It’s me who pulls away first and we stare at one another in the gloom. I don’t know what to say, so he speaks instead.
‘That was nice,’ he says.
‘It was.’ I’m not sure I mean it but I have to say something. It wasn’t bad.
He nods and then turns on his heels. ‘I do need to sleep, though.’
‘You should.’
‘I’m going to let myself in via the back. There’s a second lift that opens up next to my flat.’
Harry gives a little wave and then disappears around the side of the building. I watch him head between a pair of bushes and continue on around to the corner of the block. He’s barely out of sight before I have my phone in my hand and I’m googling ‘Alex Peterson’.
Nothing is forgotten in the twenty-first century. If it happened, then it’s on the internet forever. The browser blinks and then the headline is there in front of me.
MAN GUILTY OF ASSAULT
I click the link, though the details of the story are worryingly familiar. The guilty man is my former boyfriend’s younger brother.
Ben’s dead younger brother.
The specifics are as precise as I remember: Alex Peterson once went to prison for hitting a man in the back of the head with a bat.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I read the story through once and then return to the search page before reading a couple more with similar details. In essence, it’s relatively straightforward: Alex broke up with his girlfriend. She started seeing someone new and then, after dark, Alex smashed the man in the back of the head with a baseball bat. It happened around half a mile away. He ran off, but there was a witness who identified him. It seems like charges were downgraded from attempted murder to actual bodily harm and, somehow, he got away with a three-month sentence.
There’s an emptiness inside me after reading and re-reading the details. Should I tell Harry? Or the police? On its own, it’s nothing but, bundled with everything else, it is one more coincidence on a growing stack.
Alex Peterson is dead, after all. I’ve been going to memorials in which his name is read out for five years now.
It’s only as I’m trying to look for more information about other attacks that I realise I can no longer feel my fingers. I could call another taxi, but it’s hard to justify more money for that – and it’s too early for buses – so I walk instead.
There’s another thing that has stuck with me: Harry asking about a ‘crazy ex-boyfriend’. It didn’t sound like he meant it as a joke, even though he laughed it off. The timing is extraordinary, with it being the anniversary of the crash. First the money, then the police turning up, all the times I’ve run into Melanie, and now Harry being attacked. There are little things, too. The phone calls from Unknown, Karen’s money.
As for Harry, I shouldn’t have kissed him – I know that for certain now. When our lips touched, there was no spark; no weak-at-the-knee moment – if that’s even a real thing. The little voice that won’t go away tells me I can’t be so picky at thirty; that Harry seems nice enough. It’s surely better than being alone…?
The streets are largely empty as I walk across town with my hands in my pockets, but it isn’t long before light starts to seep around the buildings as the sun creeps above the horizon. In seemingly a blink, the main road is full of queuing traffic, so I cut in a few streets to avoid the fumes. Kids in school uniform are booting a ball along the middle of the road, while one of them commentates on what’s going on.
The yawns begin as I round the corner to take me onto the street on which Hamilton House sits. My bed is calling and I can almost feel the softness of the pillows as Billy snuffles at my feet.
I’m at the pelican crossing waiting to get onto the other side of the road when I realise there’s somebody standing outside our building. The green light flashes as the beep to cross echoes along the street, but I stand transfixed by the man who’s watching Hamilton House.
It’s the person who Elaine pointed out was standing close to the hedges near the pub after the memorial service. The gatecrasher. He’s wearing the same green fleece as the previous day but has added a backpack this time around. As I watch, he angles his phone up towards the building and takes what I assume to be a photo. It’s with a chill that I follow his gaze upwards, realising it might well be my apartment he’s trying to picture.
I move away from the crossing, tucking myself in next to a hedge and not losing the irony of how our roles are now reversed. The man scratches at his ridiculous sideburns and it’s hard to know where the hair begins and ends. I watch for five minutes, but he does little other than check his phone, scratch his backside and watch the building. Figuring he isn’t going anywhere soon, I continue along the opposite side of the street behind him and then cross at the far end. There’s a lane that runs along the rear of the building and I follow it until I’m at the back door. In the four years I’ve lived in Hamilton House, I’ve only used this entrance once. That was after a fire alarm that, predictably, left everyone shivering in the cold all because someone downstairs had burnt their toast.
It takes me a moment to remember which key is the right one, but I eventually bluster my way into a freezing corridor next to the laundry room. I hurry up the stairs and let myself into my apartment. The room is a mess, with the unmade bed down from the wall, taking up enough space that it would give any feng shui expert a coronary.
Billy is in his own bed but clambers to his feet as I enter the flat. His routine has been blown to pieces in the past few days and he must be struggling to know what’s going on. I take his lead from the back of the front door, which would usually instigate a mini Staffie-shaped bull rush. Not on this occasion. He mooches over to me with his head down.
I crouch and rub his back. ‘Oh, Bill… have you caught something nasty off Judge?’
He nuzzles into my palm but lowers his head enough for me to attach his lead.
‘I need you to be big and fearsome,’ I tell him.
Fearsome is not Billy on his best of days – he’s more likely to lick a person to death, or sleep on their feet to stop them moving. If Judge is ill, then Billy seems to have it, too. I’ll have to ask Nick if he took Judge to the vet and, if so, what was said.
Billy traipses down the stairs at my side and we leave via the front door. I head directly towards the man, hoping the presence of Billy will give me something of an edge. It’s immediately obvious that the man recognises me. I glance to him and his eyes are wide with recognition, even though I have no idea who he is. His hair is redder up close, especially the beard, and he looks younger – perhaps late twenties, as opposed to the early forties I’d guessed from distance. His green jacket is covered with sew-on badges, though it’s hard to make out any specific words or images from a brief look.
I’m not quite sure what I’m doing. There’s a part of me that wants to stop and ask him who he is; but another entirely that wants to hide. I sense the man’s eyes on me as I walk past with Billy, trying to keep my pace even and my hand steady on the lead, as if I haven’t noticed him. If there is any danger, then Billy doesn’t seem to realise. I was hoping there might be another person or two on the street, but living in a quiet area has its disadvantages. Either way, I’ve got my closer look.
As I continue along the street, I try to block out the distant hum of traffic and focus on whether there are footsteps behind me. Would this man really be following openly in something close to daylight?