The Magpies (12 page)
It was still light when they returned home from work. The Newtons’ car was parked in its usual spot. There were streaks of bird shit on the window on the passenger’s side. Jamie knew Chris would be annoyed by this, as he always kept the car immaculately clean, soaping and waxing it every Sunday as if he was adhering to an age-old custom, passed down through the generations, father to son.
‘We ought to get it over with now,’ Kirsty said.
Jamie really didn’t want to do this. He hated any sort of confrontation. Nothing in his experiences had prepared him or taught him to deal with a situation like this. Of course, he’d had run-ins with people before – at school, at work, in many different situations – but this situation had an edge to it: a weird edge. It made him feel nervous.
‘Come on then,’ he said.
They descended the concrete steps to the basement flat. Garden flat, Jamie reminded himself. He went down first, Kirsty a step behind him, holding onto the back of his shirt, pinching the cloth between her fingers. The space outside the Newtons’ front door was very well kept, with small potted trees in the corners, and window boxes alive with pink and yellow flowers. There was a doormat with WELCOME spelled out on it and a ceramic plate displaying the house number, with the words Garden Flat added beneath.
Jamie rang the doorbell. He rubbed his palms – which had started to sweat – on the thighs of his trousers and held Kirsty’s hand.
There was no answer.
‘Maybe the bell doesn’t work,’ said Kirsty. ‘Try knocking.’
Jamie lifted the letter box and banged several times, quite loudly. He stood upright, stretching to his full height. He had been practising what he was going to say all day, running through several variations, from angry (‘How dare you record us.’) to reasonable (‘Let’s talk this through, shall we?’), but now he felt thoroughly confused. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.
‘The best thing,’ Kirsty had said in the car on the way home, ‘is to appeal to them as friends. After all, that’s what we’re meant to be. I mean, we were never going to be blood brothers and sisters, but we got on with them OK. I think once we’ve spoken to them – made contact – we’ll be able to sort this out, nip it in the bud. The worst thing to do would be to go down there and start shouting at them.’
‘You’re right,’ Jamie agreed. ‘We’ll simply explain to them that it isn’t polite to record your neighbours having sex.’
Kirsty smiled, despite herself.
‘They’re definitely in,’ she said, after Jamie had knocked on the door and they had waited ten seconds without a response. ‘I can hear the TV. Knock again.’
Jamie did, rapping on the wood three times. There was still no answer.
‘They don’t want to talk to us,’ he said. ‘They must have seen it was us, but they’re hiding.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘I suppose they think we’re going to have a go at them. No, actually, I’ve no idea what they think – I don’t understand them at all any more.’ He walked away and started to go up the steps. ‘Come on. I don’t want to waste any more of my time.’
Kirsty followed him. He walked purposefully into the living room and picked up the phone. ‘I’m going to call the police. Tell them we’re being harassed. It’s got to be illegal, recording your neighbours having sex. Actually, it must be illegal recording your neighbours full stop.’
Kirsty stepped in and took the receiver from him. ‘Jamie, if you get the police involved it will only make things worse. We’ve still got a chance to sort this out.’
‘But they won’t even answer the door to us.’
‘So let’s write them a letter. That’s obviously how they want to communicate.’
She opened a desk drawer and took out a writing pad and a pen. Then she sat on the sofa and chewed the end of the pen thoughtfully.
‘What are you going to put?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to help me. I haven’t written a letter on paper for years.’
Jamie sat beside her and, over the next hour, they composed a letter, Kirsty holding the pen because she had the neatest handwriting (Jamie had been using a keyboard to write everything for so long he had almost forgotten how to do joined-up writing), with Jamie looking over her shoulder, making suggestions.
Dear Lucy and Chris
We have to confess that we were surprised by your letter. We class ourselves as your friends, as well as your neighbours, and we would have thought that if you have a problem with the levels of noise (of whatever sort) coming from our flat you would have felt able to approach us in person. We could then discuss the situation as friends – and as adults.
As it is, the tone of your letter is very unpleasant, and we also find it difficult to express how unhappy we are that you recorded us. We insist that you delete the recording and destroy any physical copies you’ve made.
‘Should we state that if they don’t we’re going to go to a solicitor?’ said Jamie.
‘Jamie, you know what I think. I don’t think we should get too heavy – not yet anyway. I’m hoping we can sort this out among ourselves.’
‘Yes. You’re right.’
We will make sure that we don’t play music loudly, and will try to ensure that we don’t make any unnecessary, excessive noise. However, when you live in a flat you have to accept that you will experience a certain amount of noise from your neighbours, and you need to learn to tolerate this. For example, when you had your barbecue a fortnight ago we did not complain about the raucous laughter coming from your garden until late at night (or the smoke that came in through our back window).
We do hope that we can rebuild our relationship as neighbours, and live in harmony. We would like to discuss this, so feel free to visit us at any time.
Yours sincerely
Kirsty and Jamie
P.S. You may be interested to know that Paul is still in a coma following the accident. The doctors are unsure when – or even if – he will recover.
‘Are you sure we should include the bit about the barbecue?’ said Jamie.
Two weeks ago, Lucy and Chris and two other couples had stood in the Newtons’ back garden, eating burnt sausages and telling bad jokes loudly. Jamie and Kirsty hadn’t been at all disturbed by the event, although they both thought privately that it wasn’t right that Lucy and Chris were out there having what they clearly saw as fun, while Paul lay in a hospital bed, especially when Lucy and Chris hadn’t even asked how Paul was. Jamie was still outraged by this – almost as much as he was outraged by the letter and CD. He had insisted that Kirsty add the P.S. about Paul’s condition. He wanted the Newtons to be reminded that Paul existed.
Kirsty considered Jamie’s question about the barbecue. ‘I don’t see why not. We’re making a valid point about neighbourly tolerance. Maybe it will make them see things from our point of view.’
They both signed the letter and sealed it in an envelope. Then they went outside to post it, Kirsty waiting at the top of the steps while Jamie ran down to put it through their neighbours’ front door. The letter box closed with a loud thud and Jamie hurried back up the steps. Earlier, he would have been just about able to handle a confrontation. Now, though, he was tired, and he wanted to get indoors, to the safety of the flat, his haven.
They went back into the communal hallway and Kirsty closed the front door, the hinges squeaking noisily. They heard a door close above them and Mary came into view, heaving a large suitcase down the stairs. She smiled when she saw Jamie and Kirsty, and they waited for her to reach the bottom of the stairs. As she descended, the smell of some herb or flower that neither Jamie nor Kirsty recognised, drifted ahead of her.
‘How are you both?’ Mary asked in a concerned tone. Jamie had told her about Paul – who she said she had seen coming and going – when he had bumped into her a couple of weeks before.
‘Oh, not bad. Just waiting to see what happens.’ He shrugged sadly.
(Kirsty told Jamie later that she was convinced Mary was going to suggest some kind of herbal remedy to rouse Paul from his coma. ‘If she had,’ Kirsty said, ‘I would have really lost my temper.’)
‘That’s the worst part, isn’t it? Waiting. Hoping time will heal.’
Jamie nodded. ‘That’s exactly right.’
Mary touched him at the top of his arm, then did the same to Kirsty. She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind.
‘Are you going on holiday?’ Jamie asked, gesturing towards the suitcase.
‘I wish. But I’m going to a convention in Birmingham. It’s a kind of trade fair for practitioners of alternative medicine. I go every year. Actually, I was going to come and knock on your door because I need to ask you a small favour. Would you mind feeding Lennon for me while I’m away? I’ll only be gone three nights.’
‘Sure. No problem at all.’
Mary fished her keys out of her bag and handed them to Jamie. ‘I’ve left the tins of food on the worktop in the kitchen. He won’t need feeding now until tomorrow morning. Half a tin morning and night.’
‘I’ll pop in before I go to work.’
‘That’s marvellous. Thank you so much.’
When Mary had gone and Jamie and Kirsty were in their flat, Kirsty said, ‘I think she fancies you.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Haven’t you noticed the way she looks at you?’
‘What way?’
‘Like she wants to eat you for breakfast.’
‘You’re loopy. Although, of course, one couldn’t blame her if she had developed an overwhelming lust for someone as gorgeous as me. It would only be natural, after all.’
‘That’s right. I’ve had such a terrible life since we got together, fighting other women off you, never a moment’s peace.’
Their laughter filled the flat, and as they laughed the tension in the air dissipated. Jamie put Mary’s keys down on his desk, where the writing pad lay open, displaying the rough first draft of their letter.
‘Do you want a drink?’ he said, going to the fridge and taking out a bottle of wine.
‘Hmm, yes please. I need one.’
That night, in bed, Jamie moved close to Kirsty and began to kiss her face and neck, stroking the silk-soft skin of her inner thigh. He moved down beneath the quilt and kissed her breasts and tummy, gradually moving lower until his head was between her legs. He kissed her and moved his tongue in slow circles around her clitoris, an action that usually made her groan and push herself against his face. Tonight, though, she didn’t react. Something was wrong.
He tried again, pushing his tongue inside her, stroking her thighs with his palms, moving his tongue in motions that normally made her gasp. But still, she gave no reaction.
He shifted up the bed so he was lying beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m not in the mood, Jamie.’
‘Oh. OK.’
She kissed him, grimacing slightly at the taste of herself on his lips. ‘I’d like to, but I can’t really relax. Listening to that CD really freaked me out. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do.’ He sighed. ‘I still can’t believe they did it.’
‘When you started to go down on me just then I imagined that they were down there, listening, maybe even taping us. And I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t get into it.’
‘Do you think they get some kind of perverted thrill out of it?’
‘I don’t know, Jamie. But do you remember all the things they said about the couple who lived here before us? Lucy even said something about noise that day at the go-kart track. They’re obviously very sensitive to noise – more than we ever suspected. It seems crazy, though – to buy a flat when you’re obsessed with peace and quiet: obsessed enough to make recordings of your neighbours to prove your point.’ She sighed. ‘Let’s wait and see what reaction we get to our letter. Maybe we can sort this thing out.’
‘Because otherwise we’re going to have to soundproof the bedroom.’
They kissed goodnight and turned over to face their separate ways. Jamie kept his eyes open for a few minutes. His heart was beating fast. He wasn’t able to sleep until his anger had subsided.
Beside him, Kirsty entered REM sleep and began to dream. She had the dream about the gingerbread house again. She ran through the woods, saw the beautiful, tempting house and went inside. This time, the witch was absent, and Kirsty saw that the door handles were actually the most delicious-looking toffee apples. She took one and bit into it.
Like Snow White, a piece of the poisoned apple caught in her throat and she fell to the floor. As her eyes closed she saw a figure standing over her. The figure was wearing a black cloak and hood and she couldn’t make out if they were male or female. All she could see was a pair of eyes, glowing in the shadow cast by the hood.
She woke up sweating, turned over and put her arm around Jamie. With her hand on his chest, she could feel the rapid, angry beat of his heart. Both of them lay awake for a long time, not speaking. They were both thinking about Lucy and Chris. Kirsty felt as if the poison from the dreamt-of apple had stayed in her body, and was seeping into her bloodstream. It was the last thing she thought of before she finally got back to sleep: herself poisoned, in a coma, lying beside Paul.
‘Right, I’ll pop up and feed that cat.’ Jamie picked up Mary’s keys.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘It’ll only take one of us.’
‘I know. But I want to have a look at Mary’s flat. I haven’t been in there yet, unlike you, you tart. Always visiting strange women’s flats while your poor, long-suffering girlfriend sobs alone at home.’
‘Yes, I suppose I could show you the spot where she jumped on me and forced me to shag her.’
‘Oh yes. That would be a treat.’
They were both a little shaky after a night of bad dreams, but neither of them wanted to show it, over-compensating with humour. Jamie had half-expected to find a letter from the Newtons on the doormat, but so far there was nothing. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed.
They went up to Mary’s flat hand-in-hand, noting the rain that pattered against the window in the stairwell. Jamie unlocked the door, pushing it open cautiously. They went inside.
‘Nice place,’ said Kirsty. She looked around, scanning the bookshelves, inspecting the Pre-Raphaelite prints on the walls. There were numerous bottles of oils and essences laid out on the table, and she picked up a few and sniffed them. Joss stick holders and incense burners lined the mantelpiece. An Indian throw hung on one wall. There were carved figurines from Africa and Asia all over the place. ‘It’s bigger than our flat, isn’t it?’