Alias Read online

  “Can I help you?” a lady asks from behind the counter, and I realise I’ve been standing there for a while, panic-breathing and dripping rainwater onto her floor.

  “Yes, sorry.” I move closer, taking off my hood. Banks of trendy overhead spotlights leave me with nowhere to hide, and I deliver my standard speech with her gaze fluttering around my war wounds like a demented butterfly.

  “Oh my goodness,” she says as I finish my tale of woe. “You’re the niece!”

  “The niece,” I repeat, mystified. “I don’t—”

  “Your uncle phoned, oh my goodness, when was it? Last Thursday? Might have been Wednesday?” She flicks through a diary, failing to pinpoint a date. “His name escapes me. Oh, but you’ll know it anyway, won’t you?”

  Not bloody likely, I think, as she tinkles a laugh.

  “He said that you’d been in a terrible accident, you poor dear, and that you’d asked him to try to keep your little business going while you were in the hospital, only you couldn’t tell him where all your mail was being sent.” Her nose crinkles with pity, but her forehead has been Botoxed into stasis. “What a shame about your hair, dear.”

  “Mm,” I say, not really listening. “I might shave it all off.” I want to duck beneath my hood again, but it’s too late; I’m standing in front of a small CCTV camera.

  “Your uncle could’ve saved you a trip out in the rain, couldn’t he? I checked your name against our accounts, but you’re not on our list. You should be in bed, not wandering the streets. You’ll catch your death.”

  “We must have our wires crossed,” I say. “He gave me a list of places he hadn’t managed to contact, and yours is on it.”

  She nods. “Easy mistake. He sounded like a nice man, very polite.”

  I want to bark out questions—Accent? Inflection? Age? Name?—but a chap in a business suit has approached the desk, and she’s already batting her eyelashes at him.

  “Thanks anyway,” I say, and she raises a dismissive hand.

  “Fuck,” I whisper, back out on the street, with the rain battering the awning above Cash Converters. Although none of the other store assistants mentioned my “uncle,” they might not have been on shift that particular day, or perhaps they simply failed to make the connection. Whoever he was, he must have drawn as big a blank as my own, but the thought of his tactics anticipating mine creeps me the fuck out.

  A-Z in hand again, I turn in the direction of Piccadilly, completing my circular route with one shop left to try. The rain stops, but I leave my hood up as I stride alongside commuters on their way to the train station. Safety in numbers, I chant in a silent loop. You’re okay, just one of the herd. There’s safety in numbers.

  * * *

  The bus is full, a soggy, drooping line of commuters swaying in its aisle, too accustomed to the overcrowding to raise a fuss. I’m crammed into a window seat beside a bloke playing a fruit-themed game on his phone, the repetitive “blip-blip” on the soundtrack punching further holes in my crumbling equilibrium. The final store on my list went out of business and is being transformed into a gourmet pasty shop by someone with no appreciation of oxymorons. Granted an early reprieve, I dived on the bus as its doors were closing, a move that almost cost me a foot but guaranteed that anyone stalking me would be left at the stop.

  My bravado lasts until I enter my empty flat. Spooked by the silence and shadows, I switch on all the lights and return to the hall, ready to bolt for the door at the slightest sound. There’s nothing, not even the hum of a neighbour’s television. I wait another two minutes, counting the seconds, before I slip off my boots and tiptoe into the bedroom. Wincing at the creak of springs when I sit on the bed, I yank my legs up, curling them beneath me as if there’s a monster lying in the dark, poised to grab my ankle. I know it’s stupid and irrational, but I can’t look. Martin always did the checks. My big brother, with his cricket bat in one hand and his torch in the other. He’d peer under the bed, open my wardrobes, and shake out the curtains.

  “All clear, Al,” he’d tell me. “You can go to sleep now.”

  And I would, as soon as he’d given me his word. I’d snuggle into my quilt with the nightlight on and wake to sunshine and the bleating of sheep.

  I’m reaching for the rolling pin on my bedside cabinet—not quite a cricket bat but enough to put a dent in someone—when my mobile rings. I jump sky high, knocking the pin and the phone onto the floor.

  “Shit!”

  Lying prostrate across the bed, I track the phone from its ringtone, my eyes squeezed shut, because everyone knows that the bogeyman can’t get you if you can’t see him. I accept the call without looking at the ID.

  “Hello?” I say, managing to sit up, using the rolling pin in my casted hand like a lever.

  “Hello? Alis? Is this a bad time?” Pryce says, and my hand twitches hard enough to thwack the pin into my knee.

  “No, no, not at all. What’s up?”

  I hear soft footsteps in the background of the call, and running water that lessens and then stops as a tap squeaks. I imagine her face damp with steam as she leans over the bath, her hair escaping its neat knot. Of course, she might just be washing her dinner pots, her shirtsleeves up and a pan scourer at the ready.

  “I got the images you sent, but Mal, the tech lad, won’t be able to do much with them for a few days.”

  “Okay,” I say, not expecting miracles either way. “Still, it’s good you found someone.”

  “I’ve known him for years. He’s very discreet. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Right,” I say, confused and curious in equal measure. “Go on.”

  She starts another tap going and closes a door to muffle the sound. “I wondered whether you were free tomorrow. I’ve taken a week’s leave—well, time owing—and I’ve booked a hotel in Manchester.”

  My confusion edges out the curiosity. “Are you interviewing me again?”

  “No, nothing like that. I spoke to Jolanta’s landlord, and he agreed to give me a key to her house. I want you to come and search it with me.”

  Her blunt request elicits the desired response. “Where should we meet?” I ask, pushing all of my misgivings aside to be dealt with later.

  “Where do you suggest? I’m staying at the Ducie. It’s one of those apartment hotels.”

  Ducie Street is close to Piccadilly, but I’d rather meet somewhere less central, so I give her an address at a retail park that’s sure to be crowded.

  “Got it,” she says. “Can you make it for ten?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. I’ll see you then.”

  I hang up, smiling at her confidence, her utter disregard for the usual “I’ll text you if I get stuck in traffic” conventions. If she says ten, she’ll be there for ten. I bet she’d stick her head under my bed if I asked her to.

  Feeling braver but not that brave, I stay put and phone Rob Reid. He turns out to be a chipper sort who doesn’t seem surprised to hear from me. I agree to read through and complete a stack of forms for him, and he promises to arrange a face-to-face once he’s reviewed the paperwork. He ends the call by telling me not to worry, which earns him a place on a long list of people with unrealistic expectations of my psyche.

  “Don’t be so fucking mard,” I tell myself, inching my toes toward the hardwood floor.

  Standing unmolested and triumphant, I consider the task-free evening that stretches before me. I could go to the Village for a drink, or to the cinema, or really go nuts and treat myself to a fancy meal, something I won’t have done for months on Rebecca’s budget. The possibilities are limitless.

  I’m towelling my hair dry when the doorbell rings and a delivery lad hands me my slap-up dinner of fish, chips, and gravy. I tip him more than the food’s worth, and he doesn’t question why I haven’t walked two minutes around the corner to collect it. Staying in is the new going out, I decide, pyjama-clad and eating chippy with half an eye on a terrible romcom. My plate squeaks a protest as I stab a chip
with more force than necessary.

  “Balls to this,” I mutter, outraged by my passivity. I might not be able to remember my life, but I want it back.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My alarm squawks at seven, giving me plenty of time to catch the 203 into Manchester and meander toward Ancoats. Distracted en route by the rumbles of my belly, I detour into one of the Northern Quarter’s artisanal cafes, emerging with coffee, a bag of pastries, and an empty wallet. Juggling bags and cups, I eat a croissant, which silences my gastric percussion and leaves me with a stitch to walk off.

  The shops are only just opening when I cross the main road to the retail park, but there’s a meltdown sale at one of the computer outlets, and the car park is busy with bargain hunters. I weave through a group of Asian lads who seem hell-bent on being first in the queue, and perch on a low railing outside Toys R Us, my arse dampening as I melt the frost coating the metal. Pryce’s Disco noses out of Tariff Street at five to ten. I raise a hand as she nears the roundabout, and she pulls into the space in front of me.

  “Morning,” I say, attempting to proffer provisions one-handed without nosediving into the passenger seat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d managed any breakfast.”

  She accepts everything I hold out, lifting it well clear of my graceless entrance and waiting until I’ve stopped shuffling my backside into place. “I had a bite before I set off, but that was hours ago, so thank you for this.”

  “I think I still owe you a few,” I say.

  Her seat creaks as she leans back and pops the lid from her cup. As Toys R Us vanishes behind swirls of steam, she takes a delicate little sip, her upper lip forming a pout above the rim.

  “I’m not keeping a tab,” she murmurs, and I have to bite into a cinnamon swirl to stop my jaw from flapping.

  “Pastry?” I say once I’ve swallowed without choking. She chooses an apple Danish, and we settle into our picnic, tacitly recognising the futility of small talk while wrangling flaky pastry and icing. The car grows warm, and it’s so pleasant in this haven of misted windows and cafe scents that I could stay here all day. Another couple of blissful minutes pass before she steers things back toward the business at hand.

  “DC Hughes is tearing his hair out over you,” she says, dabbing crumbs with a licked finger. She doesn’t sound or look too concerned, so I follow her lead, keeping things casual.

  “He is?”

  She nods. “I signed over the bulk of your case to him after your interview, and left him puzzling the semantics of ‘dangerous’ and ‘without due care.’ He’ll probably still be at it when I get back.”

  “Poor lad. Has he asked for the CCTV yet?”

  “He’s requested it, but he won’t know what he’s looking for without the witness statement.”

  I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand, uneasy for her sake. “Pryce…”

  “I know. If there was a better way, I would take it. As it is, the longer he agonises over the fine print, the longer we have to sort the rest out.” She starts the engine, forestalling any dissent on my part. “Jolanta’s address is on the paperwork in the glove box.”

  I find the details and purloin her A-Z. I could programme her sat nav, but I have a good idea where the street is, and I’d rather give directions than submit to the whims of an automated map.

  “How on earth did you get the time off?” I ask, as she turns out of the car park and heads away from the city centre.

  “Countless accrued days, an unexpected capitulation on my nightclub stabbing, and a DI who’s easily distracted by bara brith.”

  “Left at the lights,” I tell her. “Who the hell is Bara Brith?”

  She laughs. “Not a who, a what. It’s a sort of fruit bread, flavoured with tea and best eaten spread with butter.”

  “You bought a fruit bread and used it to bribe your DI? I’m impressed.”

  “I didn’t buy it.” She gives me a horrified look as she overtakes a moped veering around the potholes on Stockport Road. “I made it. I’m not a bloody savage.”

  I raise my hands in surrender, tickled that I’ve provoked her into swearing. “If it’s any consolation, I’m reliably informed that I burn salad.”

  She slows for a red light, sliding the Disco into neutral when she’s come to a complete stop and applying the handbrake. “I enjoy cooking, but it’s a pain sometimes, cooking for one.” There’s sadness in her voice and more than a hint of regret. The Pryce I first met would have rectified her lapse at once, but she looks at me and shrugs. “I cook for my team whenever I get the chance.”

  I don’t react to the chink I’ve glimpsed in her armour. “Yeah? They must love you.”

  “Their waistlines don’t.”

  I reset the conversation by assuming the role of tour guide, pointing out the landmarks of Levenshulme—the Canadian Charcoal Pit, the Antique Village, and the McVitie’s factory where they make Jaffa Cakes. If you’re a fan of post-industrial squalor, Levenshulme’s back streets are a real treat: row upon row of redbrick terraces crammed into a grid, their only outdoor space high-walled concrete yards and alleyways gated to deter burglars. Jo’s rented house is in the middle of one such terrace, its green front door an oasis in a wasteland of boarded-up façades and smashed windows.

  Broken glass crunches beneath my boot when I get out of the Disco, and a lad walking past blows his cigarette smoke toward us, yanking on the harness of his Staffy as it pisses on a lamp post.

  “Welcome to Levenshulme,” I say, joining Pryce on the pavement. She has the door key in her hand. “Has the landlord been in since—” I swallow and give the question another go. “Since she died?”

  “Once, to read the meters. He seemed like a decent chap, and he’s not sure what to do with her things.”

  Pryce opens the door, and we enter the front living room. It’s quiet and dark, the curtains drawn, their heavy material holding the air still. Unseen in the gloom, I clutch the back of the sofa. I can smell Jo’s perfume and the herbs she’d use to flavour her cooking. The room has the atmosphere of a shrine, the clock stopped and the traces of her fading day by day.

  “I’m going to turn a light on,” Pryce warns. Her voice is hushed, respectful.

  I shield my eyes as the bulb in the corner lamp stutters and catches, illuminating an eclectic mishmash of furniture. Jo was in constant awe of the local charity shops. She would link my arm and lead me to her latest purchase: “Ten pounds for the chair! I am sewing a nice cover for it. What do you think? This purple or this purple?”

  “Her parents,” I say, slow to connect the dots around Pryce’s earlier comment. “Are they not coming to collect her stuff?”

  Pryce steps closer, blocking much of the light and casting us into shadow. At some point she’s pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, but it won’t matter if my own prints are found here.

  “I’ve spoken to her father a number of times,” she says. “But it’s…it’s quite complicated.”

  “Complicated how?” All I can come up with is the expense, because Jo was dirt poor and she sent every extra penny she earned to her parents. “Was her mum ill? I’m sure she mentioned treatment for cancer or something.”

  “Breast cancer,” Pryce confirms. “She’s having chemo at the moment, but that’s not really the problem. Jolanta’s parents are Catholics, staunch Catholics, and I had to feed them the official line.”

  “The official line,” I repeat like an idiot. “I don’t—” And then I do. “Fuck. You told them that we were seeing each other, that she was gay. Why the fuck would you do that?”

  “Because her father asked,” Pryce says, refusing to snap back. “Because the Polish police who delivered the death message said enough to sow the seed, and he demanded that I explain exactly how his daughter came to die. And because the press will get hold of this when MMP finally go public with it, and I’d rather he heard it from me. He won’t accept responsibility for her belongings.” She shifts a fraction, allowing me to see her, as if she thinks remaining in t
he dark would be the coward’s way out. “He hasn’t even made arrangements for her body.”

  “He what?” I can see she’s not lying, but I don’t want to believe her. I’ve always assumed Jo got buried while I was in the hospital and that one day I’ll go to Poland and plant violets on her grave. “Where the fuck is she, then? Have you left her in the fucking morgue?”

  “We don’t have any option for now.”

  “I’ll pay for a funeral.” It’s not an offer, it’s a statement of fact, but my conviction wavers almost at once, and I sit on the sofa, my head bowed. “Shit. I don’t know whether she wanted to be cremated or not.”

  There’s a pause and then a rustle of cloth and cushion as Pryce sits beside me. She’s close enough for me to feel her warmth, and I want so much to lean into it, but I don’t move a muscle.

  “When all this is sorted, I’m sure her family will want to take her home,” she says.

  It’s precisely the right thing for her to tell me, and she’s blurry around the edges when I look at her.

  “Thank you,” I say, my gratitude nonspecific and all-encompassing.

  She holds out a tissue. “Any time.”

  We sit for a moment on Jo’s tassel-bedecked bargain of a sofa. I skinned all my knuckles trying to fit it through her front door, and she taught me a wealth of Polish swear words. The memory, and the debt I owe to her and her family, gives me a necessary kick up the arse.

  “Ready to get started?” I say, standing up and offering my hand. There’s practicality behind the gesture, because the cushions suck you in like quicksand and Pryce doesn’t have the knack of escaping.

  “Christ,” she mutters, grabbing on and allowing me to pull her up. “It’s like sitting in a bucket.”

  It feels good to share a smile, and I squeeze her hand before letting it go.

  “Upstairs first?” I suggest.