the slight, slim man who stalked back and forth at the front of the room,

  pausing whenever he received a message ‘from the other side’,

  one hand pressed to the side of his head, his eyes raised to the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Gareth had braced himself for a miserable experience, for the weight of sadness and loss to pin him to his plastic seat, but there was a palpable excitement in the room. All the attendees were sitting up straight in their chairs, alert and ready, desperate for a message from their loved ones.

  ‘I’ve got a man here,’ William Mackesy announced, his gaze

  sweeping the audience, ‘and he’s shivering.’

  Sitting beside him, Gareth’s mum gasped softly and Mackesy

  zoomed in on her like a heat-seeking missile dressed in shiny

  Littlewoods trousers.

  ‘I’m so cold.’ He rubbed his hands up and down his arms,

  shivering dramatically. ‘That’s what he’s telling me. I’m so, so cold.’

  Joan nodded, lips pressed tightly together.

  ‘I’m getting a . . . Marvin . . .’ Joan gently slumped. ‘No . . . no, that’s someone else trying to come through. Wait your turn please, Marvin!’ The audience tittered. ‘Now I’m hearing from a Jeffery . . .’

  Gareth felt his mum stiffen at the ‘J’ sound. William Mackesy

  obviously noticed too. ‘Or is it John . . . yes, it’s John. A John and he’s . . .’ he tilted his head to one side ‘. . . he’s calling for you.

  He’s asking you to help him. Is that ringing any bells, love?’

  His mother’s croaked, heartbroken ‘yes’ was so painful it was

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  all Gareth could do not to storm up the aisle and punch Mackesy straight in the face. Instead he reached for his mum’s hand,

  squeezed it and stared at the floor. An excruciating minute or two later, Mackesy finally moved on to someone else.

  ‘Do you think it was really him?’ his mother whispered when

  they filed out of the room forty-five minutes later. ‘Do you think it was Dad?’

  ‘There’s no way Dad would send you a message via a cock

  like that,’ Gareth wanted to reply. Instead he said, ‘If it brings you peace, Mum.’

  She gave him a long look. ‘I won’t find peace until I see him again.’

  As Gareth gets out of his car and opens the gate his thoughts

  switch from William Mackesy to his dad. It’s been twenty years since he went missing whilst hiking on Scafell Pike. A huge search and rescue effort was mounted but his dad was never found.

  They’d always assumed, and the police had agreed, that his dad had suffered some kind of accident while hiking alone on the

  mountain, and his body had fallen or rolled somewhere he couldn’t be spotted by the search and rescue helicopter or the on-foot

  search teams. When the police interviewed Gareth and his mother and they’d asked about his dad’s mental health his mum was

  quick to dismiss suicide as a possibility. They were a happy family and John was enjoying his retirement. He had a sturdy constitu-tion – physically and mentally – and rarely visited the doctor.

  Garet
h agreed. His had been a happy childhood, without the

  arguments and stony silences that seemed to punctuate so many

  of his friends’ memories. Life became more difficult when Gareth entered his teens. Almost overnight he seemed to morph from ‘my little man’ to ‘you don’t know what side your bread is buttered’.

  Looking back now he understands why his dad had such a heavy

  hand when it came to school and homework – he wanted Gareth

  to achieve more than he had – but it still stings, remembering his father walking out of the kitchen in silence when Gareth’s O Level 35

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  results arrived. Years later his dad made no secret of the fact that he was bitterly disappointed with Gareth’s decision to become a security guard. ‘A job for a failed policeman,’ was how he dismissed it. But Gareth wasn’t a failed policeman. He was a man who’d

  failed to get into the police. Regardless of the distinction, the criticism was still there and it hurt.

  He glances up, sensing movement at one of the windows in

  the house next door. He catches a glimpse of Georgia, the thirteen-year-old who lives with her mum Kath, but the curtain is drawn swiftly across the window before he can raise his hand in hello.

  Gareth sniffs as he steps into the dark hallway and turns on the light. An eggy, carbon smell floods his nostrils. What’s she burnt this time?

  ‘Mum!’ he calls as he runs towards the kitchen, but there’s

  no sign of his dumpy mother in her sheepskin slippers and Dad’s oversized navy-blue cardigan in the tiny smoke-filled kitchen.

  There’s a pan holding two incinerated boiled eggs smouldering

  on a gas ring. Covering his mouth with his sleeve, Gareth grabs a tea towel from the drawer, yanks the billowing saucepan off

  the cooker top, and drops it into the sink. It fizzes against the cold metal as he throws open the back door and turns on the

  extractor fan.

  ‘Mum!’ He pushes through the living room door. ‘You know

  you nearly burnt the house down!’

  His mother, sitting in complete darkness save for the flickering television in the corner of the room, turns and looks at his feet.

  ‘You’ve still got your work boots on. Take them off; you’re

  traipsing mud into the fitted carpets.’