All These Perfect Strangers (21 page)

He looked at us and nodded his head.

‘Just packed our banners up. We'll have to finish painting them inside. Are you coming to the rally?' she asked.

‘I intend to,' he said. ‘I think it's important.'

‘Good, that's good,' said Leiza, trying not to be surprised. Michael usually avoided group activities. She smiled and then paused to allow him to move on. Instead, he sat down on the bench opposite, watching us as if our conversation was a designated spectator sport.

Leiza frowned, then, lowering her voice, turned to me. ‘I'll talk to you about this another time,' she said.

I shrugged as if there wasn't really anything to discuss. ‘I better go put the clothes in the dryer. Toby will . . .' I had to stop myself from saying ‘kill me' and Leiza looked as though she guessed what I was going to say, but then one of the girls who had been painting the banners waved at her from the doorway and yelled something about a spelling mistake. Immediately distracted, she hurried off across the courtyard.

I stood there, trying to prevent myself from getting rattled by what Leiza had just said and wishing Michael would stop looking at me.

‘How did Rachel know?' he said.

‘Know what?' I asked.

‘That you wanted to kill her?'

I felt queasy from the cigarette, my foot ached and I was exhausted. I didn't have the patience for one of Michael's discussions.

‘It was just a dumb joke, Michael. People make them, believe it or not.' I turned to leave.

‘But you did want to kill her,' he said, his eyes owlish behind his glasses. ‘You spiked her drink.'

I could hear an odd high-pitched hum cutting through the periodic streaming of water and the constant rumble and thrum of the percussion of the washing machines. It seemed to be getting louder, until I realised it was in my head. I sat back down because I was worried I might fall.

Waiting until the noise receded, I took my time before looking up at Michael.

‘That's not true and none of this is your business. Now, excuse me but I've got to put Toby's clothes in the dryer.'

‘I didn't understand it at the time when I saw you pulling something out of the bag, crushing it over the beer. But when I saw your face, I could see you wanted her dead.'

He had put it together, an equation solved, ripping a hole right through the heart of all my lies. It was over. I was found out.

‘You're wrong,' I began, and my voice was pitiful, weak, and pleading. ‘I didn't . . . an accident.'

But Michael didn't seem to care. I kept talking, blustering, making excuses, outright lying. It was pathetic and he stood there and patiently waited for me to stop. He wasn't looking for confirmation nor was he prepared to believe a denial. ‘It's all right,' he said when I came spluttering to a standstill. ‘I hated Rachel too.' Behind us, one of the machines finished and began to beep.

‘What happens now?' I asked, shakily. I couldn't believe we were having this conversation, let alone that he knew what I had done and didn't seem to be that bothered by it.

‘You don't need to worry about me. Really.' He smiled at me and it was the first time I had ever seen him smile. There was something so fragile about it that I wanted to cry. I was beholden to Michael and the thought terrified me.

‘You're worth protecting. I told you that you were different from the others. I wanted to tell you that night at the bar,' he began, but I couldn't cope with anything else. I was almost light-headed with shock and panic and just wanted to get away.

‘Please, please, I can't talk about that night. I have to go put the clothes in the dryer.'

He nodded. ‘When you are ready then.'

I walked back inside the room and closed the door. Through the window I watched Michael carry his laundry across the square and then I headed straight to my room. I needed to get rid of my Rohypnol. I had been so stupid not to do that the night Rachel died.

Racing upstairs, along the corridor, I ran into my room, making sure that the door was locked behind me. I grabbed my bag, more of a leather pouch on a string, that I had taken to the bar that night. I dumped out the contents on my bed. Wedged into the bottom corner, covered in fluff, were two tablets. I pulled them out, holding them in the palm of my hand. Standing over the sink, I crushed the tablets to a powder, turned on the water and washed them down the drain. Evidence destroyed.

Crouching on the floor, I opened the cupboard below, reaching my hand back behind the water pipe to where I kept the rest of the packet away from prying eyes. Not there. I peered in, too small a space to get my head right inside. It was the place where useless forgotten things lived until enough time passed and I decided to throw them out. Hunting through it, there was a half-full box of tissues, some dishwashing liquid, crusty sponges the texture of dried old bread, never-used shoe polish and my faded Rubik's red t-shirt. But no tablets. Even when I frantically pulled everything out of the cupboard, they still weren't there.

I ripped the sheets off my bed. Lifted up the mattress. Pulled the books out of the bookcase. Dumped all my clothes on the floor. Checked every pocket. I kept telling myself not to be paranoid, that they had to be here somewhere. I thought back to the last time I saw the packet. Rachel was in the common area, sitting on the old squeaky chair, her legs curled up next to her, a cat ready to pounce. She hadn't even been looking at me, instead staring at Joad's door, determined not to blink in case she missed a moment. It had been too easy to retrace my steps and walk back along the corridor. Quietly unlock the door so as not to get her attention. Stealing into my own room. Bringing the bottle could have led to awkward questions if anyone saw it, so instead, I had put a few tablets into my bag and then raced off to meet Rogan. I left the rest sitting out on my desk, on top of a pile of photocopying I still hadn't read. I never saw them after that.

In the end, I had to accept they weren't in my room. Someone had taken them.

For the days that followed I stayed at Law School, leaving college early and returning late to avoid as many people as possible. I waited for someone to confront me with my own pills and make the accusation that I was a murderer, but nobody did. When anyone did try to talk to me, I pretended that I was mourning instead of hiding. Whether this nuance was appreciated I have no idea.

Marcus had called me a survivor, and after some shaky moments I pulled myself together and decided to be one. Having once owned some sleeping tablets meant nothing. My real issue was needing to keep Michael onside. He was the only person who knew for sure what I had done. He said he wouldn't tell anyone, and I believed him. I knew he liked me and that made him vulnerable, able to be manipulated. I understood that only too well.

A side effect of spending so much time away from college was that I didn't realise Rogan had returned until I opened my door to a soft late-night knock.

‘Nice,' he said, grinning, as he took in my mismatched flannelette pyjamas. ‘Fetching.'

‘What?' I was curt to cover up my embarrassment.

‘Haven't seen you around and thought I'd check up on you.' He was trying to pretend that I was the one who had disappeared from college, who had run home and had left a whole bunch of unanswered questions. I had played the scene over and over in my mind of what I would say to Rogan about the way he was making a habit of abandoning me, but with him standing there and smiling, all the caustic comments vanished without being spoken aloud. I needed the potential for something to be good in my life.

‘Can we talk?'

‘Here?' I said, uncertain.I looked behind me but all I could see was my bed, and I could feel my face flush with desire.

He looked a bit uncertain as well. ‘No, I've got somewhere better.'

‘Dressed like this?'

‘Absolutely,' he said, and laughed.

College had adapted to Rachel's death in that weird way you do when you don't have a choice. Conversations were brittle, but the sharpness of grief, or in my case guilt, had already begun to dull into a bruise. Still, it had felt like a long time since I had heard someone laugh like that.

I followed him down the corridor. There was a curious space between us as if he didn't want to let other people know we were going somewhere together, but I thought maybe I was being overly sensitive. When I saw Michael sitting on the chair outside Joad's room as I walked past, I slowed down and put even more distance between us and felt grateful for it.

‘Hi, Pen,' Michael said. There was something puppyish about the way he said it, breathless and happy all at once.

I nodded my head in the way you do to be friendly but you just can't stop to talk right now because you really are much too busy.

Rogan chose to climb the stairs, rather than head downstairs as I had expected. On the next floor up, the top floor of the tower, he walked all the way along the corridor until he stopped at a door. On my floor, this was where the vacuum cleaner, mops and cleaning products were kept. But this was different – a room, not a cupboard, with a concrete floor and roughly painted white walls. It was bare except for a plastic chair, a bench running along one wall and a large bath.

‘Only bath in the Tower,' he said. ‘I don't think it's ever been used. Last year Stoner set up his hydroponics in here.' He balanced the chair on top of the bench, looked up at the ceiling and then back to me. ‘You might be a bit too short. I'll go first.'

He climbed onto the chair and reached up towards a manhole that I hadn't noticed. Breathing hard as he pushed the cover aside, his head and shoulders disappeared into the dark space. Bracing his arms against the edges of the square, I was left staring at his bottom half, the belt I had once helped undo. He stretched upward, his t-shirt moved and I saw a flash of skin. His stomach muscles tensed and, with a fluid movement, he pulled himself into the hole.

I could hear scuffling overhead and a bright light shone down. ‘Found the torch,' he said, his face reappearing. ‘Your turn.' I was already on the chair, and probably could have managed to drag myself up, but instead I grabbed his wrist, and was hauled into the roof space.

Moving from my knees to standing, I fell against Rogan, a crack of nose on bone. We apologised at the same time. The musty cavity stretched away from us in all directions, beyond the torch's beam. Dust was everywhere, so thick I could feel it settle on my skin.

‘How did you know about this?' My words disappeared into the gloom, absorbed by the dark.

‘Stoner told me. Somewhere to hide his stash if he needed to.' I thought back to Kesh's speculation at the laundry and wondered if Stoner actually had that much of a stash at the moment. ‘But we're not there yet.' He held the torch under his chin, which lit up his face with sinister shadows. ‘Scared?'

‘It's an improvement.' I laughed then, and all the pent-up fear and frustration inside dissolved in the snug blackness.

‘Be careful where you stand,' he said. ‘Keep to the beams.'

‘Would you fall through?'

‘Do you want to be the first person to find out?'

He walked along the one nearest to us, stopping every few steps to shine the torch and put his hand on the next truss. I walked after him, arms outstretched, almost giddy. The roof began to slope down and we had to crouch so as not to bang our heads.

‘Easier to find in daylight,' he said, when we were almost doubled over. He pointed the torch at a spot directly in front of us. Peering, I could see the inside of the roof and the shape of a bolt. Handing me the torch, Rogan pulled at it. The metal made the kind of noise that you can feel in your teeth. Then he pushed with both hands outstretched and a square of the roof hinged forward, clanging open.

We stuck our heads through. Heaving ourselves out of the damp heat, we balanced on the edge of the opening. A strange feeling of euphoria washed over me with the night air. I felt free, marooned on a private island, cut off from the rest of college and my problems.

‘Careful,' he said. ‘Some of the tiles are loose.' He shuffled forward until he was sitting with his legs angled out in front. I passed him the torch. There was a neat stack of tiles next to us and I thought perhaps once they covered the hatch and wondered why one had been built in the roof and how Rogan had discovered it. But there was something so magical about being here I didn't want to ask questions. That was what had got me into trouble with him last time.

As high as we were, the trees were higher. One was close enough that its branches brushed the side of the gutter. I could hear the swish of the leaves rubbing against the edge. I wanted to tiptoe across the branch and climb the trunk, right up to the sky. Gaining my bearings, I worked out that if we scrambled up and over the ridge to the far side, we would be overlooking the courtyard.

‘How many times have you been up here?'

‘A couple. If we'd been here earlier we could have seen the sunset,' Rogan said, lying back on the tiles. ‘Still, no clouds tonight.'

The moon hadn't risen yet. Stars scattered across the sky, not as bright as the ones at home. Tracey and I would bunk out and climb The Hill to look at them and plan our escape. I thought of Rachel. Where she lived, even further west than me, there would have been limited artificial light to compete with the stars. There they would have been the boldest. I wondered if she had looked at them as she perfected her American accent and dreamt up a whole new life.

I moved next to him, feeling so small and unimportant that for a moment I could forget that I had done such big and terrible things.

‘Beautiful,' I said, and shivered, the night settling on my skin. We lay there side by side.

He cleared his throat and hesitated, before asking, ‘Did the police come back?'

And I realised this was the reason he hadn't been at college since Rachel's death and why I was up here on the roof. The question he wanted to ask without any witnesses. No one to hear the concern in his voice. This was the extent of the talk.