The House Guest by Mark Edwards(45)

‘It’s not a fairy story.’

‘Don’t interrupt me. I believe you when you say Eden exists. I don’t think you’d lie to me about that. But a recruiter for a cult? Sweet Jesus. All that happened was that your girlfriend got blind drunk, overslept, got fired, and now she’s holed up somewhere with her new friend. As for someone trying to run you down . . . You drive on the wrong side of the road over in England, don’t you? You were probably looking the wrong way when you stepped out.’

‘But there have been two crimes at one address in one week,’ I said. ‘Surely that can’t be a coincidence.’

‘No. There’s been one crime. The murder of my friend. And the asshole who did it is already behind bars.’

He turned and walked away.

‘You’re wrong,’ I called.

He ignored me, slamming the door behind him.





Chapter 24

McCarren Park was already busy, with bathers lining up for the pool, children in the playground and joggers running around the perimeter. I sat on a bench and watched the entrance to the building I’d seen Mets go into. It had only been yesterday, but so much had happened in the last twenty-four hours that it felt like much more. At the same time, today was the fifth since I’d last seen Ruth, and the world – my world, at least – seemed like a very different place.

Sitting on the bench, I thought over what I knew so far. There wasn’t much.

I needed to know if Mets had seen Eden since that day at the pool. If she had said anything that would help me find her.

After thirty minutes he hadn’t appeared, and – fed up of waiting – I crossed the street and pressed a random buzzer on the building. No one answered so I pressed another. This time, a sleepy-sounding man answered.

‘UPS. I got a parcel for apartment twenty-three,’ I said, attempting an American accent.

To my surprise, he buzzed me in.

As I went in, an elderly lady came down the stairs, struggling with a large bag. I rushed up to help her.

‘Thank you,’ she said as I put the bag down by the exit. She studied me with sharp eyes. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Just moved in?’

I smiled. Rather than inventing an elaborate lie about him being a friend, I decided to take a gamble. ‘I’m actually looking for someone. I think he might be in danger, and I need to warn him.’

‘In danger?’

‘Yes. It’s pretty urgent, actually. If I don’t find him . . .’ I left the rest to her imagination. ‘The thing is, I don’t know his name. But he’s young, around twenty, and built, and he usually wears a blue baseball cap with the Mets logo.’

‘Huh, there are a lot of those around.’

‘I know. But I think you’d recognise this guy. He’s good-looking, blue eyes, spends a lot of time at the pool across the street.’

‘Sorry, can’t help you.’

She left the building. Now what? I could randomly knock on doors, but that would probably lead to someone calling the police. I might be better off going back to the park and hanging around.

Or, I thought as I spied the fire-alarm button on the wall of the lobby, I could do something radical.

I smashed the glass and hit the button. Immediately a bell rang through the air, deafening me. People began to appear from the floors above, some dressed, some in robes, a mixture of ages. Most of them came down slowly, looking at each other and sniffing the air, wondering if it was a false alarm.

There was a crowd of around ten people in the lobby now, none of them making much of a move to leave the building, probably due to the absence of smoke. Somebody went off to find the super while others wondered where the hell he was.

‘I saw someone hit the alarm,’ I said above the din. People gathered around me. ‘He was in his early twenties, wearing a blue Mets cap. A big guy.’

An old man turned to his neighbour. ‘That sounds like it could be Jesse. Carol’s grandson.’

‘Carol?’ said the neighbour. ‘She’s in thirty. Hey, where’s Carol? Anyone seen Carol?’

I felt a little guilty for falsely accusing Mets of setting off the alarm – would he get into trouble for it? – but reminded myself what a douchebag he had been at the pool. Then someone came down the stairs with a lady of around seventy. At the same time, the super appeared and turned off the alarm, to sighs of relief all round.

‘What’s this about my grandson?’ Carol barked.

‘This guy said he saw him hit the fire alarm,’ said the old man who had first identified Mets.

Carol narrowed her eyes at me. ‘How do you know it was my Jesse?’

‘Do you have a photo of him?’ I asked.

She did. She produced a top-of-the-range iPhone and showed me a picture of her and her grandson together, smiling at the camera. It was him.

‘He’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘He gave me this phone. Let me call him now. Get this straightened out.’

The other residents of the building drifted back to their apartments while Carol searched for Jesse in her contacts. I looked over her shoulder. There was his address.

I left her waiting for him to answer and made a quick exit.



Jesse lived in a tall, drab building on a quiet street in Greenpoint, about fifteen minutes away.