Chapter 3
As far as strangers flagging you down in public, this is apparently a banner week for you.
When you turn onto the street with your building, you notice an ambulance parked out front. The lights are on, the doors are open, and there’s nobody there. Some people turn their heads to look at it as they pass by, but nobody looks too troubled about it. You’re tired, it’s Friday night, and your shoes from work are killing you. They are cute, though, so you’ll forgive them for that.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder, make sure that you have your keys and your ID to prove that you belong to the building and aren’t just gawking, and head inside. You don’t even have to move that far around the ambulance. You turn your head to check as you go into the lobby doors, and the bay is empty, no paramedics in the back. You hope that Stephanie on floor nine isn’t having trouble with her sickle cell again and otherwise plan to go upstairs and resume your life as normal.
“Excuse me,” says a woman standing by the mailboxes.
You look up and take your earbud out of your ear. You haven’t seen her before. She’s pretty, with an almost heart-shaped face and very curly brown hair. She’s wearing a leather jacket. Her expression is concerned more than anything else.
“I don’t know what’s happening there,” you say, waving your hand apologetically at the ambulance.
“I do. Do you live in apartment 409?” she asks.
You blink. “Yes,” you say. But you live by yourself and you’ve been at work all day, so why would there be an ambulance at your address?
“Listen to me. There are two police officers upstairs looking for you. At least, they look like police,” she says.
It’s so far from what you expected anyone to say to you that you just stare at her. She fishes in her pocket and pulls out a phone–not a smartphone, but an old-fashioned flip phone. She shows you a picture. “Do you recognize this man?”
Steven, you think first, because that’s the only man you’ve had real significant contact with this week. But the man she shows you is thin-faced, with chin-length brown hair and a faintly sorrowful expression.
“Yes,” you say. You feel odd, like the lobby around you is far more present than usual, like your surroundings are making themselves known. “Yes, he came up to me in a club last night.”
“Yes,” says the woman. She closes the phone and tucks it back into her jacket pocket. “And he asked you about a man.”
“Yes,” you say again. You can’t quite remember the name. “Marc. Marc something.”
“Marc Spector,” she says. “He’s looking for him.”
“What is going on?” you ask. “I don’t know any Marc Spector. I barely know any Marcs.” You don’t exactly keep in touch with Marc Gilson.
“That doesn’t matter,” she says seriously. “What matters is, this man thinks that you do. And this man is dangerous, and he has a lot of powerful allies, including two police officers upstairs. Do you understand me?”
The words fit into a sentence that makes sense, but what she’s saying is so outlandish that you gape at her for a few moments. These things don’t happen to you. They don’t happen to people in real life.
“Who are you?” you ask, because that’s the most important thing right now to help you decide whether or not you can trust her.
Her gaze flicks to the side, towards the door. You do the same, but there’s no one there.
“I’m a friend,” she says. “My name’s Layla.”
“Okay, Layla,” you say slowly. She’s not exactly busting out any police badges or MI6 credentials–and come to think of it, her English is American-accented, not British. “Wait, why are you here?”
“Because that man–” She points up at the ceiling, as though to indicate that he’s upstairs waiting for you in your apartment. “–is dangerous, and I’m here to protect you.”
Oh boy. Okay. This is…
“Thank you,” you say for lack of anything better to fill the silence. “That’s… very kind of you.”
You have no way of knowing if this is true. The picture of the man on the phone is too much to be a coincidence, and she knows the name Marc Spector, so she’s at least somewhat informed. But she’s still a stranger who cornered you in your apartment building, and there’s no proof that there are any police officers upstairs waiting in your apartment. She could be a woman having some kind of psychic break. Or, she could be a woman in league with the strange man, trying to lure you to a secondary location.
“Just–just to be clear,” you say, “what are you protecting me from, specifically?”
“He thinks that you have information,” she says. “I don’t know how far he’ll go, trying to get that information out of you.”
“I don’t have any information,” you say.
“I know,” she says. “Which means that he won’t stop.”
You stare at her for long seconds before asking, “Are you saying that he’s going to torture me?”
“Maybe,” she says.
“Okay.” You definitely need to summon some authorities here. “So why don’t we go to the police, and you can explain this to–”
“No,” she says. “I told you already, he has at least two police on his payroll, and he apparently has enough say to get them assigned to specific jobs. You can’t trust the police.”
Oh no. This is way too much to rest on your shoulders. Driving a sick man home and checking his carbon monoxide detectors is one thing, but if this woman has conspiracy theories or some kind of psychosis centered on you–and what a hell of a week for her to settle on you, if that’s the case–or worse, if she’s right and you’re the target of this man who approached you in public… You try to remember if you told him the name of your company. You don’t think so.
“Okay,” you say slowly, trying to de-escalate the situation. “Do you think that this is the kind of situation where if I explain that I don’t know anything, they’ll believe me?” You don’t specify who they are–the man from the lounge, or the police, or whoever this woman is answering to.
“No,” she says.
You take a deep breath. “Okay.” She knows where you live. “So why don’t we go to a very public place, and you can explain what’s happening to me.”
“His people are everywhere,” she says.
Even if that’s true, there’s no proven threat to you yet. Your best case scenario is to go somewhere under your own power and either flag down the staff for help, or wait until you have a second and call 999 for yourself.
“So let’s go to a place where no one will make a scene,” you say. You’re a big believer in social engineering. You’ve heard about the scam where if you carry a clipboard and look like you know what you’re doing, people will let you in anywhere. And you’re still dressed in your officewear from work. If you go, to, say, the lobby of a hotel, you will be very clearly watched and there will be lots of witnesses for whatever this Layla wants to do. “But I–and please don’t take this the wrong way–I’ll just feel a lot better if we stay in public.”
She pauses for a moment, and then licks her lips. “What did you have in mind?”
This is London; there are hotels everywhere. This one, your workplace put you up in when you were visiting from the North American office. A Scottish man in a taxi drove you here. You were blown away by the amenities and the novelty of visiting a foreign country for the first time. When you relocated on a permanent basis, you were a little disappointed by the comparative letdown in your digs, having to pay for everything on your own again.
You’re dressed pretty reasonably for the Desjardins Hotel. They have two separate restaurants–so business meetings aren’t uncommon here–and a number of conference rooms upstairs. You also like hotels because they’re an easy place to get a taxi–you’ve never been great at sticking your arm out and whistling–and because they tend to have free wi-fi and electrical outlets to charge your phone.
Layla is wearing a canvas sweatshirt under her leather jacket, and jeans. She doesn’t look as formal as you do, but it’s not out of the question for someone who’s traveling. She also doesn’t seem too agitated by the fact that you’re taking her to a secondary location.
Your feet are killing you. She’s wearing biker boots, which makes you a bit jealous. And it’s late, and you want dinner. You don’t entirely trust Layla, but you’re hungry enough that you think you can allow yourself some chips and salsa while she makes her case.
“Two, please,” you say to the host at the cheaper of the two restaurants. You wouldn’t eat here ordinarily–too expensive–but you’re very stressed and you think that you’ve earned it after this experience. Also your regular paycheck will hit your account either this evening or tomorrow, so you can afford it.
It’s early in the evening for people your age to be dining. The host leads you back to a table. You notice that Layla checks the sightlines before she sits down, taking note of all the doorways and windows. Either this is a combat-trained person, or just a very paranoid person.
The host sets some menus down and says that a waiter will be by to take your drink orders. You unfold your napkin from around your silverware, spread it across your lap, and wait for her to leave you and Layla alone. There are a few other groups of people at tables around you, so you’re not entirely isolated.
“Hey, I have a question for you,” you say. “Just off the top of my head. Just for my peace of mind.”
She looks at you, her eyebrows up.
“I know that this is Britain,” you say, “but if you were concealed carrying a gun, would you tell me?”
To your surprise, she laughs through her nose. “I don’t have a gun with me,” she says.
Well, you can’t trust that answer. In fact, the only possible answer she could have given you that you would believe is yes, I have a gun on you right now, because it would just confirm that you need to be extremely cautious with her. As it is, you have to assume that this Layla, who knows where you live and who you talk to, is very dangerous.
“Yeah, I guess it was a stupid question,” you admit, and let out a sigh. You hang your head a little, trying to resist the urge to put it down on the table. To think, only this morning you were proofing manuscripts for legal liability. One way or another, you will get through this, and it’s going to be extremely weird to explain at work later.
You don’t know if you want to tell Lauren all about it.
“So who are you? I know you told me your name, I just… don’t understand why you’re involved,” you say.
“Layla El-Faouly,” she says. So she is Arab; she has a middle-Eastern look to her and an Arabic name, but you didn’t want to assume. “You and I have a mutual… acquaintance.”
That’s so close to what the man said to you last night that your throat closes up. You take a deep breath.
“I already told you that I don’t know any Marc Spector.” Though now you don’t think you’ll ever forget that name.
“It’s complicated,” she says. “And I don’t mean Marc Spector.”
“Who do you mean, then?”
She doesn’t answer, instead looking up. Someone appears in your peripheral vision and you get a stab of panic, but it calms as soon as you realize it’s just a waiter.
“Welcome, what can I get you to drink this evening?” he asks.
Layla looks at you.
You try to keep your face as straight as possible. “Can I get a Coca-cola, and, um, an angel shot?”
“One Coca-cola, one angel shot. With lime?” he asks.
You don’t remember the PSA clearly enough to know what ‘with lime’ means. Instead you smile and nod.
He turns to Layla. “And for you?”
“Water,” she says.
“One water.” He smiles and tucks his pen into his apron. “We’ll have those right out for you.”
You hope that he understood your message and that he’s not going to bring you out some kind of mixed drink. That would be just the cap to this whole evening.
“Who’s our mutual acquaintance?” you ask again.
“It’s complicated,” she says again.
You raise both hands to show her your palms. “I’m listening.” All you have to do at this point is stall for time, you hope.
Layla says, “The other day, you got a phone call from a Steven Grant.”
You stare at her. Then you ask, “Steven?”
She glances up as if to make sure no one overhears you, then nods.
“This is about Steven?”
“Keep your voice down,” she admonishes.
You drop your voice to a whisper, because she’s a dangerous person who knows where you live and may or may not have a gun. “I didn’t even go on a date with Steven,” you say. It is beyond unfair that you should have to deal with all of this when you didn’t even get dinner out of it. “What can he possibly want with me?”
“It’s more what other people want with him,” Layla says.
You cover your mouth with your hand, feeling a bit sick. You thought that he was just a disturbed man–you didn’t know he was involved in anything dangerous. “He’s just a dude who works at the British museum,” you say. “That’s all that I know about him.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Layla says.
You give her an incredulous look. You aren’t hiding any secret Steven knowledge–and now you’ve decided to lose Steven’s number, because this is definitely more trouble than any reasonable person should go to when trying to help somebody else who may or may not be sick.
“It is,” you say. “I’ve talked to him for maybe an hour, total.”
“About what?” Layla asks. Her tone isn’t inquisitive; it’s the prodding of an interrogator trying to get you to spill what you know. Not for the first time, the thought crosses your mind that she may be working with the man who is allegedly trying to find you.
“Books,” you say. “Agatha Christie. The Egypt Game.”
Her nostrils flare a little bit. “The Egypt Game isn’t Agatha Christie.”
“I know,” you say. If her name is El-Faouly, it’s not impossible that she might even be Egyptian. You’re well aware of the problematic nature of the book now, but since you haven’t read it since you were eight, you can’t remember what is or isn’t in it that might be offensive. “It’s one of the books we talked about.”
“Along with?”
“The Ology series,” you say.
She looks at you, nonplussed.
For the second time this week, you have to explain a children’s book series to an adult who has no idea what you’re talking about. Worse, you have to look in the eye of someone who may or may not be in the process of abducting you and tell them that you used to own a very large board book with a little bag of glitter in it labeled “dragon dust.” And that you bought the fake wand with the unscrewable handle that came in the companion book to Wizardology.
Layla looks as bewildered as you feel at the end of this, her nostrils still slightly flared. “And what did he have to say about this?”
“That it’s weird that Egypt is in a book series with wizards and dragons,” you report. “But, like, it also has books on pirates and the ocean, so it’s not totally, uh, exoticizing.”
At which point the police walk into the restaurant. You see them behind Layla’s head and you drop your eyes back to her, trying to be subtle about it, but the police officers are talking to the host, and your waiter is going over to them. Any moment now, they’ll come over to your table, you’re sure. You just have to keep calm.
“So why did you go to his apartment?” Layla asks.
“Because I was trying to be a nice person and I thought he might have a head injury,” you reply. “Because he said he thought it was Saturday and that he didn’t remember the last four days of his life. I figured being nice to him was the least I could do. And I thought he seemed harmless.” Just goes to show.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” says the uniformed policewoman striding up to your table, your waiter at her side. You go slack with relief. “Is there something here that I can help with?”
“Yes,” you say. Every muscle in your body relaxes. Your head starts pounding with the sudden release of tension. Suddenly all of this is no longer your problem.
Layla has the alert and bristling look of a startled cat; her mouth is slightly open and her teeth are showing. She glares at you.
“Layla here–” You gesture at her. “Says that I’m in danger and that there’s someone staking out my apartment, and she insisted that I not go home. We just met.”
“Huh,” says the policewoman. “Well, I’m Officer Kennedy. This is my partner, Officer Fitzgerald.” She gestures to another police officer standing a few yards back. “Why don’t we see what we can–”
At which point Layla puts one hand on the table and launches herself over the divider separating the seating sections in the restaurant. You haven’t seen anyone do that in real life before–you expect that kind of acrobatics out of kids, not out of adults who tend to obey the laws of gravity–but she goes right over the decorative railing and lands with a thud on the other side. The restaurant goes quiet as all the tables nearby watch what’s happening. You lose sight of Layla for a moment, then hear a crash and someone gasp, and then Officer Fitzgerald takes off running through the restaurant.
You don’t move on purpose. Instead you just tip sideways into the booth, your head coming to rest on the table.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” Officer Kennedy asks.
“Yes,” you say. “Yes, just… very scared.”
“Why don’t you come to the station with us and you can tell us what happened. It’s going to be okay.”