The Stranger by Mark Ayre (books you need to read TXT) 📗

“Abbie. Did you keep the piece of paper I gave you yesterday?”

Abbie considered lying. Then said, “Yep.”

“I meant what I said. Even if you leave tomorrow, I’d love to buy you a drink tonight. No pressure, no blackmail, no expectation. So, if you change your mind, you give me a call.”

Abbie closed her eyes. He couldn’t see her, so it didn’t matter. She hovered by the door. Would a drink really hurt? It didn’t have to mean anything, and it had been so long since she’d had a chance to sit down and enjoy chatting with someone without it meaning anything; without her having to lie or worry.

Except she would be worried.

“Thank you for the room,” she said.

Without looking back, she pulled open the door and stepped from the hotel.

Nine

Abbie was a step off the hotel’s property and onto the pavement when her phone began to ring. From her drawstring bag, she drew the handset. She didn’t recognise the number but expected it would be her new friend Sanderson, so was surprised when she answered the phone and heard the voice of a much younger man.

“Hello, hi, you gave me this number. I’m sorry. I don’t think you said your name.”

It took a couple of seconds to click. When Abbie got it, she said, “Young Michael.”

“Um, yeah?”

“Is that a question? Are you Michael or aren’t you?”

“I’m… yes. I think we met last night in—“

“Perfect chicken. Yes. Awful place. My name’s Abbie, by the way.”

“Hi.”

“Hi. You want to talk with me about what happened last night? About Ronson?”

There was a pause, the first one since the call had begun. Right now, Michael was doing the calculations. He was afraid. That much was obvious. And why not, if he was entangled with Francis, and if Francis was half as bad as everyone made him out to be.

“Michael?” she said. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need.”

Still, he didn’t speak. This went on long enough that Abbie wondered if he might not have suffered a heart attack. Could he now be lying beside a road somewhere, his phone at his side, his hand clutching his chest as though that might get it to start beating again?

She was about to prompt him by once more saying his name when he spoke.

“Can we meet?”

“Of course we can, Michael. You just name the time and the place.”

The time was right away. The place a drab playground fifteen minutes from where Abbie had taken the call. She arrived at 11.38.

The playground, circled by a rusting metal ring, contained little—a swing set which had once offered two swings and now offered only one. A see-saw with one end planted firmly into the ground, as though weighed down by an invisible child. A roundabout which looked as though it had been neither around nor about in many years. And a small climbing frame complete with a slide that had had its bottom end snapped off, creating a jagged metal spike that might permanently disable anyone that chose to come down the death trap. Once upon a time, all these playground accessories had been bursting with colour. Over the years, the brightness seemed to have faded, as though someone had switched an old telly from colour to black and white. The sky above was grey. Standing in this place, you got the impression the atmosphere here was always bleak. That the sun never shone on this playground.

Completing the picture was Michael. A miserable, frightened sixteen-year-old sitting on the one available swing. His feet were planted in the chipping that covered the ground. He kicked with the energy of a tranquillised sloth, and the swing moved an inch forward, an inch back. When Abbie entered the playground, he looked her way. No hope entered his expression. The poor boy had called out of desperation but expected Abbie to fail him.

Arriving at the swing set, she pointed to the chains upon which had once been attached the second swing.

“Looks like someone took my seat.”

“Here—“ he began to rise. Abbie stilled him with a hand.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just spent over an hour crammed into a chair in a police interview room. Fresh air and leg stretching are what I need. So long as you don’t mind if I pace.”

“No,” Michael said. For the next three seconds, he avoided asking the burning question. Then it came. “Why were you at the police station?”

As good as her word, Abbie had already begun pacing. Despite the fifteen-minute walk from the hotel to the playground, it felt good to keep her limbs moving, even on the awkward chipping carpet.

“You know the name Danny Dean?” she asked.

Michael hesitated, then shook his head. The hesitation might indicate either that Michael had considered and then decided he didn’t know Danny. Or that he knew the name and was deciding whether or not to lie. So despondent did Michael look, it was impossible to tell which was the truth. Abbie chose not to press him on the matter. To take his answer at face value.

“Last night, someone murdered him.”

“Oh,” said Michael.

“He was staying in my hotel room at the time. Though I hasten to add, I was not present. I was staying elsewhere.”

“Why was he in your room?”

Abbie ceased pacing a moment. She wanted to pay attention to Michael’s next reaction.

“I was trying to keep him hidden from the man who wanted to kill him. That man being the boss of your friend Travis. Francis Roberts.”

There was no warmth in the air that day. Neither was it particularly cold. Regardless, Michael shuddered as though a whisk of freezing wind had swept across his skin. Already, he had looked afraid. At the mention of Francis, he was terrified.

He asked, “Who are you?”

“Did I not say? I’m Abbie.”

She began pacing again. Michael shook his head.

“But why are you here? Why did you piss off Ronson and then try to hide someone from Francis Roberts?