The Stranger, Mark Ayre [microsoft ebook reader .TXT] 📗

Having opened up to Bobby over dinner, Abbie now felt the memories of her past pressing upon her. If she didn’t find some way to distract herself, the weight of them would crush her as surely as would a cement mixer.

Batting away the questions (how long has it been since you’ve visited Paul? What about your sister’s grave? You’re all they’ve got), Abbie went to the bed and collected the phone. She knew the message would not be from Ben. That meant it could be from only one person.

It read: Jus took some desprate bitch to bed. So keen to plz. Kind of limp + useless though. I spent the hole time thinkin of u bby. Still aint had my pic though. Wud have been so much better if I had. Better send it by midnite if u dont want the book falling into the rong hands

Abbie replaced the phone on the bed and walked to the opposite wall. Placing her hands on the cool surface, she took three long, deep breaths, then returned to the bed, collected the phone, and reread the message.

At least both the content and the appalling spelling and grammar provided sufficient distractions from her internal turmoil.

It also gave her something to do.

The time was 21.34. Abbie wasn’t due to meet Eddie for almost two and a half hours. So while it was annoying she had the Travis distraction when she wanted to focus on Francis, the truth was she would have had nothing to do for the next couple of hours anyway. She couldn’t sleep. Her only option would have been to lie in bed and relive her past, interspersed with thoughts of Bobby, that kiss, and the people she might fail if she could not stop Francis.

Now all her thoughts became a single dart, and Travis was the board at which they flew. Earlier, she had feared her chances of locating Travis and reclaiming her black book were slim to none. Having been attacked at his home, Travis would not be quick to return there, and Abbie knew neither he nor this town well enough to guess where he might hide. Her best option, then, had seemed to be to entice Travis somewhere where she could force him to give up the book.

This would be difficult. Until Abbie sent the nude, which was never going to happen, Travis wouldn’t agree to meet. Even if he did, it would be somewhere public and torturing someone for information was easier in a disused warehouse than it was a Starbucks. She assumed.

Had Travis stuck to brief texts, Abbie would be no closer to finding him. If he had asked again for the nude and threatened to give up the book if she didn’t deliver, she would have been stumped.

Being a vindictive kid, Travis had instead tried to taunt her with talk of the, in his words, desperate bitch, keen to please.

Travis would have no compunction lying, but nor did Abbie believe he was particularly imaginative. There was every chance this poor girl existed—someone devoted to him. Someone Travis knew would let him stay with her, as long as he needed, even if it put her in danger.

Remembering her own words in Perfect Chicken, Abbie went for her phone. Earlier, before she had visited Travis the first time, Michael had told Abbie his number, and she had memorised it. Something for which she had a particular talent. Now she typed it in, held the phone to her ear, and waited for Michael to answer.

When he did, Abbie wasted no time on pleasantries or small talk.

“Earlier, At Travis’ house, I saved him from execution at the hands of Francis’ men.”

“Oh my God,” said Michael. “What about the bag?”

“While I was saving his life, he was fleeing with the bag Francis wants, and my bag too. Now he’s in hiding.”

“If you think I know where he is,” said Michael. “I haven’t spoken to him. I’ve been avoiding him like you said, and he hasn’t tried to call.”

“I believe you,” said Abbie. “But I still think you can help.”

“How?”

“I need you to tell me where Clarissa lives.”

Twenty

Ten minutes after her call with Michael, Abbie swung down a street of rundown three-storey terrace houses, each of which the landlords had converted into two flats.

Upon their first meeting, Abbie had deduced Michael fancied Clarissa and therefore expected him to be difficult about handing over her address. If not difficult, he would at least demand Abbie never mention his involvement to either Clarissa or Travis.

Mostly, people are predictable. Sometimes, they can surprise you.

Halfway down the street, Michael waited at the end of a cracked and weed invaded drive, sitting against the rusted bumper of a car that looked as though it hadn’t moved since before he was born. Before Abbie had pulled to a complete stop, Michael was opening the door and jumping in. Then they were off.

By way of greeting, Abbie said, “I still think this is a bad idea.”

“It’s good to see you again,” said Michael.

“This girl is never going to sleep with you if she thinks you’re a grass.”

“If she really is with Travis, after the danger he’s put us in, that’s probably for the best.”

Abbie looked at Michael, shook her head. “Stop being so mature.”

Michael smiled and turned away, looking out the window. No chance did Abbie want him there, but what choice did she have? If she didn’t pick him up, he wasn’t going to give her Clarissa’s address. Still thinking of his mother, Michael wanted to help.

At the end of the grubby street, they reached a T-Junction. Abbie said,

“Okay, where next?”

Michael told her.

As though they were some bizarre, human version of the three bears from the Goldilocks story, Clarissa’s house fell somewhere between the squalor of Michael’s and the luxury of Travis’. The three-bed terrace reminded Abbie of Eddie’s and Jess’ place. And it was nice to see the teenage trio embracing