Page 57 of A Face in the Crowd
I take a moment or two to think about a response and then go for:
Do you fancy lunch?
He texts back almost immediately:
Can’t. Got things to do. Catch up soon.
There’s a sad face and then a smiley face. I’m not sure what to think. I could ask something far simpler – whether he gets the same bus as me; whether he knew me before we met at The Garden Café – but they don’t feel like the type of questions I can fire off in a text message.
Before I know it, I’ve taken Billy back upstairs and am hurrying back out of Hamilton House alone in the direction of Harry’s apartment building. It’s one o’clock, but the day seems to be getting colder. Clouds have started to close ranks, bringing a stinging breeze that fizzes between buildings and whips fallen leaves into a swirling frenzy. I was in such a rush that I forgot to pick up a proper jacket.
It takes an hour until I eventually reach the spot where the taxi dropped off Harry and me the morning after he’d been attacked. It felt different in the dark; emptier and quieter. In the middle of the day, it’s brighter and more vibrant. There is an express supermarket on the corner that I’d missed when I was last here. People are streaming in and out, carrying sandwiches, pastries, bottles of water and coffees.
I follow the road to his apartment block and then realise I have no idea which specific flat might be his. There’s a screen built into the wall outside, with a list of numbers and names of who lives within and the buzzer number. It is presumably to help couriers get hold of people they’re delivering to – and far more advanced than anything in Hamilton House. There, the postman leaves everything in our hallway.
I scroll through the list but there’s no ‘Harry Smith’ or ‘H Smith’. There’s nothing that’s close – although there are a handful of empty spaces in the list of occupants for the thirty flats.
As I’m looking through the names, a woman comes out of the building with a little dog on a lead. It’s one of those animals that’s a cross between a rat and a canine. The sparkly pink collar is more or less the only giveaway. The dog tugs its way over to me, probably smelling Billy on my clothes.
‘Sorry,’ the woman says. She’s wearing sunglasses for a reason that’s probably best not to ask about. She’s either a celebrity, a cataract sufferer or a lunatic.
‘Do you live here?’ I ask.
She glances back to the apartment block and then me. ‘Yes…’
‘Do you know someone named Harry who lives here?’
I can’t see her eyes, but her forehead wrinkles. ‘Should I?’
‘I guess not…’
She gives a dismissive shrug and then hurries away with her dog. It’s only when she’s gone that I remember Harry telling me that his building doesn’t allow pets. It’s an eerie moment as I walk back to the road and turn in a circle, wondering if I’ve somehow come to the wrong place.
I haven’t – it was definitely here that Harry stood outside and told me that he was going to get some sleep… He then walked around thebackof the building. I never actually saw him go in. I head back to the main doors and then follow the path around to the side in the way he did. There’s a garden at the back with a grubby sandpit nearby. There is a door through which peoplecouldenter – but it’s hard to see why they would. I stand and watch the stream of cars on the far side of the road, wondering if Harry said goodbye to me, rounded the building and then disappeared off to wherever heactuallylives.
I eventually do a full lap of the building and end up back where I started. As I reach the main doors, a man is exiting with a football under his arm. He holds the door open for me with a smile and, without thinking, I take the offer and head inside, giving a quick ‘thank you’ as if this is all perfectly normal.
The lobby to the building has a large unoccupied desk off to one side, two lifts opposite the main doors and a bank of mailboxes on the other wall. A slim tab accompanies each box, with a name of a person for each flat. I scan through them all twice, but there’s no ‘Smith’. If Harry is living with someone, then he never mentioned it. Otherwise, why wouldn’t his name be on either the directory? Or the mailboxes?
I hang around the lobby for a minute or so, not sure what to do. There’s nothing conclusive, not yet… but it’s disturbing. I search for him on my phone again and re-find the LinkedIn profile. There are no pictures, no significant details about past education or the like – only the name and ‘Bright White Enterprises’.
There’s a local phone number attached to the company listing, so I call it. The three rings take an age, but then a man’s voice sounds a chirpy: ‘Bright White.’
‘Could you put me through to Harry, please?’
‘Who?’
I feel certain the man on the other end can hear my heart pounding. ‘Harry Smith? I think he works there.’
‘Don’t think so. Are you sure you’ve got the right company?’
‘Is that Bright White Enterprises? You’re in internet security?’
‘That’s us. Still no Harrys, though…’
I stumble over something that I hope is a thank you and then hang up.
As far as I can tell, Harry Smith – if that is his real name – has lied about knowing me, about where he lives and where he works. On top of that, for a reason of which I’m not sure, he might have given me £3,640.
