A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Page 3
Karen glances away to the other end of the hall, suddenly unable to meet my eye. ‘Something like that,’ she squirms.
She doesn’t want to talk about it, so I leave it.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she adds, before scurrying down the corridor to her flat. Boys’ screaming voices echo out momentarily as she opens the door and then there’s quiet.
I take a moment to eye the door across the hall. There’s a peephole in the centre and, for some reason, it feels as if there’s someone on the other side. I hug my arms across myself, feeling the stranger’s eyes scanning me. Billy takes that as a cue to poke his head into the hallway. He shifts his head in both directions and then turns to look up at me and he licks his chops.
‘Fat lot of good you are,’ I tell him as I usher him back inside.
I’ve almost closed the door when a solitary creak ekes ominously from across the hallway. From inside Jade’s old apartment. I stop to watch, but seconds pass without any other noise; without any hint of movement or acknowledgement. It’s an old building, after all.
It’s when I eventually click my door shut that I wonder if I heard anything at all.
Chapter Three
The money is stacked on my table again, all £3,640 of it. I leave it there, as if it’s an invited guest. It feels comforting to have it in front of me and I find myself slightly reordering the piles so that the cleaner, newer notes are all together. It’s only when Billy comes to lie at my feet that I notice I’ve spent almost twenty minutes simply looking at – and touching – the money.
In the end, I force myself to get my laptop from the drawer underneath the television. It was a Christmas deal on Amazon nearly two years ago, although cheap for the same reason most things are cheap: it’s barely useable. I flip the lid and turn it on and then put it down. Booting up takes a minimum of five minutes – and that’s if it loads at all. Using the computer is something like raising a toddler. Sometimes it does what it’s told and everything’s happiness and light; other times it’s uncooperative, even against threats of extreme violence.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be allowed to raise a toddler.
I wait for the laptop to go through its usual routine of deciding whether it’s going to actually do something today – bit like those workmen digging up the road – and then it finally reaches the main screen.
There is work for me to do and I load the Open University website, but, before I actually get on with anything, I find myself googling ‘missing money’ and the name of our town. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but there’s nothing of note. I try ‘stolen money’, but that only brings up a few news stories about minor robberies going back over the past few years. There’s nothing recent, so I try searching for the exact amount.
Nothing.
The £3,640 could be part of a larger figure, of course. Some sort of robbery, or drug money? I don’t know. I’ve probably seen too many crime dramas. Drug money? I might be naïve but I don’t think my sleepy little corner of the world is up there with the South American cartels when it comes to laundering cash.
I pack the money into the envelope once more, but it’s like trying to cram toothpaste back into a tube. Each time I remove all the notes, the envelope seems to shrink slightly. Eventually I reseal the envelope and put it into the drawer, but it’s almost as if the money is calling to me. Whenever I look to my laptop hoping to do some university work, I find my attention drifting to the drawer.
It’s not long before I move the envelope to the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink. Because I still can’t focus, I then hide it underneath the mattress that’s part of the bed which folds down from the wall next to the sofa. My flat is so small that there isn’t anywhere better to conceal it, not without ripping up floorboards.
That doesn’t stop me from thinking about it. It’s hard to know where the money came from. I noticed it after getting off the bus – but the number 24 doesn’t seem the type of place that someone would be carrying around so much cash. That said, I’m not sure I frequent any places in which people would be carrying these sorts of amounts. The envelope wasn’t in my bag when I was looking for my bus pass, so it appeared either on my walk from the bus stop, or on the bus itself.
I’m lost in a daydream when my phone starts to ring. It’s an old, battered Android that I’ve dropped more times than I care to remember. If it wasn’t for the £1.99 case I bought from the market, my phone would have been a goner months ago. I pay £10 a month, which is one of my more extravagant outgoings. There is no landline phone in the flat and it’s hard to lead a life in these times without a mobile: I am texted my shift times and I have to call our building manager, Lauren, if there are any problems at the flat. Even my banking, for what it’s worth, is done through an app.
The phone’s screen is scratched and scuffed but the word ‘unknown’ beams bright. I wouldn’t usually answer – it’ll almost certainly be a life-sapping marketing call – but there’s a part of me that somehow believes it might be the money-owner calling.
‘Hello?’
There’s silence from whoever’s at the other end, not even one of those tell-tale clicks that happen when it’s a telemarketer. I check the phone, but it’s back to the home screen. Whoever called me rang off the moment I answered. The previous caller’s option reveals only ‘unknown’. I stare at it for a second to two, wondering if there’s anything I can do to trace the call and then deciding I’m not that bothered.
By now, Billy is back on his feet and hanging around by the front door. When he was younger, he’d actually paw when he wanted to be let out – but he’s far savvier now. He knows that it only takes a look for me to understand what he wants. He likes to roam the corridors of the building, pacing around for a few minutes to go up and down the stairs. I take him out in the mornings and evenings so he can go to the toilet, but it’s like he learned to walk himself in between times.
When I open the door, there is a corgi also wandering around. He is named Judge and he turns to look up at me, as if I’ve caught him up to no good. Judge’s owner, Nick, lives two doors down and we sometimes take the dogs for joint walks. The two dogs sniff at one another and then head in opposite directions along the hallway. I guess it isn’t only me who has become a reclusive loner.
I leave the door slightly open, ready for Billy’s return, and then perch on the edge of the kitchen counter as my phone buzzes once more.
It’s a message this time – and there are no questions about who it’s from. I was on the street a couple of months back when one of those chugger-types enthusiastically bounded towards me. I try to stare at the floor in such situations but somehow ended up with a promo card that offered three free months’ membership of a dating website. I wasn’t going to do anything with it, but then, for a reason of which I’m still not completely sure, I ended up signing up. It was probably the word ‘free’ that did it. There’s very little I turn down when it’s not going to cost me anything.
An actual dating website seems old-fashioned given the amount of left- and right-swiping that goes on nowadays. I guess that’s how quickly times move.
Either way, I have a message from one of my matches, a bloke named Harry.
So… are we ever going to meet?
I’ve been putting him off, with a part of me hoping he’d go away. It’s not that his pictures aren’t appealing, nor that he hasn’t entertained me with his messages, more that Ben’s legacy still seems so close. There are mornings when I wake up and still think Ben is lying next to me; times when my phone beeps and I’m certain it’s him.
It’s been five years – five years – and I’m still not sure I’ll ever quite forget everything that happened.
I think about not replying, about letting Harry’s messages drift until he gets bored and stops contacting me.
Surely five years is long enough?
Tomorrow evening?
Harry pings a reply back almost instantly:
Perfect! Where would you like t
o go?
I start a reply and then stop myself. There’s etiquette to think about. Do people split a bill on a first date? I’ve never been the sort of person who’s comfortable with allowing a bloke to pay for everything just because he happens to have different genitalia. This is the other issue with dating, even if I hate that word, it’s expensive – or it can be.
As I’m trying to figure out how best to suggest the cheapest place I know without making it sound like I’m skint, another message arrives.
How about The Garden Café?
I’ve never been but Google says it’s within walking distance of where I live. It’s funny how, when travel costs are hard to meet, every place is judged by whether it’s walkable. I hold my breath and check the menu. There are expensive items – plus a dizzying array of wine – but I can stick to tap water. Free is always good. More importantly, the soup and salad is cheap, there’s an all-day breakfast that’s a fiver and plenty of fancy-sounding dishes that won’t cripple my finances for the rest of the month. I might have to go without food for the rest of the day, but I could likely handle it.
I find myself glancing towards the bed that’s folded up into the wall. Towards the envelope of money.
Sounds good.
We send a couple more messages back and forth, finalising the time, and it all seems very normal. Very simple. It’s like I’m a real human being. Like the shadow of Ben isn’t hanging over me any longer; as if everything will be all right in the end. That’s what people kept saying five years ago and I’m still waiting.
Our messages dry up as Billy nudges his way back into the apartment. I close the door behind him and then take my space on the sofa, him at my feet, curled up and ready to sleep. I should be doing some of my university work – my Childhood and Youth Studies course isn’t going to complete itself – but it’s almost impossible to concentrate.
I’m home alone, just me and Billy.
And the money.
It’s still calling, wanting to be counted. To be touched. So much money.
I turn on the television to distract myself, flicking through the Freeview channels until I find something that isn’t full of gurning, grating idiots shouting at one another. It takes a long time. With the background noise sorted, I do some more searching on the laptop, looking for news stories or social media posts about missing or stolen money in the local area. There’s still nothing.
I’m definitely going to hand it in to the police. It’s a bit late in the day now, so probably tomorrow.
Somebody must have noticed it missing by now. It’s too much money to ignore. I wonder if it’s dodgy. I know the new plastic notes are supposed to be impossible to counterfeit, but, if that’s the case, then… what? It has to be real, so someone will want it back.
My stomach gurgles, reminding me that I’ve not eaten since the Weetabix I had this morning. Billy grumbles as I remove my foot from under his chin and head to the fridge. It takes me a second or two to realise that there’s even less inside than I remember. There’s a bottle of chilled tap water, a couple of carrots, a tub of almost-finished margarine, two eggs and an apple. There’s also a large bag of porridge oats underneath the sink that was on offer six weeks ago and will last for months, plus the remaining Weetabix in the box. It’s not real Weetabix, of course. It’s the own-brand Weety-Bits. Aside from Billy’s food, that’s all there is to eat in the flat.
It’s a little after seven p.m. but I make myself a bowl of porridge on the hob, measuring out the oats and water because I don’t want to make too much and end up wasting it. By the time I get back to the sofa, Billy is in full-on snoring mode. It’s gently melodic, as if he’s keeping time for an orchestra. I’m careful not to step on him as I curl my feet under myself on the sofa and check the web one more time to see if anybody has reported the missing or stolen money.
Not yet, but I’m sure they will.
If I’m honest, this is my life now. There was a time when it might have been the odd dinner party, or nights out at the cinema. Where I’d pay £6 or more for a glass of wine and not even think about it. Where I’d get a taxi home, tipsy and giggling. Now, it is bowls of porridge, a snoring dog, nonsense on the television and me attempting to do my university course. I tell myself it’s all a means to an end. I’ll graduate one day and then I can look for a job that pays more. When that comes through, I can find somewhere bigger and better to live. Time is all it takes. Well, time and money. I want it to be my money, though. Money I’ve earned. Something I’ve worked for.
I’m definitely handing this money in. I’ve got Parkrun in the morning, then work, then I’ll go to the police station after that.
My phone rings once more and one of Billy’s ears pricks up, even though he doesn’t open his eyes. The screen reads unknown and I let it ring off. Whoever it is will leave a message if it’s important. I find myself staring towards the bed that’s hidden in the wall once more. The money is calling me again, but it’ll be gone tomorrow and everything will get back to normal.
Definitely.
Chapter Four
Saturday
Out of everyone I know, there is one of us who really enjoys the five-kilometre Parkrun – and it is definitely not me. I tolerate it and Karen more or less does the same, citing the greater good. Billy, however, seems to know when it’s Saturday. He strains on his lead the entire way to the park. He might be getting slowly, heartbreakingly, more lethargic – but this day is always his favourite of the week.
Karen and I hang around close to the line as the rest of the Parkrunners mingle and wait for the start. The crumbling path serves as the route, looping its way around the green of the park, up and over a ridge and then back down the other side. We circle the pavilion, continue along the riverbank for a bit and then follow the trail back around to the start. Two laps of that is 5K – and then we can all, mercifully, go home.
There’s a bit of everything here; a bit of everyone. Some skinny lads are in vests and short-shorts that are borderline pornographic. They look professional, with their watches, chest straps and general focused stare whenever they get somewhere near the start line. There are women, too, of course, with their toned, tight abs and bobbing ponytails. Others are in jogging bottoms, loose T-shirts and scruffy trainers. Someone behind me is wearing jeans, as if he didn’t have to time to get changed from whatever he was up to last night.
A whistle signals the start and then, predictably, those at the front with all the gear go bombing off. For me, I’m certain the tortoise had the right idea against the hare: slow and steady is the way to go. Although, if that were true, I’d be beating those that have gone off fast – and that definitely doesn’t happen.
Karen likes the company of running with someone, even if she’s too out of breath to actually talk after we start. I’m a little faster than her, but there’s not much in it, so I happily plod along as Billy bobs at my side. It took me a few weeks to realise that, if I start near the back, I can jog past more people than overtake me – which gives a stab of satisfaction.
It is also at events such as this that I realise Billy is way more popular than I will ever be. The fellow slow runners usually have a wave for him, even as they fail to acknowledge my existence. Not that I mind. Not really.
It doesn’t take long for the field to thin as everyone settles into their respective paces. There’s a comforting rhythm to the steady beat of my trainers hitting the tarmac, but my stomach is grumbling, possibly because, in the previous 24 hours, I’ve had only two bowls of porridge. I’m almost certain it’s not the best way to prepare for a run.
The air is cool and bites at my throat and lungs. This was much easier in the summer months. I’ve never been much of an athlete. Running, swimming or cycling were the confines of someone else. It was when I turned thirty earlier in the year that I figured I should probably make an effort to get fit. I’m not completely sure why – I think it’s something that happens when a person reaches a certain age. We spend a decade getting fat and
enjoying ourselves, then another decade trying to right all the wrongs we’ve foisted upon our poor bodies.
It was never quite like that with me, not after what happened with Ben. I stopped eating entirely, working my way through an eating disorder and back out the other side. I think this is part of me taking control of my life.
Karen is six years older than me and had been talking about running and going to the odd fitness class. It was when I found out that Parkrun was free that I agreed.
And here we are.
I up my pace as I reach the first slope. The cold air is beginning to stab into my lungs as breath spirals up into the air. Billy doesn’t seem to mind as he remains at my side. I stay with Karen every week, but today, for once, I allow myself to go at my own speed. I pass half-a-dozen runners on the incline and, even though I’m not particularly competitive, it’s hard not to feel satisfied. Billy starts to pull at his lead, enjoying the pace – and so I kick again until the cold air suddenly feels hot within me. No matter. I can do this.
It’s only as I’m crossing the finish line for the first time that I realise I’ve only been overtaken once by the leaders. It’s so unexpected that I almost stop to make sure something catastrophic hasn’t happened to those at the very front. I twist to look over my shoulder and, sure enough, one of the skinny lads in a vest is a few metres behind, ready to charge over the line himself.
I’ve completed one lap in the time it’s taken him to do two – but it’s better than what usually happens, when I’m overtaken twice. It might be silly but it feels like an achievement. It’s a confirmation that I’m in a better place than I was a week ago.