Someone Who Isn't Me Danuta Kot (best books to read .TXT) 📖

it as a wave of people came through the pub door. There was a match on. It was going to be busy tonight.

She worked fast, wondering what was keeping Toby. He should be back behind the bar now – it was all she could do to keep up with the growing crowd.

‘Sorry,’ she kept saying as she served the waiting punters to a chorus of, ‘Getting over here any time?’, ‘Decided you work here after all?’ but it was all good-natured enough. She got their drinks, smiled thinly at the banter. She needed to know what Toby had been about to say. She’d remind him when he came back from wherever he was hiding.

But he didn’t. It got busier, and she had to work all-out to keep up with the orders. Where the fuck was Toby? She took a breather in a brief quiet period, looking out into the pub to see where he’d got to. There was no sign of him.

Carl came behind the bar looking put out. ‘What’s going on? Are you on your own?’

‘Toby’s out collecting glasses.’

‘He spends too much time— What the fuck are these doing here?’

She heard the chink as his foot kicked the keys against one of the chiller cabinets.

‘What?’ She kept her face turned away, looking at the guy she was serving.

Carl didn’t answer. She glanced round and saw that he was looking at the keys in his hand, then he turned without saying anything, and headed towards the cellar door, leaving her to deal with a crowd of impatient punters.

She’d had enough. It was hot, she was scared and she was beyond tired. She just wanted to get out.

The latest punter was moaning because she’d got his order wrong. She put the glasses down on the bar, said, ‘Hang on,’ and walked out of the bar and into the kitchen. She grabbed her coat and, not waiting to put it on, she pushed the back door open and went out into the yard. This was where Toby was supposed to be collecting the crates, a job that should have taken him ten minutes. There was no sign of him.

She had a bad feeling about Toby, a really bad feeling. She kept thinking about the attack at her flat, the smell of paraffin, the voice hissing Snitch bitch! at her as she lay on the ground.

What could she do? Call Curwen? Would he even help? He wanted the pictures – but she was pretty sure that he didn’t give a fuck about what happened to her once he’d got them.

But he cared about who had hurt Andy.

Dinah Mason might help. She’d tell Dinah about Toby and maybe she’d… But she needed to get out of here. Before Carl noticed she’d gone.

The pictures were on her screen. She looked at them as she walked quickly back towards her flat along the dark streets. At first, she couldn’t make sense of them – the bags seemed stuffed full of paper or something. Had she done it all for that, been groped by Carl, walked out of her job, maybe got Toby in serious shit, and the stuff she wanted to photograph was all wrapped up in paper so no one could tell what it was?

But then one picture came on the screen, and this one was clearer.

The bags were stuffed full of money. Folded bank notes, and she could see the glint of coins.

Not drugs. Money. What was going on?

There was nothing from Curwen, no message, nothing.

She was almost home now, and caution made her slow her steps. It was dark but she could see the reassuring glimmer of the outside light from her yard. Even so, she couldn’t stop herself from looking back and checking each shadow before she passed it.

There was no sign of the kids who’d been hanging round earlier.

Nothing’s wrong, she kept telling herself. No one saw you go into the cellar. She was fishing in her bag for her keys as she walked, but she couldn’t find them. They should be clipped onto the little ring inside her bag, but they weren’t there.

Her feet slowed. She remembered Lewis grabbing her, and her bag falling to the ground. Had he taken her keys? Was the whole thing some kind of trick to get…

She froze.

It was like before.

The yard gate was swinging open.

She’d closed it. She had definitely closed it.

Someone had been here.

She edged carefully into the yard, braced herself and shone her torch round the space.

Nothing.

Just the bulk of the wheelie bin, the space under the fire escape empty apart from a pile of wet, half-burned rubbish, the tarp concealing her bike.

There was no one here.

But someone had been here. Someone had opened the gate. She knew she’d closed it.

And as she approached the back door, she saw that, too, was open. She could see it in her head; Lewis, coming through the yard with her keys, leading the group of kids, his price to stay safe.

Except whoever had gone in there hadn’t used her keys. The lock was splintered where someone had kicked the door in.

Her stomach clenched. She couldn’t go in. They might be waiting for her up there. Call the police? Would they even come? A break in at a scruffy bedsit. Yeah, right.

Curwen. She’d helped him. He might come out if she…

Spice! She’d left Spice up there alone.

She was running up the stairs before she’d even had time to think about it. Her stomach was knotted in terror. What was she going to find? What had they done?

Her torch showed stains on the treads, marks of mud and she didn’t know what. And there was a smell, like…

Please! She didn’t know who she was talking to, she was just… Please!

She reached the landing and snapped on the light.

The door to her room was wide open, the lock smashed.

Whoever had done this, they’d gone. There was no one there.

Inside was chaos.

Everything was scattered across the floor – her clothes, her bedding, her plates and cutlery. Someone had emptied