Page 23 of A Face in the Crowd
‘What?!’
We stare open-mouthed at one another. Mark has said the odd thing in passing about dogs being in the hallway – but nothing directly. The spat we had the other night is the most we’ve ever spoken to one another.
‘He didn’t realise I was there,’ Nick adds. ‘He only saw Judge and then, when he noticed me, claimed it wasn’t a kick.’
I crouch and give Judge a rub on the back. He seems nonplussed and continues sniffing around Billy.
‘I didn’t know if he might’ve done something similar with Billy,’ Nick says.
I stand again and can feel my pulse racing at the very idea someone might lash out at my dog.
‘I don’t think he’s ever done that,’ I reply.
Nick nods and we stand and sigh together because it seems like the only thing we can do. There are no specific rules about dogs being allowed in the halls unsupervised, but, I suppose, nothing that expressly allows it.
We say cheerio to one another and then I head into the building. I’m in half a mind to knock on Mark’s door to tell him to mind his own business – but stop myself, figuring it’s not going to make anything better. Instead, I stop outside Vicky’s flat and slip an envelope under her door. I stop for a moment, wondering if I should knock in case the envelope has disappeared underneath a mat. In the end, Billy makes up my mind as he pulls at his lead and tries to drag me up the stairs.
This time, my door is definitely locked – but, as I let myself inside, I still can’t get past the feeling of being watched.
Friday evenings might be a crammed-in hell of a journey on the number 24 bus, but, for whatever reason, Monday mornings are the opposite. There are still people getting on – but everyone has a seat and there’s a steady calmness to the ride.
It’s as I’m sitting a few seats from the back that I notice the CCTV camera inside a domed curve of dimmed glass on the ceiling. I’ve taken this bus hundreds of times and it would have been there, unnoticed, for every one of those rides. It’s strange the things that can hide in plain sight. Perhaps it’s this new-found observation, but I suddenly seem very aware of myself.
I turn and eye the people around me in a not-eyeing-them kind of way. I pretend to look through the window, then act as if I’m staring at my phone.
There is a pair of women in the seats opposite dressed for the gym; some kids in uniform who are seemingly late for school; two blokes in suits across from one another, oblivious to how much of a mirror image they are. An old guy with a red face is swigging from a two-litre bottle of cider at the very back, while, one row in front of him, a woman is tucking into an iced bun while nodding her head along to whatever’s playing through her headphones.
There’s nothing abnormal, but it’s hard not to wonder if someone here is missing £3,640. I find myself looking at the men in the suits because there’s a natural assumption that suits = money. It’s nonsense of course. The manager of the local mobile phone shop wears a suit, while some millionaire web design wizard wears skateboard shorts and Converse. Books, covers, assumptions and all that.
But whoever it is will see my bright new trainers andknowwhere I got the money to buy them. When I’m on the bus, I usually try to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible. Sometimes I will read a book I’ve had from the library, or skim around a few websites on my phone. Johnny Depp could be standing behind me and I’d not notice. Today, I keep my eyes up, watching everyone new who gets on.
It’s not long before we pull in close to the park and the house that Ben always promised he’d buy for me. I’m not sure why it was always phrased in that way – but he had a thing about buying thingsforme. We didn’t do things such as make joint purchases, and he would sometimes get angry if I bought something for myself. It seemed so normal then.
It’s next to the park where Karen and I do Parkrun each week. There’s a large hedge that separates one from the other and I run past it each time. The house is so different from the pop-up red-brick housing estates that now seem to populate every town and city. It’s set back from the road, with three storeys and probably an attic and basement. I always liked it because it was different and, when I said this to Ben in passing one time, it was as if it flicked a switch within him. It suddenly became his mission to buy it – and not just that, to buy itfor me. Then he mentioned stables on the day he went to catch the train. I was never quite sure what to say, because telling him the wedding, house and stables didn’t matter to me would only send him into a spiral of despair. He’d think I was saying that because we couldn’t afford such things – which was true – but then take it as a personal insult because he felt he didn’t make enough money. It was as if his entire self-worth was linked to the money he made.
A lady in a wheelchair pushes onto the bus and manoeuvres herself into the handicapped space next to the luggage rack that is almost never used. I wonder if she’s £3,640 short, but then find myself focusing on the sticker that’s in the window behind her. It’s one of those ‘please let us know how we’re doing’ notices, with a phone number underneath. Companies must post these hoping they’ll either get no feedback or positive remarks – but it’s only ever going to attract the green ink brigade.
I tap the number into my phone in any case and then continue to eye newcomers until the bus arrives opposite Crosstown Supermarket. I make the call after crossing the road. It’s all, ‘press one for this, press two for that’, which is, presumably, to make someone lose hope in humanity before they ever get to talk to an actual person. I’m sitting on the low wall outside the staff entrance when I finally hear a real voice. It’s then that I realise I’m not sure what to ask about and find myself waffling about CCTV on buses and whether the footage is stored.
I’msuddenly part of the green-ink brigade. I can imagine the person on the other end of the line drawing a circle with his finger around his ear. The universal symbol for ‘loony’.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he replies. ‘I’m not sure what you’re asking.’
‘There are CCTV cameras on your buses,’ I reply. ‘I was wondering if you keep the footage, or if you delete it.’
There’s a pause, which somehow seems very loud. ‘Sorry, what did you say your name was?’ he says.
‘I was on the number 24 bus on Friday and I was wondering if I could have a look at the camera footage.’
It’s only as I say the words that I realise how mad it all sounds.
There’s another pause, longer this time. The handler is probably wondering if this is some sort of wind-up.
‘I take the same bus every day,’ I add, nonsensically.
He replies with a bit of a cough and then: ‘Was there some sort of incident, ma’am…?’
It takes me a second to realise he’s asking if there was a crime.
