Are you watching me? Alice stands at the glass double doors of the store, searching for her stalker, scanning the walkway for anyone who isn’t striding around the shops. Anyone watching her is likely to be stationary, resting up against a wall or a column or sitting on a bench. She’s been a nervous wreck all day. When one of the clothes racks collapsed at the start of her shift she shrieked so loudly that Lynne came running.
She still feels shaky, but not as much as she did last night when she read Ann Friend’s message about Flora. Unsure what to do, she rang Lynne. Ten minutes later her best friend was at the front door.
They talked for hours, reading and rereading the messages, trying to work out who could be behind them. They drew up a list of suspects beginning with people who might hold a grudge against her: Peter, his new girlfriend, Jenna who she’d sacked, Michael, and Adam. Then they spread the net wider, writing down anyone Alice had ever had a disagreement with: the hairdresser she’d complained about, the manager of the rival fashion chain who’d once accused her of luring away her staff, even her grumpy ‘mail-stealing’ neighbour on the first floor. Then they wrote down all the people that might have a problem with Simon. There were only two names on that list: Flora and the woman from Costa. With Simon refusing to answer his phone there was no way of knowing if there were more.
On Lynne’s prompting Alice texted him, telling him about the latest message. She’d expected silence but he’d replied almost immediately:
Whatever you’re doing, stop. It’s over. Forget you ever met me.
She tried calling but he didn’t pick up and when she got voicemail six times in a row she had to admit defeat.
‘He must care about me,’ she said to Lynne, ‘or he wouldn’t have replied to the text.’
‘If he cared he’d pick up the fucking phone and tell you what’s going on.’
By this point in the conversation it was nearly two o’clock in the morning and neither of them could see straight for tiredness and red wine so they decided to call it a night. They argued about who should take the sofa and who should take the bed but Lynne won out and Alice dragged herself off to her room. When she got up five hours later she rang DC Mitchell to tell her what had happened the previous night but the call went to voicemail. It’s nearly six hours later and she still hasn’t heard back.
‘Hey!’ Lynne nudges her elbow, then immediately apologises as Alice jumps out of her skin. ‘Sorry, but I was just wondering what to do with this?’
Alice looks at the thick winter coat she’s holding towards her and shakes her head. It’s not a coat they have in stock. ‘What is it?’
‘That shoplifter, you know Godzilla, she left it in the changing room last night. Kaisha hung it up in the staff changing room when she checked the cubicles but I’m wondering if we should just chuck it?’
‘No, she might come back for it and if we’ve binned it she’ll kick off. I can’t deal with that at the moment. Could you, um … could you just tuck it under one of the counters? We’ll keep it for a week and chuck it if she doesn’t come back.’
‘All right.’ Lynne doesn’t look convinced but she tosses the coat over her arm. ‘Fancy grabbing some lunch?’
‘I, um … I thought I might go out and get some air. Wander round a little bit.’
‘Great idea. I’ll just go and grab my bag.’
‘No, don’t. I just … I just need a bit of time alone.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to be on your own.’
‘I don’t, not at home, anyway. But I’m just going windowshopping. There’s loads of people about. I’ll be fine.’
‘Yeah, and your stalker could be one of them.’
‘Cheers!’
‘No … I mean … I just want you to be safe.’
‘I will be.’ She touches a hand to Lynne’s arm. ‘Whoever’s behind this wants me to be scared and lock myself away. But I’m not going to do that. If I want to go out, I will.’
Lynne doesn’t look convinced and when Alice walks out of the shop, coat on, handbag slung across her body, her silence follows her.
As Alice walks down Broad Street she can’t help but feel bad about Lynne. She doesn’t like lying but if she told her where she’s actually going she’d have disapproved. Both Lynne and Emily have told her over and over again that she’s got to let this thing with Simon go. And maybe she should. Trying to work out what the hell’s going on has given her sleepless nights and made her feel more stressed than she has in a very long time. But it’s not even about Simon any more. Any feelings she had for him vanished when he chose to dump her rather than explain what was going on. No, this is about her anonymous messenger. She doesn’t like the fact that someone is pulling the strings of her life. She’s going to find out who they are and take back control.
The barman at the Evening Star looks up as she walks in, then reluctantly puts away his phone as she approaches the bar.
‘What can I get you?’
‘A gin and tonic, please.’ Screw not drinking at lunchtime. She’s going to need all the Dutch courage she can get.
‘Anything else?’ He gestures at a red-backed menu lying on the bar. ‘Any food? We’ve got a new chef.’
‘No thank you.’ She’s already decided that she’ll grab a sandwich from Sainsbury’s on her way back to work.
As the barman tips a measure of gin into a glass Alice takes her phone out of her bag. No missed calls from DC Mitchell. And no texts or messages, other than one from Emily, thanking her for looking after her last night. When her daughter got up that morning Alice took one look at her puffy eyes and pallid skin and asked if she was going to ring in sick. Emily looked appalled. ‘Just because Adam’s a fuckwit doesn’t mean I have to miss a day’s pay. I’ll let him stew. Silence is the best weapon, Mum.’
She wondered if that was true. She’d been doing the opposite with Simon and it hadn’t got her very far. As the barman plonks a gin and tonic in front of her, Alice pays, then carries it across to an empty table. It feels weird coming back to the bar where she first saw him but it’s the nearest pub to work. Quiet too. She’s not going to be overheard.
She knocks back half her drink, but the inside of her mouth dries as she taps at her phone then holds it to her ear. He probably won’t reply, she thinks.
‘Hello?’ a male voice says. There’s a pause, as though he’s about to say something else but he falls silent instead.
‘Michael, it’s Alice.’
Another pause, and doubt starts to creep in. There’s almost no chance he’ll be able to help her, but she can’t just dismiss Lynne’s theory that he and Simon set this whole thing up. It’s no more unreasonable than the idea that Flora would stalk her, or Peter’s pregnant girlfriend suddenly decided to try and ruin her life.
‘Hi,’ Michael says and Alice’s heart twists in her chest.
‘Where are you?’ she asks.
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you still in Spain?’
‘Why? What’s this about? If it’s about your car I already told the police I was in Barcelona and I’ve got friends who—’
‘I know. They told me.’
‘So why are you calling?’
‘Do know anyone called Simon?’
‘Who?’
‘Simon. He picked up my purse after … after you attacked me in the pub …’
‘I’m sorry.’ The words come up in a rush. ‘I’ve got to stop you there, Alice, to say how sorry I am. I’m … I’m really fucking sorry. Honestly I … I’ve never, never hurt a woman in my life. I just … I’d been drinking since I woke up and … there’s no excuse. I’m an alcoholic and I’m getting help. I’ve got some friends out here who’ve booked me into a place where … you don’t need to know all the ins and outs and I’m rambling. I’m just so sorry. Really. I would have apologised earlier but the … the police said I should leave you alone.’
Alice says nothing as his words sink in. Instead she stares past the bar towards the corridor where Michael elbowed her at the base of her throat and then tried to kiss her. The memory, the spit glistening on his lips and the pink peak of his tongue, makes her feel sick, but she can’t reconcile that lurching, aggressive man with the bumbling, apologetic voice in her ear. It’s as though Michael was wearing someone else’s skin that day and what happened stripped it away, revealing a stuttering mouse of man.
‘I forgive you,’ she says and as the words leave her mouth she feels a weight drop from her shoulders. ‘Do you know him, or where he is?’ she adds quickly. ‘Simon? The blond-haired man who picked up my purse?’
‘Simon … Simon …’ Michael deliberates over the name. ‘No, that’s not ringing any bells. If I’m honest my memory of what happened is a bit hazy anyway but I’m pretty sure I don’t know a Simon.’
‘Right. Okay.’ She doesn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relived.
‘I really am sorry.’
‘I know you are.’ She pauses, unsure how to end the call then simply says, ‘Goodbye,’ and takes the phone from her ear. She taps the screen to end the call, then reaches for her glass.
The barman coughs lightly as she takes a sip. He coughs again, louder this time.
‘Sorry to eavesdrop,’ he says as she glances across at him, ‘but, um … quiet pub and all that.’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, I remember you. You were here a few days ago, weren’t you?’
Alice sits up straighter. ‘Yes, I was.’
‘The Simon you’re looking for … was he the blonde bloke who was sitting over there with a laptop?’ He points across the pub to an empty table.
‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘Then you need to try Radio Bristol.’
‘Radio Bristol?’
‘On Whiteladies Road.’ He spreads his hands wide on the bar. ‘He’s called Simon Hamilton, the bloke who was sitting there. Radio Bristol DJ. Comes in occasionally to work on his stuff for his show, pranks and that. I don’t think it’s funny.’ He shrugs again. ‘But some people must do.’