Five Strangers Read online

  ‘Do you know what time he’ll be back?’

  If I were a client she would get back on the phone and ask Laurence’s secretary.

  ‘Not sure, sorry,’ she says. ‘Do you have his mobile?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘I’ll try that.’

  Just then I see a pair of red high heels descending the spiral staircase. I’m sure they must belong to Zoe. I hear her voice shouting back up the stairs to someone. Yes, it’s her.

  ‘Or you could always leave a message if—’ asks the receptionist.

  I cut her off. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll catch up with him later.’

  I hold my breath and turn away from reception just as I hear Zoe’s voice getting louder. I hope she doesn’t recognise me from the back. As soon as I’m outside I breathe a massive sigh of relief, and it takes me a couple of minutes to work out what to do next. I walk down the street before I double back on myself, find a coffee shop that has a full view of the front of the office, and take a seat next to the window. Laurence is a workaholic and I guess that at some point he’ll return. I pull out my phone and check my messages. There’s an email from Nick at the Mail. I read it as I try to keep an eye on the entrance of Robertson + Galbraith Partners.

  Nick is really keen for me to pursue the feature about what it’s like being a witness to such a traumatic event. In addition to my own personal testimony, he wants me to speak to as many people as possible who saw the murder–suicide, particularly Julia Jones. He has an idea that might work: what about bringing all the witnesses together? ‘It might make for some really powerful stories,’ he says. Ideally, he’d also like me to organise a photo shoot for all the witnesses on the spot where the murder–suicide happened on Parliament Hill Fields. ‘And I love your headline, WITNESSES FOR THE EXECUTION,’ he adds. ‘All the editors here think it’s great too. So if we could have 2,000 words we can give it a good spread in a Saturday edition. There’s no immediate deadline, but it would be great to get it into the can just as soon as. How does that sound?’ Nick says he knows it’s a lot of work, and the fee would reflect that. He suggests £2,500.

  That’s a lot of cash, and it’s money I desperately need. The last time I looked I was more than £5,000 over my limit at the bank. I tap out a quick email back to Nick.

  ‘Great – can’t wait to do this. Will let you know details for shoot and the mobile numbers of people willing to be photographed. Should make for a good piece. Thanks – Jen.’

  As soon as I press send I begin to panic. What happens if everyone says they’d rather not take part? That they want to get on with their lives in peace? That they don’t want to be featured in a national newspaper?

  I have to make this work. I think back to the positive reception I had from both Jamie Blackwood and Julia Jones. If I can get them onside then there’s a chance that the others might follow suit. Steven Walker might prove difficult, as he is underage, as might Ayesha Ahmed, the junior doctor, but she said herself that she would give evidence at the inquest. I compose a few carefully-worded emails and send them out.

  I order another pot of tea and continue my watch. As I wait, I think over my time with Laurence. Is he one of those people who walks through the world, presenting themselves as a nice person when in fact they are the very opposite? I know they exist, I’ve even met one or two.

  Just then I see him enter the office. I have to restrain myself from bolting over and asking him what the fuck is going on. Instead, I take a sip of boiling hot tea, letting the liquid burn the inside of my mouth. The pain is enjoyable, something to be savoured. I imagine Laurence suffering an agony that consumes his whole body, a torment afflicting every single nerve ending and cell. I picture him screaming like he’s being tortured, his eyes stretched wide with terror. I see a knife scoring the soft skin on the side of his neck, drawing blood. Stop it. I can’t let myself think like this. It’s wrong, dangerous. But then I ask myself why should I feel so guilty. After all, Laurence is the one who’s been fucking with me. He’s the one who sent me those messages. He’s the one stalking me. He’s the one who hit me over the head with a rock for God’s sake.

  I continue to sit there, sipping my tea, waiting. At 5.30 the office begins to empty. I watch as the receptionist leaves, followed by the rest of the staff, including Tom and Peter. Finally, Zoe steps out, soon followed by Laurence. I watch as they flirt with one another. I know she fancies him by her body language. I wonder how much she knows about Laurence’s connection to what happened on the Heath. That he was the mystery jogger who let his lover be knifed to death. How would she react when she learned the truth about him? I bet she wouldn’t be so friendly with him then.

  Zoe smiles again and takes a step away. Laurence nods his head. They are saying goodbye. She turns away from him, he moves in the opposite direction, but after about five seconds Laurence swivels around to steal a glance at her. In that look there is lust, but is there also an expression of greed and possession? It goes beyond simple desire, more than the urge to fuck her. It’s more proprietorial, a sense that he knows he’s in control and can do anything he wants to her. Is that how he viewed Vicky? Was she nothing but a plaything? Is that why he doesn’t appear to feel any sense of loss for a woman who was his lover? Suddenly, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief that I managed to get away from him when I did. What would have happened to me if I’d stayed with him? Would he have made it his mission to destroy me too?

  I quickly take out my purse and leave ten pounds on the table. I step outside and begin to follow Laurence down the street, keeping a safe distance, as he goes down into the Tube. The mass of people threatens to swallow him, and at times I fear I’ve lost him, but I spot him as he makes his way through the station to catch the Northern Line. At the barriers I have to hold back in case he turns his head and sees me. But when he’s through the gates I push myself forward.

  I stand about six people behind him on the escalator. I study the back of his head, thinking about the fragility of his skull. At the bottom of the escalator the crowd builds and there’s a bottleneck as the commuters try to squeeze their way onto the platform. The temperature change, from chilly winter evening to humid hot-house enclosure, is too much for many and I see sweat begin to form on foreheads and faces begin to flush. Laurence turns left and slowly makes his way down the platform, but then, as he realises the space is even more congested, he turns back in my direction. I quickly turn around and do the same, melting into the crowd. Luckily, there’s a group of American children I can hide behind. He stops short of where I’m standing and looks up at the arrivals display. A train in three minutes.

  I think of everything the bastard’s put me through. The lies. The stalking. The intimidation. The attack. I feel my blood pulsating through my veins. He moves a little further towards the edge of the platform. What the hell was he doing on the Heath that day? I feel the stirring of hot, dirty air as it blows down the tunnel. Why did he run away? I take a step further towards him. What kind of sick thrill did he get from sending me those messages, from watching me? The noise from the approaching train roars towards us. Why did he take a rock and smash it over my head?

  I ease forward so I’m standing right behind him now. I savour the moment as I watch his hair part with the force of the wind. The American kids move en masse towards me, unsteadying me, and I have to reach out and grip the shoulder of a besuited businessman. I smile by way of apology, but he doesn’t smile back. Laurence stands tall as he overlooks the tracks. The whine of the approaching train hits us at the same time as the gale-force dry mistral of the wind. The doors open and Laurence steps inside, soon followed by the other passengers. After the doors close and the train departs I see Laurence pressed up against the glass. He looks out and squints in my direction. Does an expression of puzzlement and disbelief cross his face, or is it my imagination? The train speeds into the dark tunnel. I stumble down the corridor, fight my way against the next wave of commuters, and up an escalator.

  I emerge, gasping
for air, feeling sick, afraid of the reasons why I’d followed him down there.

  52

  BEX

  I’m sitting there in the flat when the door opens. A woman I don’t recognise stands before me. My instinct is to jump up and ask what the fuck this stranger is doing in my flat, before I realise it’s Jen. And she’s dressed in my clothes.

  ‘Oh my God, Jen, you gave me one hell of a fright,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry, I should have rung. But I …’

  She can’t finish the sentence and, as I get up to go to her, I know there’s something wrong. She has a mad look in her eyes.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s come over me. I followed him and …’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Laurence.’

  I have to keep my voice steady and pretend not to know what she’s talking about. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I went to his office. Sorry – I borrowed some of your clothes so he wouldn’t recognise me. To put him off the scent. With those messages, you see. He sent me more. I went to look for Steven. At the school. And he must have been watching me. I don’t know how or from where. But he was watching my every move. I felt like I was going mad.’

  Tears come into her eyes as she collapses on the sofa.

  ‘Let me get you a drink.’ In the kitchen I take a couple of deep breaths and try to rearrange my features so I look surprised by what Jen might say. I return with two glasses of white wine. ‘Tell me what happened. Don’t worry, you know I won’t judge you. After all, Laurence deserves everything coming to him.’

  She takes a gulp of wine and tells me more about how she followed him down to the Tube at King’s Cross.

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. It was like I was in some kind of trance. I wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine, I suppose. For the stalking. Those awful messages. The attack on me on the Heath.’ She looks at me, full of guilt. ‘But I’m not sure whether he even noticed he was being followed.’

  I deliver the next comment as if it’s a joke. ‘You should have finished him off while you had the chance. You should have pushed the bastard under the train.’

  She laughs, but as I stand up to fetch the bottle of wine I can tell that my words have resonated with her.

  ‘But the sick thing is that it would’ve been you who would’ve gone to prison,’ I say as I refill her glass. Now is the time for the next revelation. ‘Listen, there’s something you should know. Something I’ve just found out.’

  ‘What is it?’

  I go and get my work bag from my bedroom and return with it to the sitting room.

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether to tell you. I wasn’t sure how you’d react.’

  ‘Just tell me, Bex. What is it?’

  ‘It’s about Laurence.’ I reach into my bag and pull out an A4 brown envelope. I hand it over to her. ‘I went back to his house and found this.’

  Jen takes the envelope and, with shaking fingers, opens it. She pulls out the documents. I watch as her face creases in confusion.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘I thought Laurence was hiding something, and I was right,’ I say.

  ‘But what was he doing with my parents’ death certificates?’

  I wait for the inevitable realisation, which comes a second or so later.

  ‘Fuck. No. It was him? He was the one?’

  ‘It seems like it.’

  ‘He’s the one who wrote into the News? That I’d … lied about the car crash.’

  ‘Oh, Jen. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘And all that time he was planning on doing this? On exposing me? Getting me sacked?’

  Tears start to well up in her eyes and fall down her face. She wants to continue talking, but she’s finding it difficult to breathe.

  ‘Why does he … hate me so much?’ she sobs. ‘I don’t understand what I did to him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply as I take her hands in mine.

  Fat tears spill onto the death certificates, staining the green paper.

  ‘I didn’t know whether I should tell you. I knew that the truth would hurt you, but …’

  ‘No, you did the right thing. Don’t blame yourself, Bex.’

  I stand up to get her a tissue and pass it to her. All the pain she’s stored up since the sacking, since the split from Laurence, since the cyber stalking, since her attack, comes to the surface. Her eyes, bright with tears, look like they are burning. She is on fire with anger.

  ‘You never told him the truth about your parents?’ I ask.

  Jen shakes her head.

  ‘Then I suppose he must have found out somehow.’ I don’t tell her that it was me who provided him with the information. ‘Perhaps it was the fact that you kept that from him that made him do what he did. That you didn’t tell him the truth.’

  ‘That can’t be the reason. If he wanted to end it with me why couldn’t he have done it like a normal bloke? You know, the whole, “It’s not you, it’s me”, routine.’

  The night I spent with Laurence comes back to me. I feel my face begin to sting.

  ‘He’s a shit,’ I say.

  ‘More like a bloody psycho,’ Jen replies. She wipes away her tears and blows her nose. ‘I can’t get it straight in my head. Okay, he hated me. Really hated me. Hated me in secret. But at the same time he was planning a move to Switzerland with me to start a new life.’

  Just hearing the name of the country makes me feel sick.

  ‘But instead of just telling me he wanted to end it, he went out of his way to dig out some proof about how my parents really died, and then he sent the death certificates to my editor at the paper.’

  ‘I suppose he must be really fucking twisted.’

  ‘Understatement of the year,’ she says.

  As she blinks I catch her looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. Like she’s stripped away the facade of my personality and is really glimpsing the truth of what I am. I begin to panic. Has she discovered something about me? What did she say about Penelope wanting to get in touch with her? Has the old bitch dug something up about me?

  But then, a moment later, she’s back to her normal self. Crying. Questioning. Trusting me. Asking for my advice. What should she do? What should we do?

  53

  JEN

  Bex has gone to bed. I’m on the sofa and can’t sleep. I’m staring at the death certificates of my parents. The truth is here in black and white: my mum, Gillian Hesmondalgh, died on 6 September 1997, from cancer, and my dad, Kenneth Hesmondalgh, died of myocardial infarction, a heart attack, on 3 June 1998. Ironically, seeing the details of their deaths set out so starkly like this makes them feel even more like strangers.

  In many ways they became figures of fantasy to me ever since I told that stupid lie about them on that first day of college back in 1995. By creating an alternative history for them, a tragic one that I could tell again and again, I reinvented them in my own mind. Their deaths in that car crash were a bit more exotic than the run-of-the-mill illnesses of old age. Their end was much more dramatic than a slow lingering death from terminal illness or a sudden pain in the chest. A car crash was associated with a dash of danger, glamour even.

  At the bottom of each certificate is the date when the copy was requested: 2 July 2018, just before the split from Laurence. I try to think back to that time. I’m convinced that we were fine. Despite five years together, the passion was still there. We got on well, made each other laugh, had fun together.

  I wonder what made him suspect that I’d been lying about my parents, that they hadn’t died in a car crash as I said? Had someone tipped him off? But who would that have been? I’d changed my name from Hesmondalgh to Hunter years back. There was no one in my close family still alive.

  It feels too late to ask Laurence. He had the opportunity to talk to me about his feelings towards me, no matter how negative they were. But instead he chose to go down a different route: intimidation
, stalking, violence. I recall the terror I felt on finding that mask in his bathroom. A cold tendril of fear snakes its way through my body. I look at the door. As Bex said to me tonight, who knows what he might do next?

  I still can’t sleep. My stomach burns full of acid. My breathing is shallow. I jump at each bang of the communal door downstairs.

  I reach out for my phone. As I register the time – 3.31 a.m. – I see that I’ve got a few notifications from Twitter. My finger hovers over the icon. I tell myself that they’ll be friendly comments from random followers about a few of my past posts, or funny videos about cats with moustaches. I’d muted @WatchingYouJenHunter2, so I’ve nothing to worry about. There’s no way I’m going to go back to sleep and so I open the app.

  @ImStillWatchingYouJenHunter Can’t sleep. Poor baby.

  I look around me. I push the duvet off the sofa and pace the flat. The screen on my phone flashes. Another message.

  @ImStillWatchingYouJenHunter You know I’ll never leave you alone, don’t you?

  I rush over to the window, brush aside the curtains and strain my neck to look out down onto the street. There’s a shadow cast by the bin shed. Is that him? Is he outside? I push open the window and lean out, holding onto the ledge. I squint into the darkness, but I can’t see anything.

  @ImStillWatchingYouJenHunter Careful now. We wouldn’t want you to fall, would we?

  Fuck. I tighten my grip on the ledge and I scan the street for a sign of him. I try to peer inside the cars and the windows of the flats opposite. There are a few lights on, but the curtains and blinds are drawn. A black cab lurches its way up the street, carrying a young couple, but it continues on its almost funereal journey. Then it comes to me. He must be standing right beneath me, hiding in plain sight below the flat. I push myself further out. The cold March wind whips my face. Tears smart in my eyes, blurring my vision. The edge of the window ledge digs into the front of my thighs. I can’t stand much more of this.

  ‘Laurence?’ I shout. ‘Is that you? What the—’