Page 82 of A Face in the Crowd
‘Shhhhhhh,’ he coos. ‘We’re going to sit here nice and quietly. Okay?’
Chapter Forty-Two
I do as I’m told. Ben has withdrawn the blade back into his sleeve, but I can sense its presence at my hip. He is staring at the back of the person’s head in front, with a curious, knowing half-smile on his face. I watch him sideways for a while, but it’s too disconcerting and I have to turn back to looking at my own lap and then out the window. Ben is sitting a little over the gap that separates the two seats, pressing me towards the window.
A couple are having a mini-domestic in the row behind. She’s whispering about how he’s always late and he’s going on about something that happened in Cardiff last year. She replies that he always brings that up. Back and forth they go in something that’s close to domestic bliss compared to what’s going on within touching distance of where they’re sitting.
The bus pulls into the next stop and Ben gently presses his sleeve into my leg, making it clear I shouldn’t move. I can’t feel the point of the blade through the material as Ben continues to smile and stare. When the doors hiss open, I consider shouting or screaming – except there’s no way I can get past Ben before something terrible happens. He’s too close.
‘Shhhhhhh,’ he whispers, as if reading my mind.
More people shuffle onto the bus and I risk a quick glance backwards to see that the seats are now full.
‘Be smart,’ he says, and I turn back to the front.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘Wait.’
That’s all I can do. I move a little closer to the window to try to give myself some space, but Ben shifts further across the divide, wedging me in even tighter.
‘Ben—’
‘Patience,’ he replies.
The bus starts and stops once more and the same thoughts flicker through me. I should jump up, shout, tell everyone that he has a knife – except it’s as if Ben knows this is what’s going through my mind. This time, he presses the tip of the knife itself into my thigh, without the shield of his sleeve. It doesn’t hurt, not really, it’s more the awareness that makes me straighten. When the bus pulls away, Ben withdraws the blade into his jacket.
We’ve been travelling for another minute or so when Ben presses the button on the pole next to his seat. The bell dings.
‘We’re getting off,’ he whispers.
‘I have an interview.’
It sounds so stupid; so completely mad given what’s happening, but the words are out before I can stop them.
Ben turns a little, not quite looking at me, though his eye twitches. ‘Be smart,’ he repeats.
When the bus pulls in at the next stop, Ben clambers out of the seat and takes a step backwards, giving me room to walk in front of him. It’s the most space I’ve had in a while – but Ben is still only an arm’s length from me. He doesn’t need to say anything, but I do what’s requested anyway. As soon as I’m on my feet, he slots in at my back. I try to make eye contact with the other passengers as I’m moving along the aisle, hoping one of them – anyone – will see the panic in my face and realise what’s happening. Everyone is staring at their phones or their feet. Nobody pays me any attention.
When I get to the driver, I think about saying something – but what then? Ben stabs me? Stabs the driver? By the time I’ve weighed up whether I should say something, I’m already off the bus and Ben is at my side.
I realise we are outside the house that Ben said he’d buy for me. It’s only now that I see how spooky it is. It’s tall and detached, with leafless trees on either side that are swaying in the breeze. The lower half is hard to see because of the overgrown hedges, but there are boards across the windows at the front. Even on a clear day, like today, it feels like the kind of place from which ghostly cries would seep onto the street and terrify young children. I wonder how I’ve never seen this before. Perhaps it’s enhanced because the hedges are so unwieldly.
‘It was owned by an old woman,’ Ben says. He grips my wrist and pulls me along the pavement towards the gate. ‘She died three years ago, but there’s a dispute going on between her kids. They’re squabbling over who gets what. One of them wants to sell it for the land; another wants to live in it. Everything’s a mess.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I asked.’
Ben leads me past the gate, but, as I think we’re going to head around the house, he steps sideways through a gap in the hedge. I’m given no choice but to follow, albeit with a yelp of alarm at moving so quickly.
‘Shhhhhhh,’ Ben says, out loud this time.
After getting through, I glance back towards the hedge. The branches have grown into one another on the outside, but, from the inside, they’ve been trimmed short. From the pavement, nobody would know this was a way to get into the garden.
Ben pulls me closer towards him, where he’s staring up at the house. Even though there’s a creepiness to it, there is undoubted beauty. At one point, this place would have been majestic, with its pretty window ledges and wood-slat decoration. There’s a porch, like something from a 1950’s American movie.
‘What do you think?’ he asks.
