R J Lindsey
Your Only Friend
For Emily
1
Come on, come on, come on – where are you? I know you’re out there, just dying to meet me. You can’t resist me. You can’t run, can’t hide. Because I’m ready for you. I’ve always been ready for you. Don’t be afraid. All you’ve got to do is show yourself – let me take care of the rest. I’ll listen to your hopes and fears; I’ll say those things you need to hear. It’s easy. And then you’ll give me everything I want.
***
Sinead straightened her back and tried to ignore the dull ache in her feet as she rose up on tiptoes, searching the crowd for her final victim of the day. It had just gone five, and the offices were chucking out. Drained workers emerged from drab grey buildings and out onto the pavement, joining the flow of pedestrians moving purposefully through the suburban high street. The day had been long and exhausting. One more sign-up and she’d have met the team’s sales target. This week she was collecting on behalf of Macmillan Cancer Support for her fundraising agency. Last week’s job had been a lot easier – Battersea Dogs & Cats Home. People didn’t like hearing about aggressive brain tumours quite as much as they did cute homeless puppies. She straightened her green and white vest, making the Macmillan Cancer Support logo more visible across her chest.
An estate agent in his uniform of powder blue suit and brown brogues was marching towards her, coffee cup in one hand, phone in the other.
‘You should stop for a moment, drink your coffee,’ Sinead said with a grin.
‘Wish I could, darling. Some other time, yeah?’ The estate agent didn’t break stride.
‘Okay then, I’ll take that as a promise. Next time.’ She turned her attention to an office drone in standard charcoal grey M&S business attire; the woman was lighting up a cigarette as Sinead stepped in front of her.
‘Hello there. Fancy a little chat while you smoke…?’
The woman arced around Sinead, emphasising her contempt with a little head shake and theatrical eye roll.
‘No? Not a problem. Have a nice evening.’ Sinead smiled to herself. Stupid bitch. You’ll wish you’d donated to Macmillan when your lungs pack up. She observed the advancing throng. The heavy overcoats, hats, gloves and scarves had gone now; only last week everyone was still wrapped up against the cold. However, today the sun had actually made an extended appearance. Chugging was always hard work, but the day went quicker without frozen feet and a numb nose distracting you.
She tried making eye contact with a scruffy student, but he wasn’t having it. Sinead scanned the dozen or so people walking behind him. Some viewed her with indifference, some with shame, most just looked right through her. It didn’t affect her, not any more. Sure, it had taken some getting used to during the first week or two, but she’d been surprised how quickly she’d got the hang of it. And how quickly she’d become good at it. She’d been promoted to team leader after three months, and now here she was, two years later: a fundraising veteran. She treated her work as a performance, like the plays she’d acted in at school. They weren’t rejecting her, they were rejecting her character. It was a game to her and Sinead wanted to win. No – she needed to win.
While waiting for the right prospect, she planned her cycle route from Wimbledon to Beckenham. She needed to head off now to get to the viewing at six o’clock. It was fifty, fifty-five minutes at least, and she couldn’t afford to be late. Someone else might beat her to it. She’d had a feeling about this house as soon as she’d read the ad on Gumtree. She deserved to get this one. And after all, today was her birthday.
An old man pushed his tartan shopping trolley along the pavement, inch by agonising inch. Sinead sighed. It was way too easy. She reckoned he must be over eighty; not exactly the kind of long-term prospect that charities preferred. The man halted and began coughing as he leant on the trolley. An overladen canvas bag toppled to the ground, spilling out cans of soup and bags of rice. Other pedestrians hurried by. Well then, thought Sinead – that settles it. The man was clutching his back, about to stoop down to the pavement, when he saw her approaching.
‘Are you all right? Do you need a hand?’
***
Sinead slowed her bicycle and pulled up to the kerb. She looked around the unfamiliar surroundings, checked the Google Maps location on her phone, and calculated she’d taken a wrong turn two streets back. She turned around and was soon on course again, confidently navigating the rush-hour traffic. As she cycled, troublesome thoughts kept intruding, which was probably the reason she’d missed the turning before. Getting the old man signed up was no challenge. The pensioner was so grateful for her assistance he was offering to make a donation before Sinead had even slipped into sales mode.
She pictured the Co-op value tins of soup and the loaf of bread with the reduced-price yellow sticker. That, together with the second-hand coat and tatty shoes, proved he couldn’t afford a donation of two pounds a week. Sinead’s guilty conscience was kicking in before the man had even signed the direct debit authorisation form. She wondered if that was how she’d end up, so lonely and desperate for a chat that she’d pay for the privilege. She concentrated on her cycling and soon felt better because the old guy was helping charity and she’d made her day’s target. That was rule number one: don’t let personal feelings affect your work. Not if you wanted to keep your job.
Twenty minutes later, Sinead was coasting down a sleepy residential avenue, lined with cherry trees, squinting at the house numbers as she passed them. Most of the properties were post-war detached bungalows or two-storey houses, and boasted immaculate front gardens; she even spotted a fish pond. A cool spring breeze flickered through her hair. This is nice, she thought. Yeah – so quiet, so peaceful.
She slowed to a halt, dismounted and wheeled her bike over to a lamp post. Inside her backpack she rummaged under the crumpled green and white vest and clipboard, found her bike lock, then fastened the bike frame to the lamp post. She stood a moment, getting her bearings. Near the street corner, set a bit further back from the other houses, was a well-maintained, detached pebble-dashed bungalow, partially enclosed by a privet hedge that formed an ‘L’ shape along the far side and half of the driveway opening. A six-foot fence ran along the perimeter on the near side.
Sinead strolled up the gravelled driveway until she came to the front porch’s white PVCu door. She peered inside – the area was about six foot square and the main door was directly opposite – and pressed the doorbelclass="underline" bing-bong. Plunging her hands into her denim jacket pockets, she glanced across the road; no one was around. In the near distance, an ice-cream van played Greensleeves. She thought about strawberry Cornettos as she waited. It had been her favourite childhood ice cream, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten one. A minute went by. Her smartphone’s clock showed 18.02. Pretty much bang on time.
Gently, she rapped the letter box. The porch area was empty except for a Barbour jacket hanging on a hook and a pair of green Wellington boots tucked underneath a couchette. A pizza flyer lay on the inner doormat. Sinead moved over to the adjacent window and tried peering through, but the setting sun was reflecting back into her eyes. She returned to the door and tried the bell again, shuffling from foot to foot. A minute and a half went by. Maybe they were on the toilet or out in the back garden. She couldn’t have got the wrong address, could she? She took out her phone and searched her texts. There it was: 26 Spencer Avenue, BR3 4BX. 6.00 is good for me. She called the number.