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

Not since then had she left the book in her car or allowed it to be more than a few metres from her person. She feared if left in her permanent residence, it would be destroyed in a burglary. If she paid to store it in a self-storage facility or even a bank, an earthquake would level the building in question, and her book would be gone. No insurance could cover the sentimental value.

For some time, Abbie held the book to her chest. When she was sure her hands could be relied upon not to shake, she removed the book from the pillowcase. Laying it on the bed, Abbie peeled back the front cover as one might peel back the lid of a case containing a volatile explosive. She peeled back another page and another until she reached the dedication. The Stand was dedicated to Tabby, Stephen King’s wife. Beneath the dedication was the name Violet, scrawled in the scruffy hand of a girl too young to be reading such an adult novel but who had done so none the less.

With her index finger, Abbie pressed lightly upon the page, over her sister’s name, and whispered, “Love you, little sis.” She was unsure when this ritual had started, but she did it now more often than not when she opened the book.

With her finger to her sister’s name, Abbie would close her eyes, and the memories would come flooding back.

Even as she soaked her cheeks with tears, Abbie would welcome each and every recollection as though Violet herself had walked through the door, arms outstretched, ready for a hug.

Sixteen

When she felt strong enough, Abbie returned the book to the pillowcase and placed it on the bedside table. Returning to the bag, she removed her phone and wallet. Travis had left her cards but taken the cash. Fine. The phone screen revealed a message from an unknown number waited. No prizes for guessing the sender.

In the bottom of the bag was, presumably, every paper scrap that had been there before Travis got his grubby mitts on Abbie’s stuff. Possibly one was gone. A scrap containing her current phone number. Also fine. But Abbie found the scrap on which Bobby had written his number and took stupid comfort from that.

The black book was missing.

Closing her eyes, Abbie took a deep breath. This was as expected. That didn’t make it any less frustrating. With everything that was going on with Michael, Eddie, and Francis, this was a distraction she did not need. But that was her fault. She would have to deal.

Restraining from any form of self-flagellation, Abbie moved to her phone. Unlocking the device, she went first to the call log. Yes, Ben had called. After deleting the item from her phone’s history, she moved to the messages screen.

She had only one text.

From an unknown number.

It read: Lets start with a tit pic

No apostrophe in “let’s”. No concluding full stop. It was one thing being psychotic enough to blackmail a deadly criminal and solicit illegal pornographic images from a woman who has proven herself a dangerous foe, but when the youth of today cannot even utilise correct grammar, what hope is there for humanity?

The message was further proof of Travis’ blend of intelligence and stupidity. He was stupid to again attempt blackmail after taking a beating for his last go. But there was an intelligence displayed in the message’s simplicity. Most thieves would have penned a sprawling essay about how they had Abbie’s black book, how they knew it must be precious to her, how she would have to do everything they said to ensure its safe return. Right at the end, if one could be bothered to get that far, they would make their first demand—the, to use Travis’ phraseology, tit pic.

With his off-kilter intelligence, Travis had realised not only that he did not need the essay, but that the one-sentence approach would be more effective. Within that simple line of text was the essay implicit. Abbie knew what he had. Abbie knew he had deduced the black book had some value to her. That he had not spelt all this out made the message more menacing, and made Abbie warier of Travis.

From the phone, Abbie looked to her body. Because she spent more time than was usual in altercations with people like Ronson and Kline, Abbie spent many hours each week doing endurance, speed and strength training to ensure she was always in peak physical condition. As such, her body was unlikely to disappoint Travis. Then again, for someone like Travis, who had an obsession with power and getting one over on people, her physique was probably less important than was her bending to his will. Regardless of how her breasts looked, extreme arousal would arise from the victory of her sending a picture.

Unfortunately for Travis, there would be no picture. In the spirit of simplicity, which he had begun with his text, Abbie replied. It was nearly five pm. She typed: You have five hours to return what’s mine.

After hitting send, she chucked her phone on the bed, stripped, and went for a shower, pushing Travis further and further from her mind with each step she took.

Afterwards, wrapped in a towel, warm, fresh, Abbie lay in bed but fought sleep. Half five came and went. At some point, she needed to go out and get clothes. She would need to eat dinner. After that, maybe she would allow herself a couple of hours sleep before she went to meet Eddie.

5.45. Abbie was in bed, mentally analysing everything she knew, when her phone began to ring. She assumed it would be Travis until she saw the number was blocked. Bracing herself, she answered.

“Abagail King.”

There was a pause. One second, two seconds, three. Then he responded.

“Hello, Miss King, it’s Ben. I was just returning your call. Is now a good time?”

Abbie pressed a finger to her forehead. Was that a headache