A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Read online

  The bus slows and someone from the back shouts that this is his stop. After that, it’s a series of oohs and aahs as a succession of people squeeze through the crowd to get off via the front door. The man in the beanie disappears, along with the woman in gym gear. There’s suddenly a little more space and I try to do-si-do myself away from Mr Stinky. There’s little respite as he slides around half-a-dozen newcomers who scramble to get the most secure handholds. I’m left clinging to a new metal pole, slightly nearer the front.

  The bus surges forward and I’m two stops from sanctuary. There are traffic lights between here and there, which means another wobbling lurch of bodies swaying into one another.

  Mr Stinky is still on Facebook, telling someone named ‘Big Tom’ that his pimped-out twatmobile of a car is ‘the dog’s’.

  We stop at my penultimate bus stop. The boy with the backpack who gave me two pounds wriggles through the horde and gets off. He clutches his phone in his hand and doesn’t acknowledge me. I’m not sure why I thought he might, or should. For him, the two pounds was a shrug. It was nothing. He might have rich parents. It simply meant he could get on the bus quicker. For me, it was a gesture that means I get to eat this weekend.

  After he’s off, more people get on. The bus is now so full that passengers are standing level with the driver. He shouts something about moving to the back, but there’s nowhere to go. Someone presses an elbow or an arm into my back, but I don’t have enough room to see who it is. In the meantime, a woman who is wearing what can only be described as a faded curtain treads on my toe without apologising and then swings her oversized handbag into some bloke’s stomach. He grunts in pain, but she doesn’t notice because she’s busy huffing something to the woman next to her about ‘foreigners filling up all the buses’. She then turns to Mr Stinky and tells him to put his arm down because he ‘needs a wash’.

  Mr Stinky eyes her incredulously but lowers his arm and puts his phone away, suitably chastened. Turns out there’s a hero in all of us – even the racist lunatics.

  One more stop to go. Two minutes at the most. After the bus pulls away, I stretch for the bell and the most satisfying of ding-dongs echoes along the length of the aisle. Mandela might have had a long walk to freedom, but I’ll be damned if he ever spent twenty minutes on the number 24 bus on a Friday.

  I’m counting the seconds when the floor rumbles and the bus slows. Moments later, everything swerves to the side and the doors fizz open.

  This time, it’s me apologising as I clasp my bag to my side and try to clamber around everyone else. I trample on someone’s foot, accidentally elbow someone else in the hip and then almost grab a man’s crotch as I reach for a metal pole to try to support myself. He snorts with laughter as I apologise and, in fairness, it is the most action I’ve had in longer than I care to remember.

  There are a few more steps, the customary ‘thanks’ to the driver, more through habit than actual gratefulness, and then – finally! – the crisp, cool, clean air of the real world. My sentence has been expunged and I can walk free with a clear conscience.

  The rain has stopped and the pavement glistens bright as I hoist my bag higher and start the walk towards home. Some kids in school uniform are busy kicking a wall because… well, I have no idea. Perhaps this is what young people do nowadays? Better than hard drugs in the bushes, I suppose. I weave around them, eyes down, and then offer a watery smile towards an old woman who is wheeling one of those canvas bag things behind her. I’ve never seen them for sale anywhere. There must be an old person store for which you only get the address after reaching pension age. She smiles back and carries on heading in one direction, while I go in the other.

  I’m halfway across the road when I realise something doesn’t feel right. I almost stop right there, in the join of Fisher Road and Allen Street, as I try to figure out what’s going on. It’s that same sinking feeling when a phone or purse has been lost. Or a bus pass. That panicked realisation of not being in control.

  A taxi is impatiently waiting to take the turn, the driver hanging out the window with that flabby-cheeked, dead-eyed gaze of a man who’s spent the day listening to radio phone-ins. He gives me that get-a-move-on-love look, so I hurry across to the safety of the pavement.

  There’s a strange moment in which I wonder if I’ve left my bag on the bus, before realising that it’s in my hand. Panic does odd things to the mind. Absolutes are suddenly doubted. My bag is open, however. The zip has been sticking for months and I don’t have the money to buy a new one. Brute force sometimes works, but only ever temporarily. I suppose that could be a lesson for life, not just with bags.

  It’s then that it seems so obvious what’s bothering me. My bag is heavier because a padded envelope is tucked inside. It wasn’t there before and I find myself sitting on a low wall at the edge of the pavement, holding onto the envelope with a strange sense of awe. The flap is sealed closed and there’s no writing on the outside. No address, no markings, no anything. Only a plain, taupe envelope. It’s heavy and packed thick with whatever’s inside. It must have fallen in there while I was on the bus.

  This envelope isn’t mine – and yet there are no clues on the outside as to whom it might belong. I have no choice but to open it – if only to find out whose it is.

  And so I do.

  There’s a tingle of excitement, like unwrapping presents on Christmas morning. The anticipation of the unknown. The tab unsticks itself from the envelope and then I pull it away, accidentally tearing off part of the corner. I reach inside, and though I instinctively know what I’m now running my fingers across, there’s still a large part of me that can’t believe what’s in front of me.

  It’s money.

  More cash than I’ve ever seen in one place before. Hundreds of pounds. No, thousands – all wedged down until the envelope is filled.

  There are tight bundles of those new plastic notes. They feel so smooth and clean. So… wrong.

  I quickly push the notes back inside and fold the flap down while checking around to make sure nobody has seen. This would be a lot of money anywhere, but, here, on the street, in this little run-down corner of the world…

  The envelope is dispatched back into my bag and, this time, I do wrench the zip closed. Brute force is the champion.

  I set off towards home, but everything feels muddled and I almost trip over my own feet in my attempt to walk quickly. It’s as if I’ve stumbled into a mirror world. Up is down. Left is now right.

  So much money.

  So.

  Much.

  Money.

  And, for now, it’s all mine.

  Chapter Two

  It’s such a strange thing that strips of printed plastic can be swapped for real, tangible things. For food, for the roof over my head. I can understand something like gold being valuable. It’s shiny and heavy and… real. I suppose it’s odder that a click of a mouse or the swipe of a screen can lead to numbers changing and then, suddenly, one person has more worth than they did moments before. Life can be full of the weirdest things at which we all simply shrug.

  And, for me, right now, there is £3,640 on my coffee table. It’s almost all comprised of the new plasticky £20 notes, with only a handful of tens.

  No wonder my bag felt heavier.

  I found my bus pass, too. It was tucked into the wrong pocket of my purse, barely a couple of millimetres away from where it always is. Sometimes panic can stop a person from seeing what is directly in front of them.

  The notes are stacked into piles of £200 to make them easier to tally – and I’ve done some serious counting since getting home. Over and over I’ve gone, reaching £3,640 on every occasion, except one. Somehow, I found a phantom £20 that time, which appeared and disappeared from one count to the next.

  I pack the notes back into the envelope, seal the tab at the top and then put it back on the table.

  I’m definitely going to hand it in to the police.

  Definitely.

  Billy
comes and sniffs at the envelope, but seems nonplussed by it. Dogs deal in food, sleep and affection, which seems like a decent way to live. He turns his head sideways, staring at me with those endless brown eyes that are now encircled with increasing amounts of grey hair. He was once black with white underneath, but now his Staffie face is a pepper pot of dark and grey. It comes to us all, I suppose – the poor sod.

  I push myself up from the sofa and cross the apartment. The scratched bareness of the old carpet transitions seamlessly into the ripped linoleum of the kitchen. One of my few solaces from living here is that I haven’t made the flat any worse. I scrub the walls and ceiling whenever I find mould. I clear the spider’s webs whenever they appear. I get rid of the limescale in the bath and sink. I try to keep the place clean, but it’s a constant fight against landlord neglect and age itself.

  Billy’s tail wags with anticipation – but that’s only because he doesn’t yet know of the disappointment to come. I fork half a tin of food into his bowl and then put it on the floor next to the sink. He sniffs it and then looks up at me, betrayed.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ I tell him. ‘Those tins were four for a fiver. Unless you fancy getting a job, it’s all there is.’

  He sniffs the food once more and then takes a reticent mouthful.

  As he eats slowly, I open the mail. It’s the end of the month, so my usual credit card bill has arrived. I have no idea how I got approved for it – but it is, essentially, the only reason I can afford to live. The minimum payment is £15, but I owe a little over £200 in total. It’s not much, not in the bigger picture of inflated house prices and brand-new cars, but it feels like so much more than it is. There was a time when I wouldn’t have thought twice about spending £200 on an evening away, or a new dress for some posh function.

  Not any longer.

  It doesn’t feel as if I’ll ever clear it. I never thought I’d end up as one of those people who always owes money – but here I am.

  Billy is getting into the swing of eating a little more now, not quite so put out by the treachery of cheap food.

  I find myself staring at the envelope of money on the table: £3,640 that I’m definitely going to hand in.

  Before I know it, the envelope is in my hand and I’m not entirely sure when I crossed the room. The apartment’s only room. I lift the envelope flap slowly, peering at the packed rows of twenty-pound notes.

  I’m lost in thoughts of the good I could do with the windfall. The way I could turn my life around… which is when a noise thumps through the apartment.

  I shriek and possibly even jump a little. Literally jump. There’s somebody at the door. I cram the envelope into the drawer underneath the television and then shout ‘hang on’ as I double-check the money is definitely still inside the envelope. There’s an addictive intoxication to it. A lure.

  Billy is still in the kitchenette, half watching the door in case this newcomer is interested in his food.

  The identity of the person at the door is no surprise. It’s not as if I have a gargantuan circle of friends who pop in unannounced at regular intervals. I don’t live in a sitcom.

  Karen is leaning on my door frame, half turned to the door opposite.

  ‘You seen ’im yet, then?’ she asks.

  ‘Who?’ I reply.

  Karen nods across the hall. ‘Our new neighbour.’

  She looks between me and the closed door expectantly, as if whoever it is might appear through the sheer force of her will. Nobody does, of course.

  ‘I don’t know why you think it’s a him,’ I say.

  ‘I saw Lauren on her way out today and wheedled it out of her. She’s still fuming that Jade up and left without paying the rent.’ Karen turns from the closed door back to me. ‘Did you know Jade left all her stuff? There wasn’t much, but Lauren reckons she had to pay someone to come and take it all. Guess that’s what happens with students.’

  Karen pushes herself up from leaning into a standing position. She’s still eyeing the door across the hallway as if there’s a prize behind it. If I was in there, I’d probably be hiding from Karen, too. She’s lovely – and my best friend, if I’m honest. That’s partly because a single woman in a crappy flat with a crappier job and no money isn’t really in demand among the social circles of society. It’s also because we really do get on. She does enjoy the gossip a lot more than I do, however, and the identity of our new neighbour is something that’s been a constant source of speculation and conversation since we found out Jade had left a few months ago.

  I always liked Jade. She seemed assertive enough and, more importantly in a place like this, never made any noise. The fact that she upped and left without telling Lauren, our building manager, seems a bit unlike her – but then I guess we never had a real conversation. It’s funny how much you think you know about a person through snatched snippets of interaction.

  ‘He’s probably hiding,’ I say.

  Karen turns back to me. ‘Who?’

  ‘Our new neighbour. He’s heard you’re prowling around the hallway and is keeping his head down.’

  I grin and Karen acknowledges the truth with a smirk. ‘I’m not prowling,’ she says. ‘I baked a welcome-to-your-new-home cake – and then no one’s seen him in two weeks.’ She pauses, biting her bottom lip. ‘I reckon it’s a rich businessman using it as a place to meet his mistress. Y’know… cheap flat… no one’s gonna suspect he’d bring anyone here.’

  She’s right about one thing. Hamilton House has been around for more than six decades and is gradually becoming more and more run-down. The people who live in the flats do so not through choice but because there’s hardly anywhere cheaper in the local area. It’s the sort of place where people can spend decades and it’s a competition to see whether the building is condemned before the tenants die of gas poisoning or respiratory lung problems brought on by the damp. We literally live in an eyesore.

  There’s no way a rich businessman is bringing anyone here, secret mistress or not, but I can’t be bothered to talk about it any longer.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I say.

  ‘Did you hear ’im playing Elton John the other day?’ Karen asks.

  I blink at her, silenced for a second before I find my voice. ‘Really?’

  It’s only a single word, but I still manage to falter in saying it.

  Karen looks to me, picking up on the crack in my voice. She frowns: ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes, I um…’

  If she noticed my momentary stumble, then Karen moves on quickly. ‘I’m going to invite him to my birthday party,’ she says, before taking two steps across the hall and rapping her knuckles on the door.

  We wait in silence as nothing happens. Karen tries knocking a second time but gets the same response, so she shrugs, crouches, and slips an envelope under the door. She turns back to me.

  ‘You’re coming, aren’t you?’

  I shrink back into my apartment. ‘I don’t know. It’s on bonfire night and Billy gets scared by the fireworks.’

  As I glance back into the flat, Billy’s ears prick up at the sound of his name. He’s finished his food and is sitting next to the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink. Sometimes, it feels like he’s the bouncing, excitable dog he once was; other times, it’s like he can barely muster the energy to move.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Karen replies. ‘The Rec Centre says dogs are okay. I asked especially. The party’s in the room at the back, so you probably won’t hear the fireworks in there. There’ll be music to drown it out anyway.’

  Damn.

  Parties are not my thing and haven’t been for a long, long time. It’s all true about Billy and bonfire night, but, as much as I like Karen, I was also hoping to use him as an excuse to get out of going to her party. I think, deep down, that’s how everybody feels about this sort of thing. The minute a wedding invite arrives, or there’s a mention of a birthday or anniversary party, those summoned start thinking of the best way to get out of it. Sickness is an obvi
ous one, but we pray for an altered work rota or to be hit by a taxi. Sure, it might mean a shattered limb – but it will provide the sweet, sweet respite from an evening’s pretence of enjoying ourselves.

  With Karen’s party, the Rec Centre is only a street away, so it’s not as if I can even claim to have no way of getting there.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’ll be there then.’

  Karen checks something on her phone and then takes a step towards her own flat at the end of the hallway.

  ‘You working tomorrow?’ she asks. ‘I was wondering if we might do another Parkrun. I could knock at eight…?’

  It’s all a stream of words, touching on three different subjects in what is barely a sentence. It takes me a moment to de-spaghettify it all.

  ‘I am working,’ I say. ‘But I can do Parkrun before.’

  She breaks into a smile. There’s nothing like struggling through a 5K run with company.

  ‘I’ve gotta get back,’ Karen says. ‘If I turn my back for two minutes, Quinn and Ty end up playing UFC with each other. They’re banned from watching it – but I think someone at school has it on their phone.’ She stops for breath and then adds: ‘Are you still okay to take the kids trick or treating on Sunday?’

  ‘You’ve sold them as such angels, how could I say no?’

  The truth is, I’m not looking forward to it – but Karen and I do our best to help out one another. It’s not as if we have families on whom to rely. Not so long ago, I’d have been happy to go trick or treating. This time of year – Hallowe’en and Bonfire Night – used to be my favourite days of the year, even above Christmas. I’d love the sulphur in the air; the ever-increasing whizzes and bangs that would light up the sky leading up to the fifth of November itself. Now, I have too many bad memories of the week.

  Karen smirks. ‘They’re not bad kids, really.’

  ‘I know.’ A pause. ‘Have you got some fella on the go…?’

  I’m fishing, because Karen has been cagey about precisely what she’s doing on Sunday night. She does agency work but only during the day so that she’s home for Tyler and Quinn. This is the third Sunday in a row that I’ll have kept an eye on her boys. Not that I mind.