Strangers (ARC) Read online

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’d love to go to dinner with you.’ She’s just about to ask him what time when she’s interrupted by her

  mobile bleeping. ‘One second, sorry.’ As she takes her phone

  out of her bag she inhales sharply. It’s 2.17 p.m. She’s late back for work.

  Where are you? Lynne’s text asks. Everything ok? Fancy the cinema later?

  Sorry, she texts back. I’ve got a night in with Emily planned.

  She cringes at the lie but she can’t tell her best friend about dinner with Simon or she’ll have to explain that she ran into

  him at Costa. Lynne would insist on analysing every detail to

  death and she can’t face the third degree, not when she’s got so much else on her mind.

  ‘You all right?’ Simon asks as she gathers up her partially

  eaten sandwich, the edges dry and curling.

  ‘Yes, yes. Just um . . . I didn’t realise what time it was. I’m late for work.’

  ‘Oh God, sorry. Shall I text you later, about going out for

  dinner?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, as she pushes her chair away from the table.

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  As Alice and Simon get up, so does the woman at the other

  table. She bounds across the two metres or so that separate them and touches Simon on the arm. He reacts as though he was

  prodded with a knife rather than a finger and turns sharply,

  knocking against a passing barista.

  ‘Simon?’ the woman says as he stares at her with undisguised

  horror. ‘It is you, isn’t it? I’ve so missed—’

  67

  Strangers_B_1stRevise_20191127_385ZZ.indd 67

  27/11/2019 15:42

  C.L. TAYLOR

  He shakes his head sharply. ‘You’ve confused me with

  someone else.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I have. I’ve been—’

  The rest of her sentence is lost as Simon says to Alice, ‘Let’s get you back to work,’ then he takes her by the arm and half-guides, half-pulls her down the narrow corridor between the

  other diners. Alice glances back as he opens the door. The other woman is still standing by the table, watching them go, her arms spread wide and a look of incredulity on her face.

  68

  Strangers_B_1stRevise_20191127_385ZZ.indd 68

  27/11/2019 15:42

  STRANGERS

  Chapter 13

  Ursula

  Tuesday

  Ursula flicks the Vs at Charlotte and Matt’s house as she drives past in her van. She’s starting to suspect that it was a blessing in disguise, them kicking her out. Edward, her new landlord,

  wasn’t awake when she got up and she’d leisurely nosed at his

  bathroom belongings as she brushed her teeth. Her fingers had

  closed over a small nailbrush next to a metal pair of clippers in the back of the bathroom cabinet. She scrubbed her fingernails in the sink, then, before she knew what she was doing, slipped the nailbrush into her pyjama bottom pocket. She ran her fingertips over the bristles as she left the bathroom, then stopped at her bedroom door and reluctantly turned back. Edward might

  not miss this nailbrush today, he might not even realise it was missing for weeks, but at some point he’d want it. She had to

  return it.

  69

  Strangers_B_1stRevise_20191127_385ZZ.indd 69

  27/11/2019 15:42

  C.L. TAYLOR

  Afterwards she headed down to the kitchen with the small

  box of groceries that Charlotte and Nick had so ‘helpfully’

  packed up for her. She put on the kettle then glanced at the

  radio, blaring out Stevie Wonder’s ‘Superstition’. Smirking to herself, she wondered what Ed would do if she changed the

  station. She moved a finger towards the retune button, then

  snatched her hand away, turning the movement into an elaborate dance move. She didn’t really care what radio station her landlord listened to, as long as it played music. As the kettle bubbled she slotted two pieces of bread into the toaster and looked

  through the cupboards. Edward’s minimalism ran to his food

  choices too – half a dozen tins of baked beans, the same of

  baked beans with sausages, seven tins of tomatoes, seven cans

  of sardines, a half-kilo bag of pasta and the same of rice. That was it. There wasn’t a single vegetable in the fridge, just a four-litre bottle of milk, some Flora Light and several bottles of

  Actimel. It was only when she investigated the drawer beneath

  the cutlery drawer that she found something of interest. Lying flat on the base of the drawer, beneath a roll of duct tape, a box of nails and a screwdriver kit, was a thick wodge of paper, stapled together. She lifted out the tape, nails and screwdriver, then hooked her nails under the edge of the document and

  picked it up. She scanned the first few lines: ‘Tenancy Agreement between Mr Edward Bennett and Mrs Maureen O’Shea . . .’ So

  that was why Edward hadn’t given her a contract to sign. He was subletting her room; something explicitly forbidden in the agreement. She raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t the only member of the household with a secret. Always useful to know.

  She turned her attention to the locked door to the basement

  next. She jiggled the handle up and down several times, pulled on it, then peered into the dark keyhole.

  ‘Hello!’ she shouted into the tiny space, her lips grazing the cold brass fixture. ‘Is there anyone in there?’

  70

  Strangers_B_1stRevise_20191127_385ZZ.indd 70

  27/11/2019 15:42

  STRANGERS

  She fell silent, listening for an answer, then laughed nervously.

  If there was someone in there and they shouted back, she’d shit her pants.

  There was no way that Edward was keeping a person locked

  up in the basement. Strange landlord, locked basement, lone

  female flatmate hunting around. It was like something out of a Sunday night ITV drama. At best he was keeping something

  expensive down there. At worst it was a dumping ground for

  all his unwanted junk. She hadn’t spotted any keys during her

  search and if there was something expensive in the basement

  Edward probably wouldn’t let them out of his sight.

  Now Ursula sings along to ‘Holiday’ by Madonna as she

  navigates the narrow streets of South Bristol, parking up outside identikit terraced houses and rummaging around in the back of

  her van for parcels. She’s met with smiles of delight, surprise and relief at every door she knocks on. Apart from one. It hasn’t opened once in the eleven months that Ursula has been doing

  this round. She rings the bell, then looks expectantly at the

  nearest panel of the bay window. There’s a light on in the living room and some kind of kid’s show on the TV, but there’s no

  one sitting on the sofa and no small child crawling around on

  the rug. The parcel in Ursula’s hands is from a clothing store and there’s a man’s name written above the address: Paul Wilson.

  She doesn’t visit this address more than once or twice a month but the parcels are always for him, never for the flustered, pink-cheeked woman who takes them in through the living room

  window rather than open the front door. But there’s no sign of her now. Ursula glances at her watch then rings the doorbell

  again. A non-delivery means she won’t get paid and she’ll have to try again tomorrow which will cost her in petrol and time.

  Perhaps the woman’s gone out? But she’s always in, no matter

  what time of day Ursula arrives.

  ‘Hello?’ She tries tapping on the windowpane then crouches

  71

  Strangers_B_1stRevise_20191127_385ZZ.indd 71

  27/11/2019 15:42
>
  C.L. TAYLOR

  down and peers through the letter-box. There’s washing hanging on the radiator in the hall and a row of shoes – male, female

  and toddler sized – along the skirting board. There’s no door

  to the kitchen and she can see into that too – to the messy

  worktops covered with pots, pans, plastic containers and what

  looks a large pile of vegetable peelings.

  Sighing, she turns to go. It’s a wasted visit and 70p lost. As she reaches the gate a tapping sound makes her turn. The home-owner is at the window, the baby in her arms and a frantic

  expression on her face.

  It’s an unusual way of delivering parcels, through a window,

  and the first time it happened Ursula had assumed that maybe

  the woman didn’t want to leave her child alone on the floor of the living room to answer the door, or maybe she felt it was

  quicker. Lots of Ursula’s customers have little quirks – there’s the weird man on Hawthorne Street who always asks her if

  she’d like to come in to use the loo, the elderly lady on Redcatch Road who always mentions the weather, and the young couple

  on Bushy Park who always race to answer the door first. The

  second time this customer opened the window to her, Ursula

  asked whether the door was broken and received no reply.

  ‘Sorry,’ the woman pushes the window open and jiggles the

  baby onto her hip as she reaches a hand out for the parcel. ‘I was in the toilet.’

  It’s the first time the woman has ever spoken directly to her.

  She normally opens the window, reaches for the parcel, signs

  the electronic tracker and then disappears out of view.

  ‘No problem.’ Ursula smiles at the child that’s gawping at her with large, startled blue eyes that match the woman’s. ‘Out of curiosity, why do you never answer the door?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m . . .’ The customer’s gaze flits from Ursula to the house opposite and then to the cars parked up on the street.

  The base of her throat flushes red.

  72

  Strangers_B_1stRevise_20191127_385ZZ.indd 72

  27/11/2019 15:42

  STRANGERS

  ‘Agoraphobic?’ Ursula ventures. ‘You don’t like going out?’

  ‘No.’ The woman shakes her head sharply. ‘No . . . no, I don’t.’

  ‘Food shopping must take a while if they have to hand each

  item to you through the window.’

  The blush at the base of the woman’s throat deepens. ‘I . . .

  I don’t . . . my husband does the food shopping. He brings it home with him after work.’

  There’s something about the woman with her wide, frantic

  eyes, twitchy hand gestures and her habit of shifting from foot to foot as she speaks as though her skin is pulled too tightly over her body that strikes a chord with Ursula. There’s something about her awkwardness that she can identify with.

  ‘Is your husband very understanding?’ she asks. ‘About your

  condition? It must be very hard, especially with a little one.’ She gestures towards the child. Her soft grunts have become pained whines and she twists and thrashes in her mother’s arms.

  ‘If I could just have the parcel?’ The woman presses her

  shoulder up against the windowpane and waggles her hand.

  ‘She’s due a nap.’

  ‘Of course.’

  There’s an awkward dance between Ursula and her customer

  as the parcel is tugged and pushed through the small gap in the window. Ursula waits while the woman juggles the heavy package with one hand, using her knee to carefully guide it onto the

  sofa, then slips the electronic parcel tracker through the window.

  ‘You can sign it with your fingernail,’ she says, even though

  the woman has signed for multiple parcels before. She waits for the woman to look up, to smile tightly as she normally does,

  but, as she lifts her finger from the screen, her gaze remains lowered. She continues to stare at nothing for a second, maybe two, after Ursula has pulled the device back through the open

  window, then without stopping to pick up the parcel she turns

  and walks across the living room and out of the door.

  73

  Strangers_B_1stRevise_20191127_385ZZ.indd 73

  27/11/2019 15:42

  C.L. TAYLOR

  ‘Bye!’ Ursula stares after her, then swears under her breath

  as her phone vibrates in the little leather pouch attached to her belt.

  Please don’t let it be bad news, she thinks as she unsnaps the popper on the pouch and pulls out her mobile. She’s only had

  one customer complaint to the office in the eleven months she’s been doing the job and even then the damaged parcel wasn’t

  her fault; it was battered when Bob delivered it.

  But it’s not a message from the office informing her there’s

  been a complaint. It’s not from the office at all. It’s from Edward, her landlord-cum-flatmate.

  While I am happy for you to use the items of crockery and

  cutlery in the kitchen, may I kindly remind you that my personal possessions are not for shared use. I wouldn’t dream of touching any of your belongings (unless I were cleaning and even then I’d ask you to remove such items before I began). Please extend me the same courtesy. You really DON’T want to fall out with me about this. E.

  Ursula raises her eyebrows as she rereads the message. It’s a

  bit of an overreaction considering all she did was use his nailbrush, and she doesn’t like the threatening tone. And how does he know that she used it anyway? Unless he’s got spy cameras

  rigged up in the bathroom? A shiver runs up her spine. As soon as she gets back she’s going to check.

  74

  Strangers_B_1stRevise_20191127_385ZZ.indd 74

  27/11/2019 15:42

  STRANGERS

  Chapter 14

  Gareth

  Gareth is in the CCTV room, scanning the screens, when he

  spots his dad. But that’s not his first thought. What goes through his mind is, that man’s moving very slowly. The other shoppers appear to be zooming past him. He’s walking against the tide,

  his white-grey hair contrasting against the white, pink, brown skin tones of the people moving towards the camera rather than away. Gareth zooms in. There is nothing remarkable about the

  man. He’s average height, his age-bleached hair thinning at the crown to reveal a pink scalp, and his olive-green Gortex-style jacket is slightly too large for his shoulders. But there’s something about his stance that makes Gareth sit up taller in his chair. The man might be in his seventies or eighties but there’s no curve to his back or stoop to his head. He’s standing erect, shoulders back, neck long, head still. It’s the posture of a private on parade or a sailor standing to attention in front of a senior officer.

  That’s when he thinks of his dad, of the postcard lying on the 75

  Strangers_B_1stRevise_20191127_385ZZ.indd 75

  27/11/2019 15:42

  C.L. TAYLOR

  sideboard at home, of the neatly looping writing and I love you, Joan.

  Gareth’s heart pounds against his ribs. Could it be him? Could his dad have shown up at the Meads looking for his son? Is

  that why he’s standing to attention on a walkway, staring intently into a shop? Does he want to reconnect with Gareth before he

  makes his way home? Does he want to soften the shock?

  Frantically, Gareth looks from screen to screen, searching for a better angle of the man who may or may not be his dad, but

  none of the cameras are situated in a position where they can

  zoom in on the man’s face. The best he can find is a quarter

  profile. He zooms in, examining the shape of the man’s nose,

  the heav
iness of his brow and the curve of his chin. Is it him?

  It’s been twenty years and his dad will have aged, but there are enough similarities to make Gareth jump to his feet.

  He looks from the screen to the door, then at his radio, lying on the desk. He could ask one of the other guards to apprehend the man and ask him who he is but what if he lies? What if his dad isn’t ready to be reunited with his family yet? What if the confrontation makes him go back underground? He can’t take

  that risk. He has to look the man in the face himself. Even after twenty years he’d know his dad. There are some things time

  can’t steal.

  He picks up his radio. Strictly speaking, the control room

  should be manned at all times – he could count on the fingers

  of one hand the number of times he’s abandoned his post for

  more than a three-minute toilet break over the last thirteen years

  – but there is no way he can ask for one of his colleagues to

  take over. They’d ask questions, questions he isn’t entirely sure he wants to answer, not yet. As far as everyone else knows, his dad is dead. He decides to go for it. He’ll sprint down the steps, run across the first-floor walkway, take a look at the man and, if it isn’t his dad, he’ll run back again. He’d be away from his 76

  Strangers_B_1stRevise_20191127_385ZZ.indd 76

  27/11/2019 15:42

  STRANGERS

  desk for less than four minutes. Three minutes tops. And if it is his dad? Then he won’t care how long he’s away from his desk.

  He glances at his watch as he leaves the office, then he speeds down the stairs.

  He’s gone. Gareth stands outside Mirage Fashions and turns in

  a full circle but there’s no sign of the man who was standing

  there just minutes ago. He’s completely disappeared. Gareth runs the length of the upper floor, searching the escalators and peering over the barriers into the lower floor. Several white- and grey-haired men catch his eye but there’s no sign of the one he saw on the screen. He runs back towards Mirage Fashions and

  through the open door. Larry, their security guard, is on the

  other side of the shop. He raises a hand in hello but Gareth