Five Strangers Read online

  I remember the time we had a blazing row because I had put a wine glass down on one of his blueprints. There was no stain – I’d already learned that I had to be a bit careful around his things – but Laurence worried about the possibility of one. And of course, this conversation mutated into an argument about my general slovenliness versus what I called, during the heat of the screaming match, his anal retentiveness. He warned me not to put the incident into my column, but of course it ended up in there, related line by line. Laurence had stopped reading my pieces, but perhaps he heard about it from someone at work because the day after it appeared he made some snarky comment about it over dinner. I didn’t want another row and so I ignored it.

  ‘Let’s check the bedroom, shall we?’ suggests Bex.

  The thought of walking into that space where we had spent so much time, where we had made love, makes me feel sick.

  ‘Do you want to look in there? It’s just that …’ I can’t finish the sentence.

  ‘I’ll go ahead,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you go and check out, I don’t know … where would Laurence keep something he didn’t want anyone else to find?’

  ‘As you know he’s not a big one for personal possessions.’ Suddenly something occurs to me that makes me look at the house in a totally new light. My voice drops to a whisper. ‘Bex, do you think there’s anything belonging to Victoria in here?’

  ‘Oh my God, of course!’ she says. ‘There’s bound to be. There might be something of hers that could help. Why don’t you look in the bathroom and I’ll check the bedroom.’

  I hear her open one of the drawers by the bed. I dread to think what she might find there and so I leave her and walk into the bathroom. It’s a gorgeous big room at the back of the house, with an enormous freestanding bath in the middle.

  Part of me doesn’t want to find any trace of Victoria in the house. The thought of coming across something like an old packet of contraceptives or an item of underwear, even one of her lipsticks, makes me want to retch. I can’t seem to control my breathing. I feel like running out of the room, down the stairs and into the road. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. There’s a nasty yellow and purple bruise on my forehead. My blonde hair is lank. I have shadows under my eyes. No wonder Laurence doesn’t love me. Perhaps he never loved me. Was he always waiting for the moment when he could finish it all? Did my bad behaviour give him the perfect excuse he was looking for? I wonder again how long he had been seeing Victoria.

  ‘Found anything?’ calls Bex from the other room.

  ‘N-no, not yet,’ I answer.

  My eyes are drawn to the cupboard below the sink. As I reach out for the handle, I notice my fingers are trembling. I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, and tell myself that I need to just do this. I pull the handle towards me.

  The first thing I see is a bottle of Penhaligon’s aftershave I bought Laurence for one of his birthdays. Behind this there’s a pair of tweezers and an expensive pot of moisturiser. I twist open the top of the jar and see, in the top of the cream, the faint impression left by a slender finger. I imagine Victoria standing here, in front of the mirror, massaging the potion into her face. I can’t let this distract me. I have to search the rest of the house. We don’t know how long we have before Laurence returns. But just before I go to close the cupboard I notice something stashed away at the back, behind the bottles of cleaning products. I push my hand past the bottles and feel something with a sharp plastic edge. I wrench it forwards, not caring whether I knock anything over. I can’t believe what I’m holding.

  It’s the Guy Fawkes mask that I last saw on the person who attacked me.

  46

  BEX

  So she’s found it.

  ‘Bex! Bex!’ I hear her scream.

  I run to find her slumped on the bathroom floor, holding something.

  ‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

  She holds up the mask. ‘It’s what he – what Laurence was wearing when he attacked me.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say. I go over and take her in my arms. She is sobbing and I can feel her tears on my skin. ‘So … it was him.’

  ‘Of course it was him,’ she says. ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘The fucker. He must have stashed it there after attacking you.’

  ‘I don’t understand why he hates me so much.’

  ‘He’s twisted in the head, that’s why.’ I pull my phone out from my pocket. ‘But the fact that he’s kept it means you’re not safe. He’s used it once, which means he may intend to use it again.’

  ‘You think so?’ She sounds, and looks, terrified. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing? I’m calling the police.’

  She falls silent as I pretend to dial 999. ‘But … let’s just think this through,’ I say. ‘What if we call the police, and after they leave, they come to the house and find nothing. It’s our word against his. And we can hardly take this mask with us, can we? Laurence could turn around and say we’ve just gone and bought a Guy Fawkes mask ourselves. No, we need to be clever about this.’

  ‘Clever?’

  ‘Yes, we need to think one step ahead of him.’

  She looks at me in the same way she’s looked at me ever since the first day I met her. As if I’m her saviour. It’s a look that believes I can save her from other people, perhaps even herself.

  ‘So what should we do?’

  ‘Take a photograph of it, just in case. And then put the mask back where you found it.’

  ‘What? But it’s proof – it’s evidence that, that he attacked me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure he pays for it.’

  47

  JEN

  After taking a photograph of the mask I put everything back where I found it and we make our way out of the house. Before we open the front door Bex tells me to step out as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. People can sense guilt, she says, even from afar. And you never know who might be watching.

  I try my best to do as she says, but I keep picturing Laurence as he walks down the path in the front garden, meeting us as we close the door behind us. What will we say to him if he sees us? I know this is illogical – it’s him who should worry, he’s the one in trouble – but I can’t help but feel I’ve got something to hide. But, of course, we walk away without meeting a soul, apart from a couple of young mothers and their new babies.

  As we make our way back to the flat I want to talk with Bex about what happens next – I’ve got a few ideas of my own – but I’m conscious someone might overhear us. We stop at Sainsbury’s to pick up a few things and, while Bex is paying, I go outside and check my phone. There’s been a missed call from Penelope and an email from her too. She wants me to ring her or drop by, she says, because she has something important she needs to talk to me about. I remember the things she said to me during our last conversation. I suppose she wants to apologise. Bex was right about Penelope. I should have listened to her.

  I can’t believe I almost drove Bex away. Those cruel words, accusing her of behaving like a stalker, the way I snapped at her on the Heath like that, nearly destroyed our friendship. She’s only ever had my best interests at heart. Only someone like her would have the sense, and the sensitivity, to suggest that perhaps it wasn’t the right decision to call the police. But she’s keen to punish Laurence. And I’m definitely up for that.

  Various scenarios run through my mind. What kind of revenge would be most effective? They say it’s a dish best served cold. So it would be good to do something when he is least expecting it. But I can’t wait that long. I’d like him to suffer like I’ve suffered. I’d like him to experience the acrid taste of fear, the visceral panic that sets in, knowing someone is watching you, following you.

  I picture him walking down a dark street. He hears footsteps behind him. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His heartbeat quickens. He increases his pace, takes a turn down an unfamiliar side street
in an effort to outwit his pursuer. But the shadowy presence continues to follow him. Finally, he takes a deep breath and turns his head to see … me. What does he feel? Certainly not fear. I’m a woman, after all. And what kind of man is afraid of the opposite sex? Not Laurence, that’s for sure. I can hear his cruel laughter echoing down the street, a horrible, mocking sound. He tells me that he pities me, that I am pathetic. He pushes past me and disappears into the night.

  No, if I want to get my own back on Laurence I need to do something more elaborate, more baroque. What would hit him the hardest? I could trash his house, throw paint around the walls, smash bottles of wine everywhere. Or I could do something more subtle, like use the key to sneak into the house and hide prawns in a hundred secret places so the whole place stinks to high heaven.

  The thing he cares most about is his job, his reputation. What about some kind of plan to bring about his ruin? But just as I begin to try to think up ways to smear him, another idea occurs to me, one that stops me in my tracks. What if … what if Laurence was angry with me because he thought that I was the one who had told Daniel about his affair with Victoria? After all, he would have seen me on the Heath that day, standing near the couple, and soon after this Daniel stabbed his girlfriend. Did he blame me for Vicky’s death, for the death of his unborn child?

  Suddenly, I don’t know what to do. I’m struck by a paralysis of doubt. I realise Laurence’s true feelings are completely unknown to me. Is it worth trying to talk to him? To tell him that I had never seen, met or talked to either Daniel or Victoria before that day? But then the image of that mask, hidden away in the bathroom cupboard, comes back to me. If he’s got so much anger against me – if he really does blame me for the murders – then how far will he go? Does he actually want … to kill me?

  The thought makes the idea of my murder a reality. I try to dismiss it. Laurence would never do anything like that, I tell myself. Although the messages were distressing, they were a way of venting his anger, I understand that. If he’d really wanted to kill me he could have done it. He could have carried on smashing the stone into my head until my skull was reduced to fragments and my brains spilled out over the earth. But he didn’t. He stopped himself.

  However, I know from my therapist how the process of normalisation begins, how each of us rehearses things in our heads or acts out various minor versions of fantasies and finally, over time, those small acts repeated often enough can mutate into unacceptable, transgressive or even criminal behaviour.

  Is Laurence capable of murder? And if so, what can I do to protect myself?

  48

  BEX

  She’s standing outside looking at her phone. She’s no idea, no idea at all. She’s like a lamb to the slaughter. She sees me as her protector, her guardian, a kind of sentinel that stands between her and all that’s bad in the world. As we left Laurence’s house she kept looking at me with those big blue eyes of hers, leaching gratitude. No doubt she wanted to thank me for helping her find the evidence that showed Laurence was the one who had attacked her on the Heath.

  Part of me wants to shout to her, ‘I planted the mask in Laurence’s house.’ And then add, ‘I was the one who attacked you, you stupid bitch.’

  Of course, I don’t say a word, but just smile reassuringly and tell her that I will make everything all right, just as I always do.

  As I navigate the narrow aisles of the Sainsbury’s Local, browsing for comfort food, I spot a pack of doughnuts, their insides oozing raspberry jam. As I add them to my basket I’m taken back to the moment on the Heath when Jen was sitting on that bench. I checked to make sure the mask was in place, running the fingers of my left hand around its sharp edges. I took a step towards her as Jen’s head turned to me. I saw the look of shock and horror in her eyes. The rock was in my right hand and I smashed it down onto her head. I was careful to apply the right amount of force, just enough to knock her out, but not enough to seriously injure her. The sound of the rock hitting her head pleased me in a way that was immensely satisfying, like hearing the familiar chorus of a favourite pop song I haven’t heard for years. I struck again. She gasped and fell onto the ground. I stood and watched her quietly for a moment, then I walked quickly away, taking the rock with me. As I passed the ponds I threw it into the water. A sense of achievement washed over me as I watched the ripples spread across the surface.

  All this runs through my mind as I pick up some milk, some teabags, crisps, chocolate, loo roll, and a bottle of wine. As I leave to pay, I picture Jen taking a doughnut, biting into it, the jam squirting out and smearing her lips, the colour of blood.

  ‘Here, I got these for you,’ I say, as I pass the doughnuts to Jen.

  ‘Great – so you’ve got a secret mission?’ she asks.

  I feel myself begin to panic. ‘What?’

  ‘To make me pile on the pounds,’ she says, laughing. Jen digs into the packet and pulls out one of the doughnuts. ‘I’m only kidding. Honestly – it’s exactly what I need. And anyway, haven’t you heard, revenge is hungry work.’ She bites into the deep-fried dough and catches some jam with her hand.

  It’s the first time I’ve heard her say it, and it sounds good. ‘Revenge?’

  ‘Oh, yes, revenge. Revenge, big time.’

  ‘On … Laurence?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘What do you have planned?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, but I’m not going to let him fuck with me.’

  He’s not the one fucking with you, I think.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she asks.

  ‘Just you tucking into that doughnut, that’s all.’

  She hands me the packet. ‘Want one?’

  I shake my head. ‘Maybe later.’

  ‘I just got a message and a call from Penelope,’ says Jen, wiping some jam from her lips.

  ‘What does she want?’

  ‘She says she wants me to get in touch with her as soon as possible. I suppose she wants to apologise.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.

  ‘Ignore her – at least for the time being.’

  The mirror image of my name on that blotting pad comes back to me. I don’t like the idea of Penelope snooping around. As we start to walk I feel Jen look at me, in a way that I know prefigures a difficult or awkward question.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘You may as well spit it out.’

  ‘How do you know I want to ask you something?’

  ‘Just something weird you do with your head. You sort of tilt it in an odd fashion.’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘You know you do,’ I say. ‘Anyway, go ahead.’

  ‘Well, I was just wondering whether you wanted your own space back. I know you said I could stay as long as I want, but I don’t want to be a burden.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid – you can stay as long as you like. I know it’s not super comfortable. But you’ll have the flat to yourself, during the day at least, as I’m due back at work on Monday.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I tell her that of course I’m sure. She doesn’t know that I’ve told my bosses that I won’t be back at work until the end of March. Fortunately, Camden Council are very understanding about the unpredictable state of my mental health.

  Back at the flat, Jen begins to tell me about some of her revenge fantasies. Clichés about prawns hidden in airing cupboards, suits cut up and thrown out of the window, attempts to smear Laurence’s reputation at work. I listen and nod my encouragement, all the while having a plan of my own.

  49

  JEN

  I’m sitting in the flat, alone. Bex has gone back to her desk at Camden Council. Hard though it is I force myself to stop thinking about Laurence and what terrible things I might do to him. I need to focus on work. I’m conscious that I need to move the story forwards. I’m also really short of cash. I dismiss what my therapist advised me and concentrate on what I know and what I need to find out.

  Obviously, I can’t go back to Mr and
Mrs Da Silva because they still blame me for leaking the news of Victoria’s pregnancy. I doubt whether Caro Elliott has anything else to add. I think about what Julia Jones said to me about how she’s been affected by witnessing the murder–suicide and how it’s revived the painful memory of losing her son, Harry. I’m not sure whether I can even make the feature work or whether any of the group would want to help me, but nevertheless I tap out an email to Nick, the editor at the Mail, asking whether he’d be interested in a feature about the trauma of being a bystander at such a horrific event. Conscious that it needs some kind of catchy headline, I remember Julia’s words, tinged with black humour, when we first met – ‘Witnesses for the Execution’. I type this into the subject box and press the send button before I can change my mind.

  As I wait for a reply I think about how I can use my time. I’ve interviewed everyone who witnessed the crime apart from Steven Walker. He seemed keen to talk to me, that is until Bex ran towards him like something demented and scared him away. It’s worth a try, I think.

  I arrive at the gates of Steven’s school just before lunchtime. I could easily be a parent who has turned up to give their child the packed lunch they forgot to pick up earlier, or the money they need for an after-school club. I watch the stream of faces that pass me, every shade, every ethnic origin, pleased that I live in such a thriving and dynamic multi-cultural city.

  Just then my phone pings. A message. It’s from @WatchingYouJenHunter.

  Taking to hanging around the school gates now, have we? Classy.

  I look around me, but all I can see is a sea of teenage faces. I walk up and down Highgate Road, peering into parked cars. Then, on the other side of the road, I see him. Laurence. He’s standing by the bus stop with his back to me. I step out, but there’s a blast of a horn from my right. The car brakes suddenly and I get a mouthful from a man, telling me that I’m a stupid fucking bitch and I need to watch what I’m doing. I stumble back onto the pavement, my nerves shredded. Passers-by look me up and down as if I’m deranged. And as another message zings its way into my phone – You better be careful. We wouldn’t want you to have a nasty accident now, would we? – I feel as though my mind is shattering.