Strangers Page 5

  ‘Edward.’ He holds out a slim hand. His eyes seem to bore into her from behind his round, wire-framed specs. ‘You must be Ursula.’

  She returns the handshake, noting the man’s neatly clipped nails. He doesn’t look like she imagined from their brief phone call. She thought he’d be tall and angular like Benedict Cumberbatch, but he’s actually very small and slight. His is the physique of a thirteen-year-old boy but there’s a ruggedness to his skin and a peppering to his temples that suggests he’s at least mid-thirties. His accent, and polo shirt and chinos, suggest he’s posh, but the hall carpet by his feet is thin and worn, and when he turns on the light only one bulb in the overhead fixture comes on.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she says.

  Edward doesn’t immediately respond, instead he continues to stare up at her. The intensity in his eyes, small and bright behind his Harry Potter glasses, makes her shift from foot to foot. But then he smiles and Ursula feels the tension in her belly melt away.

  ‘Do come in,’ Edward says. ‘I’ll give you the tour.’

  He leads her into the living room first and switches on the light. There’s nothing unusual about the rooms. Nothing remarkable either. There’s a shabby two-seater sofa covered with a multi-coloured ethnic throw that looks like it was rescued from a student bedroom in the 1990s, a forty-inch TV in the corner of the room, a large brown leather armchair and a gilt mirror above the fireplace. There are no prints on the walls, no books, no ornaments, nothing to give the room any character apart from a dartboard on the wall opposite the doorway. Edward catches her looking at it.

  ‘I like darts.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Obviously.’

  A memory creeps into Ursula’s head, of Nathan standing beside her in the pub, pointing across the room and shaking with laughter at the three darts she managed to embed in the wall.

  ‘I’m a courier,’ she says as she follows Edward to the galley kitchen. It’s so cramped she has to remain in the doorway while he points out the oven, sink, microwave and recycling bins and explains that he does his washing at a local laundrette because there’s no space for a machine. Like the living room it’s a bland, characterless space. There’s a wooden knife block with six gleaming stainless steel handles and a yellow-white kettle that looks like it’s seen better days. The only splash of colour is a portable red digital radio, the news reporter gravely explaining how another man had gone missing near the Harbourside.

  ‘I can’t remember if I already told you this,’ Ursula adds, ‘but I get a delivery of parcels every morning, at about 6 a.m. It’s my round for the day. Would that be a problem?’

  Edward glances in her direction but his gaze doesn’t rest on her face, instead it drifts past her, towards the front door. He frowns as though considering the request. ‘Where would you keep them?’

  ‘In the living room.’ Ursula mentally kicks herself. She should have given herself enough time to make a good impression on him before mentioning this. ‘But only for an hour or so, until I load the van.’ She pauses, trying to read the troubled look in his eyes. ‘It’s going to be a problem, isn’t it? I can tell by the look on your face.’

  ‘No, no.’ His gaze sweeps past her to the knife block. He straightens the breadknife by a millimetre or so then wipes his hands on his chinos. ‘I don’t get up until 7.30 a.m. so if they’re out of the house by then it won’t be a problem.’

  ‘What do you do,’ she asks him, ‘for a living?’

  ‘I get by,’ he says in a manner that lets Ursula know that the subject is closed.

  The voice on the radio stops speaking and the tinny beats of a pop song fill the room. It’s loud, louder than most people listen to the radio in their homes, but Ursula doesn’t care; when a good track comes on she cranks the volume right up in her van.

  ‘I like this song,’ she says, then immediately wonders why. She doesn’t like this sort of thing – a trembling female voice, screeching about a man who did her wrong. She likes George Michael, Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, ABBA and early Madonna. She was too young to enjoy the music when it first came out but there’s something about 80s hits that appeals to her. They’re cosy and safe.

  ‘Do you listen to the radio?’ Edward asks.

  ‘Not much.’ She shrugs. ‘I prefer CDs. But I listen to Ken Bruce’s pop quiz sometimes, to test myself. I never score very highly though.’

  He wrinkles his nose disapprovingly. ‘Well don’t get any ideas, about changing the station. I like it to stay on all the time. No turning it off. No fiddling with the volume.’

  ‘No problem. Oh. What’s through there?’ Ursula touches the door to her left. There are three doors in the kitchen: one at the far end that leads to a boxy garden, the door to the hall that was propped open, and this one. ‘Downstairs loo is it?’

  ‘No.’ Something in his expression shifts. ‘The basement.’

  ‘Oh. Cool. Good for storage. You wouldn’t believe the amount of stuff I’ve got in the van. I could—’

  Edward crosses the kitchen and lays a hand on the door. ‘I’m afraid the basement is off limits.’ He smiles tightly. ‘Although you’re very welcome to make full use of the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom and the garden.’

  ‘Great.’ Ursula flashes a fake smile in his direction as a knot forms in her stomach. She can already predict how this living arrangement will work out. She’ll be told off for leaving coffee mugs in the living room and smearing toothpaste onto the sink. On the other hand – she glances around the minimalistic space – there’s nothing to steal.

  She sniffs, subtly. There’s a weird smell in the kitchen that she can’t place. The counters and oven top are thoroughly scrubbed but there’s a distinctly musty tang to the air.

  ‘Upstairs next,’ Edward says and she flattens herself up against the hall wall to let him past.

  Any doubts Ursula might have had about living with Edward disappear the second he opens the door to her potential bedroom. She’d anticipated the room being poky but it’s absolutely enormous. Well, maybe not enormous, but it’s much bigger than the little box room she had at Charlotte’s house and there’s a double bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers with a small flat screen television on the top and a comfy-looking armchair in the corner. Not to mention the picture window that stretches across one wall. The curtains are drawn back and the sun is an orange streak across the sky but she can imagine the room being flooded with light earlier in the day. She’d never need to venture down to the lounge with a room like this.

  ‘It’s £350 including bills, right?’ she asks, perching on the bed and running her hands over the spotless mattress.

  One side of Edward’s mouth twitches up into a lopsided smile. ‘Plus deposit.’

  Ursula’s smile slips. In her excitement she hadn’t even considered the prospect of a deposit. If he asks for three months’ rent in advance she’s screwed.

  ‘How much would that be?’ she asks, tightening her grip on the mattress.

  ‘Call it £500 all in.’

  ‘So …’ She tries to remember the last time she checked her bank balance. It would be tight and she’d have to live on beans on toast for the rest of the month but it’s just about doable. ‘One month’s rent in advance and £150 deposit?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She considers her options. There’s no doubt that Edward is a little on the eccentric side but then again she’s not exactly normal and he hasn’t asked for a reference – something Charlotte might struggle to provide. If she takes the room she’ll be absolutely skint until next payday but at least she won’t have to shell out for a hotel. She gazes around the room, taking it all in, weighing it up, then lets out a little ‘ooh’ of surprise as she notices something unusual about the door. There’s a huge great hole, stuffed with tissue paper, just under the handle.

  ‘There’s no lock.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I had to break in.’

  ‘Why?’ />
  Edward doesn’t shift his gaze from the door. ‘I’d fit a new lock,’ he says quietly. ‘If you’d like the room. You are … female after all.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ She frowns.

  ‘Like I said, there are other interested parties but I did promise you first refusal so it’s up to you.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she says before she can change her mind. She’s got some packing tape in her bag. She’ll plaster over the toilet roll stuffed hole before she goes to bed, and put the chair in front of the door. It’s not the right height to jam under the handle but the floor’s wooden; she’d hear it moving. And besides, she’s a good eight inches taller than Edward and at least eight or nine stone heavier. Unless he’s a knife-wielding maniac she can fight him off.

  I won’t need to fight him off. She catches the dark thread of her thoughts and mentally shakes herself. He’s a bit odd but that doesn’t mean he’s a psycho. I’m a bit odd and I’m perfectly well balanced. Well, a little bit off-balance, but harmless. Mostly.

  ‘Excellent.’ Edward nods curtly. ‘If you could furnish me with the £500 we can discuss a move-in date.’

  Ursula’s heart sinks. ‘Oh. I was hoping I could move in tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes … I … um. I … er … I’ve got all my belongings in my van outside.’

  ‘You’ve got nowhere else to stay?’

  ‘No.’ She says a little prayer, not to God – she’s already broken her promise to him about not stealing again – or the universe, but to the only person who ever really loved her. If you’re there, if you’re listening, please help me out.

  Edward gives her a long look over the top of his rimless glasses and she braces herself for the inevitable ‘no, sorry’, but then he gives a faint shrug.

  ‘I don’t see why not. If you can get the money tonight I’ll give you a hand getting your stuff out of your van.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ursula practically bounces to her feet. ‘I’ll do that now. Give me five minutes to find a bank and I’ll be right back. Oh.’ She pauses, halfway across the room. ‘I think I can only get £200 out of the bank today.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Edward says. ‘You can write me a cheque for the other three hundred. It’s not as if you can do a runner.’ His eyes glint behind his glasses. ‘After all, I know where you live.’

  Chapter 10

  Alice

  Alice closes the door, rests her back against it for a few seconds, then heads into the kitchen where her daughter Emily is sitting at the table, glass of red wine in hand. There’s a scarlet smudge around her lips and the bottle is half empty.

  ‘You okay?’ Emily asks as Alice sits down and helps herself to a glass. ‘You didn’t shut the living room door properly, by the way.’

  ‘So you heard everything?’

  Emily shrugs. ‘Pretty much. He sounds like a freak. What did the police say?’

  ‘I have to go in to give an official statement, and they’re going to speak to Michael.’

  ‘And the other guy?’ She nods towards the bouquet of flowers, still in their cellophane wrapper, on the kitchen counter.

  ‘Simon? He needs to give a statement too. I gave them his number and …’

  But Emily has stopped listening. She’s tapping away at her phone with both thumbs, her brow furrowed, her lips set in a tight, hard line. It’s the same expression she had as a child when she thought some kind of injustice had occurred – a friend took her toy or Alice announced it was bedtime.

  ‘Everything okay with you, love?’

  ‘Fine.’ Emily reaches for her wine glass and takes a long swig.

  ‘How’s work?’ Her daughter’s been working as a receptionist for a property maintenance company in the centre of town for the last year and she knows she finds it boring.

  ‘Crap. Sooner I get a new job the better.’

  ‘And Adam?’

  ‘Adam’s a cock.’

  Alice raises her eyebrows. Emily and Adam have been together for about eighteen months and it isn’t the most harmonious of relationships; even the start was rocky. Adam was dating Laila, one of Emily’s friends and there was some ‘confusion’ over when that relationship ended and his relationship with Emily began. The two girls had a massive falling-out and Laila successfully managed to convince most of their friends that Emily was a bitch. The experience threw Emily and Adam together in a way that Alice didn’t find particularly healthy but there was no talking her daughter into slowing things down. Suddenly it was ‘Adam this’ and ‘Adam that’ and she barely saw her for weeks on end. About three months in, Adam finished things with Emily out of the blue and Alice nursed her daughter through the toughest break-up she’d ever experienced – cuddling her on the sofa, making her endless cups of tea as Emily poured her heart out. And then Adam reappeared. He’d made a mistake, he said, he’d freaked out at the speed things were progressing but he wanted to give it another go. Emily, who’d heard from one of her few friends that Adam had been cheating on her, was sceptical but her love hadn’t faded and he didn’t have to work very hard to talk her into taking him back. Then things returned to normal – three or four nights spent at home during the week then every weekend doing whatever it was Adam wanted to do.

  It had hurt Alice’s heart, seeing her vibrant, confident daughter shrink into Adam’s pocket, fitting herself into the tiny girlfriend-shaped space in his life. Did she learn that from me? she wondered. Had Emily watched her kowtow to Peter’s demands, putting his happiness before her own? Or perhaps she thought she hadn’t been compliant enough and that’s why he’d left?

  ‘What’s Adam done?’ she asks as her daughter’s phone bleeps with a reply.

  Emily shakes her head, her lips stubbornly pressed together as she recommences her attack on her phone’s keypad.

  ‘Ems …’

  ‘Leave it, Mum. You wouldn’t understand.’

  Sighing, Alice gets up and begins unwrapping the flowers. If there’s one thing Emily has inherited from her it’s her stubbornness. She wouldn’t have opened up to her mother at that age either. She steps on the pedal bin and drops the cellophane inside then takes the white card that was stapled to one corner from out of her pocket. There’s something about the scrawled message – Sorry, Simon – with his number written underneath that stops her from throwing it away too. Simon went to so much trouble to check she was okay; the least she can do is let him know she spoke to the police.

  She slips her phone out of her work trousers and taps out a message.

  Thank you again for the flowers, you really shouldn’t have. I’ve spoken to the police and they took your number. They said they’d like you to go in to give a statement.

  She pauses, unsure what else to add, so ends the message with her first name, presses send and drops the card, along with the cellophane, into the bin. As she fills a vase with water a stern voice on the radio cuts through the tinny pop song and announces that it’s eight o’clock and time for the news. Alice half-listens as she trims the ends of the flowers and arranges the stems in the vase. More political upheaval, an ageing celebrity has died and … her ears prick up at the mention of Bristol, unusual given the fact that, thanks to Emily, the digital radio is permanently tuned in to Radio 1. A young man has gone missing after a night out, last seen walking along Bristol Harbourside. Forty-eight hours have passed since he was last seen. Alice sighs softly, thinking of the anguish his poor parents must be going through. The number of twenty-somethings who’ve died after getting drunk, getting separated from their friends, stumbling home alone and falling into the river Avon … She’s lost count of the number of times she’s drummed it into Emily to make sure she always leaves a club with a friend. Not that she goes out with her friends very often. It’s all Adam, Adam, Adam.

  Her daughter’s shriek makes her turn sharply. Emily’s on the phone, her mobile pressed to her ear and the fingers of her other hand curled around the wine bottle as she tips it into her glass. ‘No, Adam. I won�
��t calm down. You fucking know how I feel about Laila and I know for a fact that she was there last night. Don’t you dare lie about—’

  A question forms on Alice’s lips but Emily angrily waves her away. Sighing, Alice leaves the kitchen, the vase of flowers in her hands. As she sets it down on a window ledge in the living room her phone vibrates in her pocket. It’s a message from Lynne:

  How did it go with the police?

  Alice taps out a reply: I need to go in to give an official statement.

  A couple of seconds later Lynne texts again.

  Are you ok? Have you heard from Michael?

  No, she types back. Haven’t heard a thing. Thank goodness.

  With the sound of her daughter’s raised voice drifting through from the kitchen Alice shuts all the curtains. She turns on the TV and sits on the sofa then gets up to adjust the curtains again. She sits down again and flicks through the channels, watches a few seconds of a property programme about homes abroad, then checks her phone. No reply from Lynne. No reply from Simon either. She feels unsettled after speaking to the police. Maybe she needs another glass of wine, take the edge off her nerves. That’s if Emily hasn’t finished the bottle. Her phone bleeps as she crosses the living room.

  It’s a text from Simon:

  Police rang me. I told them everything I can remember and said I’ll go in tomorrow. I hope it helps. How are you doing?

  I’m okay, she taps out. How are you?

  She rereads her reply then deletes it and tries again:

  Thanks so much. I am feeling a bit unsettled but

  For a second time she deletes what she’s written. Why is she deliberating over every word? She didn’t agonise over the reply she sent to Lynne.

  Thank you, she types. I really appreciate you doing that. I’ll be honest. I’m quite freaked out by what happened but the way you reacted has reassured me that not all men are drunken, dangerous arseholes. Need a drink (or two).