The stranger, p.1
The Stranger, page 1
THE STRANGER
J A BAKER
All concerns of men go wrong when they wish to cure evil with evil.
SOPHOCLES
Never open the door to a lesser evil, for other and greater ones invariably slink in after it.
BALTASAR GRACIÁN
To Theo, for your company on our writing days together, and our brisk walks even on the wintriest of days.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
More from J. A. Baker
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by J A Baker
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
1
ME
I’m different. Very different. Not that you would know to look at me. To the people I meet, I am simply an average person. They have no idea. They don’t know the real me, the other me. That’s because the differences I possess are tucked away in the darkest depths of my soul. I keep them hidden, concealed deep inside the recesses of my mind. Only I know they’re there. I sense them as they scratch away at me, forever reminding me that I will never be normal or neurotypical. Just like the scars some people have on their skin – marks and blemishes caused by birth defects or disorders, imperfections that set them apart from the rest of society – I too have scars, invisible flaws, indiscernible to the untrained eye. I don’t think like you do. And I’m not sure I ever will.
I go over my thought processes again and again in my head. Perhaps I’m just a freak of nature, or maybe my brain is simply wired up wrong. Is it the old nature versus nurture debate we need to explore here to establish why I don’t think, or act, like other people? Perhaps the two are so inextricably linked, it would be impossible to tease them apart, to work out which of them is the stronger driving force behind my primal urges and behaviour, to decide which of them is responsible for my dysfunctional conduct.
I do things, you see. Bad things. Unspeakable things. I’m a truly damaged being.
Am I a psychopath, I hear you ask? Perhaps. Would it matter if I was? Would being labelled stop me or put an end to my actions? Probably not. We are what we are. We all have our own little behavioural and emotional nuances, the subtle traits that set us apart from others. And I’m not all bad. In fact, I’m a first-rate actor. I can be whoever you want me to be: good, kind. Devious, murderous.
So, am I a narcissist if not a psychopath? Maybe I am. I guess it would take a qualified psychologist to make such a diagnosis, somebody who is willing to take the time to step inside my head and study its contents. I’m not the person that you should be asking such a question. I do have insight into my own conduct but it’s extraordinarily difficult to judge one’s own characteristics, isn’t it? To take an existential look at ourselves and pass judgement without impartiality. I doubt many people have the ability to delve into their own minds to work out where they stand in the straitjacketed order of societal expectations. We’re all too busy simply being us, going about our daily business and living our own sad little lives.
Growing up, I knew I wasn’t the same as other people. I lacked emotion. I had to. It was the key to my survival. My parents were thought of as morally upstanding people, pillars of the community, and everyone expected me to be the same. A person to be trusted, somebody with identical ethics whose behaviour would be in keeping with their impossibly high standards. Somebody who would stand up straight, do exactly as they were told and never answer back.
How little they knew.
How little they still know. Because I’m a perfect liar. I’ve mastered the art of disguising my inner voice and replacing it with what is expected. I go about my daily life like any other law-abiding citizen. I have a nice house, make small talk with neighbours and associates, smile at small children and help elderly people cross the road. I am a model citizen. Nobody knows the thoughts that roam freely in my brain, the murderous dreams that see me through the day. I hide it all, tuck it safely away and be the person you all want me to be. I am your friend, your neighbour, your family. I walk amongst you, courteous, pleasant and friendly, and all the while I am thinking how beautiful it would be to hurt you or maim you in some way. It thrills me, sending a dart of electricity pulsing through my veins, the adrenaline elevating me to a higher plane.
And you know the biggest thrill of all, the thing that makes me superior to you? You have no idea about these thoughts. You think you know me. You’re wrong. You don’t know me at all. Not the real me, the true me. Nobody knows me. Absolutely nobody knows who I am…
2
There was a strange ambience to the place. I detected it as soon as I parked up and stepped out of the car. It wasn’t an overt sensation, more of an underlying feeling: tiny ripples of unease that nipped at my subconscious. I ignored them. I was here now. No going back. I couldn’t let sentimentality or unexplained hunches muddy my thinking. I had made my move and had to go with it. I was just tired, that’s all it was. Exhaustion was allowing doubt and regret to creep in.
My skin tightened with tension as I dragged my bags out of the boot and slammed it shut. The drive from Birmingham had been pretty arduous with roadworks on the A1 causing tailbacks that went on for miles and miles. I had had to take many diversions that were unavoidable and it all helped to compound the stress that had been slowly building up in my gut. Only when the signs for Durham came into view did I feel myself begin to relax. What should have been a journey of three hours or so turned into one that took over six and I was feeling fatigued and fractious.
I rubbed at my face wearily and looked around. It was almost silent save for the whispering of the wind through the nearby trees. The eerie, metallic rustle of soft leaves shivering above me echoed in my head, sending a spike of unease down my spine. Telling myself everybody was at work and the village would spring to life after 5 p.m., I shook off the inexplicable feelings of dread that continued to niggle at me and headed over to my new home, pulling my overstuffed suitcase behind me and tucking some of my smaller luggage under my arm.
The privet will have to go, I thought to myself as I surveyed the small front garden then turned and pushed the key into the lock, leaning heavily against the door to open it. Ragged-looking and unkempt, the foliage and snarled branches gave the tiny patio and even smaller lawn a distinct air of neglect. I hadn’t had time to view the property before moving in and had relied on photographs to give me an indication of how habitable it was. I just hoped the inside would pass muster.
Samantha’s face flitted into my thoughts as I dropped my cases at the foot of the stairs and narrowed my eyes, slowly taking in every aspect of the hallway. It wasn’t too bad. I’d seen worse. She would hate it, but then, it seemed that Samantha hated everything, especially things that exuded age and didn’t smack of money. And this place definitely didn’t smack of anything remotely resembling top dollar. It was very dated and smelt slightly of damp but it certainly didn’t repulse me. It was, however, a far cry from our modern home that up until a few days ago, we had shared in Birmingham city centre. I’d left behind a plush loft apartment, the sort of property you see in magazines, the sort most people only ever dream about living in. I’d left it all: my partner, my home, my entire life. And now I was here, in a tiny village on the outskirts of Durham, living in an old cottage that needed modernising and smelt of old dishcloths. And I was fine with it. I really was. Because being here was far more appealing than being with her.
I wandered from room to room, sizing the place up, getting a feel for it, studying it and trying to work out what it could look like once I had unpacked, put my things in place and settled in properly.
But first I needed to eat. The services on the A1 had been crammed full of desolate, exhausted-looking people wandering aimlessly, bumping into each other with no apologies or regard for anybody but themselves, and the restaurants served an array of unappetising, greasy food that made my guts churn. I had bought a coffee and drank it as I drove and now my stomach howled at me for some sustenance and a drink, preferably something that contained alcohol. The coffee had helped me stay focused as I drove but I had to admit that a beer would hit the spot nicely.
Running my fingers through my hair and straightening my crumpled clothes, I headed back out of the house and closed the door behind me. With any luck, the village pub would be serving food. This was something I was going to have to get used to now I was living in t he sticks: not having everything on my doorstep. City centres offered food and beverages at any hour. No request, no bizarre midnight craving, was too unusual or too difficult to obtain. However, I had grown up in a village and knew that life here would be very different to the one I’d become accustomed to over recent years. I would have to adapt, get used to it, understand how different everything would be from here on in. This was a seismic change to my life, the polar opposite to how I had been living for most of my adult life. I was determined to embrace it. I had no other option. I was here now. I had made my decision and would go with it. Ending the relationship with Samantha was never going to be easy but moving far away was a wise move. I could sense it, feel it in my bones. Living here would make my life complete.
I stepped outside and inhaled deeply, the tang of manure from the farmer’s field close by taking my breath away. I stopped, looked around and smiled contemplatively. Welcome to the countryside. No more pollution from cars and buses, no more sirens piercing the air at all hours of the day and night. Just me and the birds and the pungent stink of cow shit.
To say the pub fell quiet as I walked in was an understatement. The silence was all-pervading as I strolled up to the bar and studied the beers on offer. I felt at least a dozen sets of eyes boring into my back as I glanced at the board behind the bar for a menu and scanned it for something that would fill my aching belly. I decided I would have a pint of weaker beer. I wanted to keep my wits about me. I had a feeling I was being closely scrutinised and felt a need to remain alert.
‘A pint of John Smith’s and a menu please.’ My voice was brisk. I tried to inject some lightness into it but I was tired and the strained atmosphere was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable.
The young barmaid smiled and glanced beyond me to the array of faces seated at the table in the corner. Her eyes twinkled as she pulled the beer and then nodded at the board next to me. ‘The specials are up there and the menus are on the table. I’d recommend the soup of the day. Potato and leek. Comes with warm crusty bread.’
I felt immediately drawn to her, grateful for her natural warmth. It was a far cry from the frosty atmosphere that had descended upon the place when I arrived.
‘You’ve persuaded me,’ I said to her. ‘I’ll have the soup. It sounds like a winner. Just what I need.’
I spun around and looked for a vacant table. The sea of staring eyes took on a look of embarrassment and shock as I glanced their way. They mumbled inaudibly and rapidly returned to their conversations, murmuring into their beers about the state of the economy and complaining about the warm weather. They were right on that score. It was uncharacteristically hot – unlike the usual unpredictable British summers we were accustomed to – and as time passed with no sign of rain, it was apparent we were slowly but surely edging into drought conditions. A few areas had already implemented hosepipe bans and the newspaper headlines screamed that it had been the hottest and driest summer on record so far, even beating the long dry spell from 1976 into a cocked hat.
‘Am I okay sitting outside in the courtyard?’ I nodded towards the window and pointed to a small table in the shade that looked particularly inviting.
‘Course you are. I’d be out there myself if I wasn’t working in here till nine o’clock tonight.’ The barmaid smiled at me again, revealing a row of perfectly straight and impossibly white teeth. ‘I’ll bring your food out as soon as it’s ready.’
I thanked her, paid and ambled past the other customers who surreptitiously glanced at me as I shuffled past. In those fleeting seconds, I tried to take in their faces, to put to memory the eclectic mix of people who were sitting together, huddled in the corner in a small, tight throng, complaining about anything and everything while putting the world to rights.
A ruddy-faced individual wearing a checked shirt moved his leg to let me through. Another guy in his mid-thirties was wearing tailored trousers and a white shirt. He pulled out his phone as I passed and punched at the screen, a grimace on his face. His tie was dragged to one side and he wore the look of a sharp-minded businessman, weary after a long day at the office. Though I tried my best to take in the dynamics of the group, they were simply a blur of faces as I slipped past them and out into the late-afternoon sunshine. I did notice one other person: a woman, incongruous amid the male-dominated gathering. She was sitting amongst them, trading stories about how torturous the heat was and how we needed another election. I listened to her voice as it trailed after me, her words eventually disappearing as I edged around the corner into the small beer garden, clutching my drink as if somebody was about to whip it away from me.
The table was clean and cool and I drained almost half the pint in one go. My belly was empty and my eyes dry and gritty with exhaustion. I would have to slow down or I could end up drunk before my food turned up. After such an arduous day, even the less powerful beers could blur my thinking.
I looked around the place. It was a small concrete courtyard and despite needing a sweep and a damn good clean, it was peaceful and exuded an air of calm. A trail of wisteria gave a flash of pale lilac to a crumbling old wall. The large, pendulous flowers hung from the red bricks, their fat, purple fingers drooping and sad-looking, like heads dipped in prayer. Seating was limited but the garden was cool and silent and gave me the peace and quiet I needed after leaving my life behind to start a new one here.
Yet again, Samantha stabbed at my thoughts. Her face filled my mind, her pleas, her fake tears that turned into threats when I told her exactly what I thought of her. I swallowed another swig of cold beer and pushed the image aside. I was here now. There was no turning back the clock. Not that I wanted to. That was my other life. I now had a new one. A better one.
My soup arrived smelling divine. I hadn’t realised how ravenous I was until I started eating. It was hot and creamy and cooked to perfection. I was in the middle of shoving a bread bun in my mouth when a shadow suddenly appeared behind me, blocking out the light. I looked up and tried to swallow the doughy matter that clung to the insides of my mouth like putty.
A man in his thirties leaned down towards me, his voice gruff, his face looming close to mine as he spoke. ‘Saw you pull up in your car earlier and unload your stuff. You’re new to the village, I take it?’
I nodded, feeling a small swell of anger build in my stomach. I didn’t care for his tone or the expression on his face. He had also disturbed my lunch. Something about him put me on edge and I wasn’t in the mood to put up with any shit. I’d already left an abusive relationship behind and made myself a promise not to be subjected to any more. This village was now my home and all I wanted was to be left alone to eat in peace.
‘Just watch yourself,’ the figure said quietly, his tone softening slightly as he stared at me. ‘This is a funny old neighbourhood. They don’t take kindly to change. And they don’t take kindly to anybody moving in and poking their nose into other people’s business.’ He nodded at me and smiled. ‘Just so you know.’ And with that he turned and left before I even had time to question him.
My mouth was glued together and my shoulders bunched into a tight knot as I fought to make sense of what had just taken place. I was unsure how to react, whether I should have perceived his words as some sort of threat or put it down to small-mindedness. The act of somebody who saw themselves as a spokesperson for his community and monitored every new face with the impenetrable fastidiousness of a rookie policeman keen to make a good impression with his superiors.
