Singular.
I blink away the thoughts and keep Billy close as I fill in yet more information for the job agency. While I’m doing that, I refresh my email over and over, waiting to see if the person who put up the posters has contacted me. There’s nothing but marketing. There never is. Dare to buy something small from a company once and they email three times a week for the rest of eternity.
The agency’s questionnaire asks about, essentially, everything I’ve ever done since being conceived. I’m busy trying to remember what job I was doing eleven years ago when a new email alert pings.
Can we meet?
That’s all it says. I reload the page in case it hasn’t loaded properly but there are only three words. I think about leaving it there. Whoever this is doesn’t know me and he or she had a chance to reply properly. Instead, this is what was sent.
I close the page and return to the questionnaire – except that I cannot concentrate. It still feels as if this is a test of who I am. Honest or not? Someone who takes responsibility for their actions, or a person who runs from them?
It takes me a few attempts to figure out how to reply.
What did you lose?
The response fires back after barely a minute:
I think you know. Can we meet?
It feels as if someone has breathed into my ear. My entire body shivers. If I was in any doubt that this person is talking about the money, then that’s now gone. I think you know. It reads like a threat.
I only noticed the posters after finding the guy in the green jacket covered in sew-on badges outside the building. It could have been him who put them up. I wonder if whoever it is can now trace me via the IP address on my email. I’ve heard of doxing and that sort of thing. Perhaps the posters were a trap and I fell into it…?
Despite that, I still can’t escape the sense that this isn’t who I want to be. I was an honest person. I am an honest person.
I can’t leave my flat tonight. What did you lose?
I read the email back before sending and then realise my mistake.
I can’t leave home tonight. What did you lose? If you don’t tell me, I will not reply.
The new version feels a bit punchier. I do hold the cards, after all. Or, to be more precise, I hold the money. No point in letting him or her know that I live in a flat, either.
The previous reply came after a minute, but nothing fires back this time. I refresh over and over until fifteen minutes have passed. After that, I manage to finish the agency questionnaire and then, for the first time in what feels like weeks, I go to the Open University website. With Billy at my side, things feel clearer and I finally get a little work done. No sooner am I on a roll, however, than my phone starts to ring. It’s an 07 mobile number that I don’t recognise. It’s dark outside, close to nine o’clock. It’s rare that anyone calls me at all, let alone at this time.
‘Hello…?’
A tentative-sounding man’s voice replies. ‘Uh… we spoke the other day,’ he says.
‘Sorry, who is this?’
‘I’m from the bus company. You called about CCTV footage…?’
In everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten about my moment of madness where I pretended I was some love-struck woman searching for a mystery man on the bus.
He continues talking. ‘Sorry for the delay, but I’ve, um, got them.’
‘Got what?’
‘The stills from your bus. There are about fifty. I didn’t know who you were or what I was looking for. There were loads of people standing, so I grabbed the lot. You can have them all and figure out who you’re after.’
He speaks quickly, one word blending into the next in a wave of nervous spluttering. I’m not sure if I picked up on it the other day but he sounds young. He has one of those voices that has definitely broken but still lurches an octave or two on the odd word.
‘Can you email them to me?’ I ask, partly because my email is open in front of me.
‘I’ve already printed them,’ he says. ‘It’s cash only.’
He stumbles over ‘cash’ and there’s a part of me that feels sorry for him. I can imagine some kid straight out of school hovering around a printer while checking over his shoulder in case a supervisor comes by.
‘Hundred quid,’ he says.
‘Um…’
‘Okay, seventy,’ he adds quickly, already talking his own price down. He’s got the negotiating skills and business brain of someone whose last name is Trump.
‘When do you want to meet?’ I ask.
‘Now?’
I almost say yes – but am reluctant to be out in the dark. ‘It’s a bit late.’
‘I’ve got work in the morning.’
He sounds so pathetic that I almost laugh. I glance across to Billy, who raises his head as if anticipating what’s about to happen.
‘I’ll have to bring my dog,’ I say.
There’s a sigh from the other end: ‘Fine.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘I’m so sorry, Bill.’
Billy is decked out in his winter coat and booties that protect his paws from the salt they put on the pavements when the frost comes. He’s walking slowly and stopping every time another firework goes off. I figured being with him outside with the fireworks was better than leaving him inside by himself. After the scare at the vet’s, I’m not sure I want to leave him anyway.
The guy from the bus company must live close because he suggested the park that’s nearest to where I live. I walk to the gates where I confronted the man with the green jacket covered in sew-on badges. It seems like days ago, but it was only this morning. So much has happened. It’s only when I get there that I realise the gates might be shut. There’s a sign about the park closing at sunset each day – but, though the gates are closed, there’s no lock. They open with a loud creak and I hurry inside, pulling them behind me.
This park is part of Billy’s regular walking route and he seems to recognise it, tugging on his lead to go in one direction as I head in the other.
‘Come on, Bill,’ I hiss and he does as he’s told, following at my side.
I agreed to meet here without really thinking about it. It was close, so I thought it would be simple – but I now realise how vulnerable I am. It’s dark and there are no street lamps. The only permanent light comes from the moon attempting to glimmer through the low cloud. There’s temporary illumination too. Sulphur hangs in the air and another rocket whizzes up over the trees on the far side of the park. There’s a bang and pink sparks fly in all directions. Poor Billy stops walking and I have to crouch at his side to persuade him to continue.
The ‘bench near the fountain’ that my mystery man mentioned is a quarter way around the path that loops the park. There’s no one around when I get there, although Billy does pull ahead to lap the water at the bottom of the fountain. I let him at first – and then remember what the vet said about him possibly ingesting something harmful, so pull him away.
Another firework fizzes and bangs from the same direction as the previous one. There’s a second or two in which the entire park is illuminated and then, as quickly as the light came, it’s gone. As far as I can tell, there’s nobody here but me.
I do a lap of the fountain and then arrive back at the bench. The shadows feel darker and deeper than they did moments before. I’m not sure what else to do, so I sit. Billy takes this as a cue and plops himself on my feet. The cold wood of the bench is like needles through my jeans.
‘Sorry, Bill,’ I whisper. It’s cold enough that I can see my own breath.
I check my watch. The person on the phone said ten but it’s already five past.