Strangers Page 3

  That man from the church popped in.

  Gareth grimaces. William Mackesy, the local Spiritualist Church leader, aka the biggest fraud that ever lived. He taps out a reply: What did he want?

  A text pings back: He just wanted to say hello but he did mention something to your mum that freaked her out a bit.

  What’s that?

  I’m not sure I should tell you.

  Tell me!

  There’s another pause then Gareth’s phone pings again.

  He said he’s been receiving messages from the other side for you and that you should be careful. There’s someone close by who means you harm.

  Chapter 5

  Ursula

  Ursula steps from foot to foot as she fumbles her key into the lock.

  ‘Come on, come on, come on!’

  The key doesn’t turn so she wiggles the handle. To her surprise the door opens. It’s the middle of the day and both of her flatmates are at work. There’s a distinct possibility that she might be about to interrupt a burglar clearing out the house, but Ursula doesn’t care. She bursts into the hallway, slams the front door shut with a kick of her foot and speeds up the stairs to the bathroom. At the sight of the white porcelain her pelvic muscles weaken, she lets out a little squeal of alarm and yanks down her jogging bottoms. She needs to use the toilet, leave the house and get back in the van as quickly as possible. The traffic was terrible at Temple Meads and she’s already running seven minutes behind schedule. Much more and she won’t complete her delivery round on time.

  ‘Ahhhh.’ She sighs with relief as her bottom hits the seat. As she reaches for the toilet roll there’s a sharp knock at the bathroom door that makes her jump.

  ‘Ursula, it’s Charlotte. Can I have a word in the living room when you’re done?’

  Charlotte? What’s she doing at home? Ursula pulls up her pants and jogging bottoms, washes her hands and reaches for her pink hand towel. But it’s not on the top rung of the metal wall radiator. Matt’s black towel is on the next rung down and Charlotte’s grey towel beneath that, but hers isn’t there. She looks down at the tiled floor then peers behind the sink. It’s definitely gone. As she casts her eye around the small bathroom she notices other missing items – her toothbrush and toothpaste, her shower gel, her shampoo and conditioner, her body cream and her contact lens solution and pot. Charlotte and Matt’s things are still in their usual places so it’s not as though one of them went on a cleaning rampage – something Matt is very fond of doing ridiculously early on a Sunday morning, Ursula’s only day off. So why move her things? Glancing at her watch, she hurries across the landing, throws open the door to her bedroom and steps inside. Then immediately steps back out again. She’s in the wrong room, maybe even the wrong house …

  ‘Charlotte!’ She hurries down the stairs and through the open door of the lounge. She stops short and gawps at the enormous pile of cardboard boxes crowding the middle of the room.

  ‘We’re very sorry, Ursula.’

  She jolts at Matt’s voice. He’s sitting on the sofa behind the mountain of cardboard, his fingers entwined with Charlotte’s.

  ‘Sorry? Sorry about wh—’

  The pieces slot, Tetris-like, into shape. They’ve packed up all her stuff. That’s why her bedroom has been stripped bare and none of her things are in the bathroom. That’s why Charlotte zipped back into her room without saying good morning when they passed on the landing a little after seven. It’s why Matt cheerily offered her a cup of coffee when she came downstairs. They planned this. They let her think they were going to work and then they let themselves into her room and they moved her out.

  ‘You’ve been through my things,’ she says, goose bumps prickling beneath the thick cotton of her hoody. ‘My personal things.’

  ‘Not just your things, Ursula.’ Matt tugs his hand from Charlotte’s and stands up. At a little under six foot he has to tilt his chin up to make eye contact with Ursula but there’s no fear on his face (despite her size). Instead he looks determined, and more than a little pissed off.

  ‘We knew it was you.’ Unlike Matt’s steady tone, Charlotte’s voice is tight and screechy with emotion. ‘We tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. We made allowances for you, Ursula. We even told you that if you returned our things we’d say no more about it but—’

  ‘You took her granny’s wedding ring,’ Matt says. ‘That had huge sentimental value to Charlotte. Didn’t it, Char?’

  Charlotte nods, her eyes shining with tears. Ursula’s throat tightens. She didn’t know it was her granny’s ring or that it had sentimental value. The little ceramic dish had been in the bathroom for what felt like forever. There wasn’t much in it – some hair bands, toothbrush heads, the knob that had come unscrewed from the cupboard, and a slim gold band with a slit that broke its perfect circle. It had glinted at her in the early morning sun and she’d picked it up and put it in her pocket. She barely even noticed herself doing it. She’d been thinking about Nathan at the time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says now. ‘I meant to put it back.’

  ‘Like you meant to put my watch back,’ Matt says, ‘and Char’s mug and my pen and her scarf and my photo frame and …’ He shakes his head. ‘I’d be here all day if I listed it all. We found it, by the way, all our stuff, and some things that belong to our friends. Friends who stayed over on the sofa believing that their belongings would be safe in our house.’

  Ursula swallows. She hadn’t meant to take the fancy shower gel from the bathroom, or the book from the arm of the sofa, or the umbrella from the hook in the hall. She’d wanted to return them – she always wanted to return the things she took – but the friends never stayed long enough for her to sneak their valuables back into their bags. Unfortunately there’d been no way she could return Charlotte’s ring to the dish after she’d practically torn the bathroom apart looking for it.

  ‘There was other stuff we found in your room too,’ Charlotte says. ‘Clothes, jewellery, knick-knacks with price tags attached. Matt said we should go to the police but I don’t want you to go to prison. I just want … I just want …’ Her voice breaks and she sobs.

  ‘Please, Charlotte,’ Ursula begs. ‘Please don’t do this. I’ll change. I promise. You can’t kick me out. I’ve got no money and nowhere else to go.’

  ‘You could stay with your mum.’

  ‘I can’t. Even if she wanted me there I couldn’t afford the flight to Spain and there’s no one, literally no one else in Bristol I can stay with.’

  ‘Nathan’s mum then.’

  ‘No.’ Ursula shakes her head violently, tears pricking at her eyes. ‘Please, Charlotte. Let’s talk about this. Let’s sit down this evening, have a glass of wine and sort it out.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Charlotte shakes her head miserably. ‘I’m sorry but I really can’t.’

  Matt presses a hand to his girlfriend’s shoulder and gives it a consoling squeeze. ‘I’m sorry, Ursula. We just want you out.’

  Fat tears drop onto the piece of paper in Ursula’s hands. The back of the van is crammed with her belongings, the engine is running and she’s nearly forty-five minutes behind schedule, but she can’t bring herself to release the handbrake and pull away.

  She managed to hold it together until Matt held out his hand. When she went to shake it he snatched it away.

  ‘Your house keys.’

  Hot tears welled in her eyes as she unclipped two keys from her keyring and dropped them into his palm.

  ‘Where do I go?’ The words scratched at her throat. ‘I’ve got nowhere to live.’

  Other than Charlotte and Matt, she doesn’t really know anyone in Bristol. There’s Bob, the guy who drops round her packages every morning, but other than a brusque ‘hello’ they’ve never actually spoken. Her boss Jackie is nice but she’s married with two kids and won’t have space. And Ursula isn’t in touch with anyone from her previous job as a primary school teacher. Her thoughts flit from the present to the past, to a bench outsid
e Banco Lounge, six pints lined up on the table, male laughter and the sun making her squint. Nathan is beside her, as small, round and hairy as a bear, his rotund tummy wedged between his lap and the top of the table. His friends … she searches their sepia faces and plucks names from the air. Andy. ‘Randy Andy’, Nathan called him. Joe. Tom. Harry. Even if she could get in touch and they had a spare room, they wouldn’t want her to move in. They blame her for what happened, even if they’ve never come out and said it. It’s why she deliberately lost touch with them. When she lost Nathan half her world disappeared too.

  She swipes a hand over her eyes, dampening the sleeve of the Long Tall Sally hoody she bought on eBay, and focuses on the image on her phone. It’s a photograph Charlotte just texted her of an advert in a shop window. She can see the grey shape of Charlotte reflected in it. Something twangs in Ursula’s heart. She’d assumed that Matt was the driving force behind getting her out of the house. She never completely warmed to him, despite sharing a home for over half a year. He’d given her a strange, narrow-eyed look, and wrinkled his nose – just the tiniest amount but enough for her to notice – when Charlotte introduced them for the first time.

  ‘My boyfriend, Matt!’ Charlotte’s face glowed with pride, before a flash of apprehension dulled it as she glanced at Ursula, looking – hoping – for approval.

  They were living together – Charlotte and Ursula, best friends since secondary school – in the two-bedroom terraced house that Charlotte had bought with her inheritance money when her father died. They were happy – happyish – and then Matt moved in and everything changed. All the little routines they’d established – late night sofa chats, girls’ night in, cinema on Sunday – gradually disappeared and Ursula began to spend more and more time alone in her room. Three was most certainly a crowd.

  House share available now.

  She reads the first line of the handwritten advert.

  William Street. Decent-sized double room with bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers available for clean, tidy, non-smoker employed person (m or f). Shared use of kitchen. Live-in landlord. Parking available. £350 pcm including bills. No pets, couples or benefits.

  A telephone number is listed below the description.

  Ursula glances back at the house she called home for nearly two years and spots movement at the far left of the living room window, Roman blinds that suddenly close.

  She looks back at the advert. William Street is still in Totterdown, just a few roads away. If she stays in the neighbourhood she’ll get to keep her round and she likes her clients and the safe familiarity of the local roads. The rent is very reasonable too. It’s a whole hundred pounds less than she’s been paying Charlotte.

  She dials the number, her heart flip-flopping in her chest. She mustn’t get her hopes up. The room’s bound to have gone, or else it’s tiny and dirty, or the landlord’s a weirdo. If she doesn’t – or can’t – take it she’ll have to find a hotel for the night, something she can barely afford when she’s earning seventy pence for every parcel she delivers. And she can’t take tomorrow off work to go round letting agents; she simply can’t afford it.

  As the number dials out she raises her eyes to the ceiling of her white van and says a quick prayer.

  If this pans out I’ll never steal anything again. I promise.

  And this time I’ll keep it, she adds as an afterthought.

  ‘Hello?’ a pleasant male voice says into her left ear.

  ‘Hello, I’m calling about the room. My name’s Ursula Andrews and—’

  ‘Like the Bond girl?’

  She fakes a laugh, the number of times she’s heard that. ‘No, that was Ursula Andress, she’s like eighty or something. I’m thirty-two years old. I don’t smoke and I’m very neat … well … quite neat. I’m a courier. I wasn’t always one. I used to be a primary school teacher … Sorry, I’m waffling. Anyway, I need to take in my deliveries every morning but they wouldn’t get in your way and—’

  Warm laughter interrupts her. ‘You sound nervous, Ursula. Take a breath.’

  He sounds posh, which makes her more nervous, but she does as she’s told and fills her lungs with the warm cab air then 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 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.’

  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 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 woo
l 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.

  ‘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/grey eyeliner under her lower lashes is smudged and there’s a faint tint of pink lipstick on her top lip.