Page 53 of A Face in the Crowd
That’s all it says. I reload the page in case it hasn’t loaded properly but there are only three words. I think about leaving it there. Whoever this is doesn’t know me and he or she had a chance to reply properly. Instead, this is what was sent.
I close the page and return to the questionnaire – except that I cannot concentrate. It still feels as if this is a test of who I am. Honest or not? Someone who takes responsibility for their actions, or a person who runs from them?
It takes me a few attempts to figure out how to reply.
What did you lose?
The response fires back after barely a minute:
I think you know. Can we meet?
It feels as if someone has breathed into my ear. My entire body shivers. If I was in any doubt that this person is talking about the money, then that’s now gone.I think you know. It reads like a threat.
I only noticed the posters after finding the guy in the green jacket covered in sew-on badges outside the building. It could have been him who put them up. I wonder if whoever it is can now trace me via the IP address on my email. I’ve heard of doxing and that sort of thing. Perhaps the posters were a trap and I fell into it…?
Despite that, I still can’t escape the sense that this isn’t who I want to be. I was an honest person. Iaman honest person.
I can’t leave my flat tonight. What did you lose?
I read the email back before sending and then realise my mistake.
I can’t leave home tonight. What did you lose? If you don’t tell me, I will not reply.
The new version feels a bit punchier. I do hold the cards, after all. Or, to be more precise, I hold the money. No point in letting him or her know that I live in a flat, either.
The previous reply came after a minute, but nothing fires back this time. I refresh over and over until fifteen minutes have passed. After that, I manage to finish the agency questionnaire and then, for the first time in what feels like weeks, I go to the Open University website. With Billy at my side, things feel clearer and I finally get a little work done. No sooner am I on a roll, however, than my phone starts to ring. It’s an 07 mobile number that I don’t recognise. It’s dark outside, close to nine o’clock. It’s rare that anyone calls me at all, let alone at this time.
‘Hello…?’
A tentative-sounding man’s voice replies. ‘Uh… we spoke the other day,’ he says.
‘Sorry, who is this?’
‘I’m from the bus company. You called about CCTV footage…?’
In everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten about my moment of madness where I pretended I was some love-struck woman searching for a mystery man on the bus.
He continues talking. ‘Sorry for the delay, but I’ve, um, got them.’
‘Got what?’
‘The stills from your bus. There are about fifty. I didn’t know who you were or what I was looking for. There were loads of people standing, so I grabbed the lot. You can have them all and figure out who you’re after.’
He speaks quickly, one word blending into the next in a wave of nervous spluttering. I’m not sure if I picked up on it the other day but he sounds young. He has one of those voices that has definitely broken but still lurches an octave or two on the odd word.
‘Can you email them to me?’ I ask, partly because my email is open in front of me.
‘I’ve already printed them,’ he says. ‘It’s cash only.’
He stumbles over ‘cash’ and there’s a part of me that feels sorry for him. I can imagine some kid straight out of school hovering around a printer while checking over his shoulder in case a supervisor comes by.
‘Hundred quid,’ he says.
‘Um…’
‘Okay, seventy,’ he adds quickly, already talking his own price down. He’s got the negotiating skills and business brain of someone whose last name is Trump.
‘When do you want to meet?’ I ask.
