The Perfect Stranger

This perfect stranger came to town the other day. Tall guy, short hair and a small mustache. Showed up at the office asking for Simon, but Simon was at home, tending the sick wife, or so he said, so it fell to me to take the stranger for a quick tour around town. That’s what he wanted, a quick look around. Said he’d heard so much about Kavli he couldn’t wait to see the stadium, and Main, and if we had the time, maybe the unfinished byway to the M10. Why he wanted to see that, I didn’t get, but so he said. “Show me the byway, over where the water is sitting idle in that stinking pool.”

I’m afraid I’m so terribly proud of our little community, I didn’t think twice about what he wanted to see, nor about the way he said it. Not until later. At the time I just grabbed the keys to the company car and we both tip-toed down the stairs, got in, and drove off.

“Look over there, that’s the grocery store”, I said, and pointed to the little shop run by Sophie Pips, herself standing outside waving at me and smiling her soft and silent smile. “That’s Sophie my girl”, I said. I didn’t notice his reaction. Too much on my mind right then, too much to show and tell. We went on, past the gas-station and the post-office, down Little Grittle Street, onto the Panto shortcut, so named after Panto the short-stop who’d always be late for games, and cut through here while the crowds were already cheering. Panto is dead by now, like so many others. I told the stranger this, and he didn’t seem to care. “Show me the byway”, he said. And I obliged.

When we got down there I noticed something peculiar about the man. He didn’t seem to be wearing any socks in his leather shoes. A pair of bluish ankles was all there was, blinking momentarily like pale soft emeralds when he got out of the car. And then I took a closer look, as we stood there pondering the stale dark water, and I noticed he didn’t have any eyebrows, only just, and the colour of his eyes seemed to match that of his reddish nose. And the same nose was dripping with a blank thick fluid. He wiped it every two seconds with his bare hand.

“Let’s go back”, he said, turning around, and getting in the car before I could reply. By then I was more than happy to get out of there, and we drove back to the office in a terrifying silence. He left me at the door, with only a slight nod of the head. A perfect stranger. Knew Simon he said. Tall and lanky as a dead birch tree. What was his name? He didn’t say. He just walked off towards the bus-station, and when I blinked he was gone. A large truck drove by and a few birds twittered.

Someone said the man in the photograph is him. I don’t know, it might be.