‘Will you be okay?’ she asks, her pretty face full of concern.
‘Of course. I’m always okay.’ I laugh, which hides my real fear. I have no idea if it’s true. ‘I’m going back to my brother’s flat – he’ll be chuffed, no doubt – and then, well, we’ll see.’
She puts her hand on my arm and what she says next sends chills through me. ‘I think you’ve had a lucky escape.’
It’s still light when I leave Courtney’s flat. My heart feels unexpectedly heavy. I’ve only known Courtney a few weeks but all of this has bonded us. I feel we could become proper friends. And I love Bristol. Maybe I’ll come back. When I’ve decided what I’m going to do with my life.
I head to the bus stop through the unfamiliar streets. It’s much quieter here than in Clifton but as I amble along the pavement I get the familiar feeling that someone is behind me. I quicken my pace, telling myself not to be paranoid. The footsteps are getting closer but I daren’t turn around. It’s probably someone making their way to the bus stop too, I tell myself. But apart from me and the person behind me, the street is quiet. I hear them speed up and I tense. I can see the bus stop ahead. To my dismay, nobody else is waiting and, even though it’s not yet dark, the area has a ghost town feel to it. I slow down as I approach the bus stop and as I do so someone brushes past me, shoving me hard in the shoulder. I cry out in shock but they continue walking briskly, a hood pulled over their head. It looks like a bloke. I want to shout at his retreating back and call him a wanker, but I feel vulnerable, worried he might turn and attack me. I’m relieved when the bus to Temple Meads station pulls in.
The area might have been quiet, but the bus is heaving with commuters and the great unwashed so I have to stand for most of the journey. Temple Meads is even busier and I run to catch my train, just making it on time. I wander through the carriages until I find a seat next to aman in a smart suit with a laptop. His eyes slide towards me and I can almost see him wrinkle his nose when he takes in my hair and clothes. I might look a bit eccentric, I want to tell him, but I don’t smell.
It’s dark by the time we pull into the station at Weston-super-Mare. Even so I decide to walk the ten minutes to my brother’s flat. Now I’m no longer in Bristol, the fear of being followed dissipates and I breathe in the fresh sea air, the backpack heavy on my shoulders.
The streets are still busy and the sun is setting in the distance, streaking the sky dusky pink and ochre. I can see why Arlo ended up here. It has a certain charm. Not unlike where we grew up, I suppose. Since Mum died two years ago we’ve both been in limbo, unsure of what to do with our lives. Not that we could ever accuse Mum of being a helicopter parent. Her philosophy was to make us as autonomous as possible and to do what made us happy. The problem is, Arlo and I are still figuring that out.
Arlo lives in a top-floor flat in a row of equally dingy buildings that have been battered by winds. Unfortunately there are no sea views from his street, just grey rooftops and overfed gulls that wake you up with their squawking too early in the morning. It’s the antithesis of where Elspeth lives. There are no lights on in the window of Arlo’s flat, which isn’t unusual. He often sits in the dark. Sometimes he meditates with just a flickering candle and a spliff in his hand. Although this is usually after a hangover. He could be out with his weird hippie friends – after all, it is a Friday night.
I let myself in with the spare key. The one I took before I left for Bristol. He doesn’t know I have it. I found it inthe kitchen drawer among the elastic bands and rolled-up balls of string and pocketed it, just in case the job didn’t work out. It was an unusually savvy move on my part because here I am, barely a month later.
The flat is pretty much as I left it. It’s even smaller than Courtney’s: one bedroom, a small living room, with a futon, and a tiny kitchenette overlooking the street. There are posters of Bob Marley tacked to the walls and a lingering smell of weed. I suddenly feel a stab of something akin to homesickness for the elegant townhouse in Clifton that always smelt of Jo Malone diffusers and beeswax. Iswanned– there really is no other word for it – around that house like I was in a Jane Austen film, and I can’t deny that I devoured every minute of living there despite its lack of homeliness. Yes, the job was dull, but the house and location more than made up for it. I doubt I’ll ever get to live anywhere so glamorous again.
I dump my rucksack by the table, then rummage in the cupboards. There’s little food – a tin of baked beans and a jar of pickles in the cupboard and a pint of milk three days out of date and some margarine in the fridge. Great. My stomach rumbles. I open the beans and eat them straight out of the tin with a fork, which would make Arlo gag. He can’t eat beans unless they’re heated up first. I think wistfully of Aggie’s homemade meals. On Fridays she usually cooks a delicious fish dish.
It’s freezing in here. I finish off the beans, then go to the airing cupboard in the tiny hallway and switch on the heating. The switch is near the back of the immersion tank so I have to lean right in to reach it, almost pulling my arm out of its socket as I do so. My hand brushesagainst something. It’s a Jiffy-bag that has been wedged down the side of the tank. I know I should leave it but I’m intrigued, so I grab it and pull it out. It’s heavy and has been secured at the top with brown tape. Before I’ve even had a chance to think about what I’m doing, I rip the tape apart with my teeth. When I peer inside I can’t help but gasp. There’s money. Wedges of it. All in twenty-pound notes and tied with elastic bands. I flick through it. There must be a couple of grand here easily. Maybe five. Where the hell did Arlo get this kind of money?
Tucked behind the notes is a phone. I take it from the bag. It looks old and the screen is cracked. It must be a burner phone. What kind of shit is Arlo involved in?
Why did I rip apart the tape? Now Arlo will know I’ve seen what’s inside. It might not be what I think it is. I slip the phone into the bag and put it back where I found it. A noise on the stairwell makes me jump.
I hear the key in the lock and I slam the airing-cupboard door and rush into the kitchen to make a black coffee.
Arlo is whistling to himself as he walks in, more dishevelled than ever. His hair is long and messy and there is a rip in the arm of his parka. He starts when he notices me. ‘What are you doing here?’ He doesn’t sound pleased to see me. He has a holdall on him, which he chucks onto the sofa. My eyes flick towards it, and I wonder what’s inside. More money? Drugs? Is my brother involved in something illegal?
We had an unconventional childhood, growing up in the commune, and normal rules didn’t seem to apply to us. Arlo, some of the other kids and I were home-schooled. The rest of the time we were able to run wild through themany acres of fields, helping out on the farm at weekends. It was idyllic in lots of ways but Arlo in particular seemed to struggle in his late teens, especially with authority. As a result he never lasts long in a job. Not that I’m one to talk. But Arlo has always said he wants me to make something of myself, have a secure future after our childhood. He’d acknowledge he’s a bit of a fuck-up. ‘But you,’ he’d say, his voice sad, ‘have your head screwed on right.’
‘I left the McKenzie house,’ I say.
He rubs his hand across his chin. He doesn’t look like he’s shaved for days. ‘What? Why?’
‘Because something weird is going on there, that’s why. I don’t want to be their next victim.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he mutters, under his breath, as he pushes past me to get to the fridge. When he sees it’s practically empty he closes it again. ‘You had a good thing going there. You’re mental. I’ve told you before you can’t rely on me. I’ve got nothing.’ He was furious when I admitted I’d dropped out of uni and equally annoyed when I told him I was going to India for a few months. I feel like I’ve continuously disappointed him since Mum died.
‘I know it was well paid, but –’
‘And now you’ve fucked it up.’
I feel a rising sense of indignation. ‘No, I didn’t. Two, possibly three of my predecessors were murdered in that job.’
He sighs. His eyes are baggy and bloodshot. ‘We’ve talked about this.’
I tell him about finding Jemima’s passport hidden at Kathryn’s gallery.
He shrugs, unconcerned. ‘There could be many explanations.’ He slumps onto the sofa. He looks exhausted. ‘I’ve got a lot on my plate. I don’t need this.’
I sit beside him. He smells of stale smoke. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll sort something out. But can I stay just for a bit?’
‘You’re twenty years old. I can’t keep babysitting you.’
