Page 65 of A Face in the Crowd
I move as quietly as I can along the street until I’m within a few metres of him. He hasn’t looked up from his phone and is busy typing out a message, when I grab his upper arm. He spins and reels back at the sight of me.
‘Don’t run,’ I say. ‘I’ll scream if you do, say that you attacked me.’
The street isn’t busy, but there are a handful of people going about their day. His gaze fizzes sideways as he weighs his options.
‘What do you want?’ I say. I’m trying to sound assured and in control, even though I feel anything but. I’m hoping the panic isn’t burned onto my face.
The man seems cornered. He glances across the street and there’s a moment I think he’s going to run. Instead, he pockets his phone and takes a breath.
‘I’ve got vital information,’ he says.
I can’t pick his accent, but it isn’t local.
‘Information about what?’ I reply.
‘About your husband?’
I stare at him and can see the realisation that he knows he’s made a mistake. ‘Not your husband,’ he says. ‘Ben Peterson.’
There’s something about hearing the name that always takes me by surprise. Like hearing the name of someone who was once at school a long time ago. Someone forgotten that never quite goes away.
‘You have vital information about Ben?’ I say, although the words don’t make sense.
The man nods. ‘His brother, too.’ There’s a falter and then: ‘Alex Peterson.’
‘What about them?’ I ask.
‘I think the government killed them.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
I’m not sure if there’s a correct response to this sort of statement. The best I manage is ‘Er… what?’
‘The government,’ he repeats, as if this explains everything.
There’s a low wall near the postbox and I suddenly need to sit. It’s been a long few days and this goes far beyond anything in my comfort zone. I rub the bridge of my nose.
‘I think you should probably go home,’ I say.
The man is pacing on the pavement in front of me but then stops to sit on the wall at my side. ‘Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?’
‘You’ve been hanging around outside my flat for two days now. You were at the memorial service and then the pub afterwards. That’s stalking. You should tell the police what you have to say.’
‘I have!’
I turn to look at him, focusing in on the ‘believe in reality’ badge that’s sewn onto his jacket. It’s hard to guess his age. There are acne pockmarks around his cheeks but much is covered by his gingery beard. It’s the lack of wrinkles around his eyes that give away his youth.
‘You spoke to the police?’ I say, disbelievingly.
‘More than once. They don’t want to know.’
There’s a huge part of me that also doesn’t want to know, but it feels like I’m too far into the hole to turn back.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask.
‘Steven.’
‘What do you want to say?’
