The Magpies (13 page)

‘It’s exactly the same.’

Kirsty returned to the bookshelves. ‘Look at these.
Enchanted. A Practical Guide to Magick. The Wiccan Arts
. Loads of books about black magic. Hey, maybe Lucy was right about her.’

Jamie crouched beside her and looked at one of the books. ‘These are about white magic,’ he said. ‘But look, here’s a truly Satanic tome:
The Reader’s Digest Guide to Alternative Medicine
. Now where’s that cat?’

His question was answered immediately as Lennon came padding into the room.

‘Hi cat,’ said Kirsty.

They went into the kitchen, found the supply of cat food and Jamie forked some of the meat onto a plastic dish. Lennon ate away happily.

‘So,’ Jamie said. ‘Have you had a good enough nose around?’

‘Yes thanks.’ She looked at the floor. ‘Actually, while we’re up here, I want to try something. I want to see how sound carries between these flats. We hardly ever hear Mary moving around, do we? You go downstairs into our flat and I’ll run around a bit.’

‘OK.’

He went downstairs and stood in the living room, knowing that Kirsty was standing right above him. It was silent in the flat, and he cocked an ear to the ceiling. He heard a light padding sound; he thought he could hear someone talking, but very faintly. He went back upstairs.

‘So what could you hear?’ Kirsty asked.

‘Hardly anything. Very light footsteps, some muffled talking – but I had to really listen hard. What were you doing?’

‘I was running up and down the room. I jumped a couple of times, like this.’ She jumped and landed heavily. ‘And I put the TV on and turned it up loud. Like this.’ She flicked the TV on and boosted the volume. ‘Are you saying you couldn’t hear that?’

‘Hardly.’

‘It doesn’t make sense. It can’t be that the floorboards in our flat are extra thin. Lucy and Chris must have really sensitive hearing.’

‘Yeah. Like dogs.’

Kirsty was right. It didn’t make sense.

Eleven

Jamie couldn’t stand the smell of hospitals. The cloying stink of disinfectant; the vapour trails of anguish and pain and disease. He was glad that Kirsty showered and changed when she got home from work – he would hate it if that smell clung to her all evening instead of the clean, warm natural smells of her body. He sometimes felt that he had a more finely-tuned sense of smell than most people – a sensitivity that made it impossible for him to stay in certain malodorous places. When he drove past a crematorium, he could smell ashes and fumes. Public toilets contained many horrors. The stink of body odour on the Tube made him want to be sick. But the worst smell of all was the smell of hospitals.

He sat beside Paul’s bed, sucking a mint, exhaling in sharp breaths so its smell replaced that of the hospital. Walking up the corridor this afternoon he had seen a porter hurriedly pushing a trolley on which there lay a dead body, covered from head to toe with a green sheet. Now Jamie looked at Paul, his chest rising and falling, the steady pulse of his heartbeat amplified electronically by the machines that monitored his condition, and felt a rush of gratitude and relief: Paul was still alive, and whatever else happened, that was a blessing to cling to. Every morning, a nurse came to give Paul a wash and a shave. Periodically, hospital staff trimmed his nails and cut his hair. In fact, Heather had asked if she could cut his hair herself and, having done so, she carried a lock with her in her bag. Jamie thought that was pretty morbid himself, but he understood Heather’s motivation. Paul’s body was still functioning – growing, aging, shedding, replenishing; all the things that bodies do. These things were a tangible reminder that Paul was still with them.

Jamie sat silently as usual. He had spoken to Dr Meer earlier, who said there had been no change in Paul’s condition. Jamie wondered how far beneath the surface Paul was, if he was making any progress that they couldn’t see. He wondered if, in his comatose state, Paul dreamed – and, if so, what he dreamed of. Women, probably. Megan Fox mud-wrestling with Rihanna.

He stood up. It was six o’clock – time to meet Kirsty and take her home. As he was about to leave the room he turned round and looked down at his friend. He could have sworn he had moved. He bent over him, holding his breath, searching for signs of movement or change. There were none.

‘Must have imagined it,’ he murmured to himself. He touched Paul’s cheek. It was warm.

He walked back down the corridor and up a long flight of stairs. A pair of nurses passed him as he headed towards the children’s ward. They recognised him, and smiled. After they’d passed by he heard them laugh, and he felt a stab of paranoia, convinced they were laughing at him. He hurried on, suddenly desperate to be out of here, away from the smell and the people and the bright, sterile lighting. He wanted to be at home.

But when he thought of home, he felt anxious too.

All day he had been haunted by a creeping sense of unease. Last night, they had written and delivered the letter to Lucy and Chris. Writing the letter had made him feel better, but after he’d got to work this morning he’d started to worry about what their response would be. Mike, the guy who sat opposite him at work, had asked him if he was alright, commenting that he seemed really spaced out, and Jamie had snapped at him, told him to mind his own business, feeling immediately remorseful. It was so rare for him to feel like this – he was usually so relaxed and easy-going. But he wanted today over with. Maybe tomorrow would be a better day.

‘Hiya darling,’ said Kirsty, when they met outside the main entrance. He was so pleased to see her he almost burst into tears.

‘Are you alright? You look–’

He nodded quickly. ‘I just want to get home.’

‘OK.’

Kirsty took the wheel because Jamie didn’t feel in the mood to tackle the traffic. He couldn’t even stand listening to the radio. The news gave him a headache so he turned it off and they drove home in silence, Jamie resting his head against the window, gazing out at the city streets.

Litter twisted and turned as it danced along the pavement from the high street McDonalds. A group of boys stood on the corner outside the off-license, trying to persuade passers-by to go in to buy them some beer, hurling abuse after everyone who said no. A young Asian woman in a business suit stood at a bus stop, studying her reflection in the sheen of the glass that covered an advert for health insurance, reapplying her lipstick. A fat man stood close by with a Staffordshire bull terrier on a lead. The dog shivered as it pushed out a large turd, then the man produced a plastic bag and a scoop, cleaning up after his pet before hurrying away. Somewhere up ahead, a police car’s siren wailed histrionically before stopping dead. This evening, the city seemed tawdry and sad. Jamie heard himself sigh. Kirsty touched his leg.

‘Do you want to pick up a Chinese on the way home?’

‘I’m not really hungry.’

‘Suit yourself.’

He stretched out a hand and stroked her soft hair. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s just, I don’t know – I feel really down today.’

‘Was it seeing Paul?’

‘No, not really. In fact, seeing Paul made me feel slightly better, in a strange way. I guess I’ve been worrying about Lucy and Chris. I’ve got this horrible feeling that we’re going to arrive home and find our windows smashed.’

‘You are silly.’

‘I know. But what if we don’t get any response at all?’

‘Oh I think we will.’

They pulled into Mount Pleasant Street and saw that the Newtons’ car was parked in its customary position. Kirsty parked and they got out and went inside. Jamie checked the post. Among the junk mail was a handwritten envelope with no stamp. It was addressed to The Ground Floor Flat.

‘This is it,’ said Jamie, feeling his throat go dry.

Kirsty took it from him and carefully unsealed the envelope. She read the letter aloud:

HOW DARE YOU complain about the noise we made when we had our barbecue. Our friends were shocked and appalled that you have described them as having raucous laughter. I can’t believe what hypocrites you are, especially as we have to endure the sound of your own shrieking and guffawing day and night. We can tell you that we will have our friends over whenever we like and will stay up as late as we like. YOU CANNOT tell us what we can and can’t do. We believe in live and let live. Why don’t you adopt the same philosophy?

Kirsty and Jamie stared at each other, dumbfounded.

‘’I’m absolutely…speechless,’ said Jamie.

‘
You cannot tell us what we can and cannot do
. Jesus wept. And this bit –
we believe in live and let live
.’

‘Do you think they’re being ironic?’

‘No, I think they mean it.’ She shook her head in disbelief.

Jamie read the letter through again, and as he did so he felt all the unhappiness and frustrations of the day stir up inside him, turning to anger, a rush of blood to his head that made his ears feel hot and his skull feel too tight around his brain. How dare they? How fucking dare they?

‘I’m going down there.’

‘Jamie…’

He ignored her and stormed out of the flat, out through the front door and down the steps. He banged on the Newtons’ door, then banged again, harder.

‘Come out here,’ he shouted. ‘I want to talk to you.’

Bang bang bang
.

‘Come on out!’

When there was no reply he ran back up the steps, brushing past Kirsty and marching through the flat into the bathroom. He unbolted the back door and went down the steps from the balcony into the garden.

The second his foot touched the grass at the bottom of the steps, Lucy came out of her own back door, waving her arms angrily.

‘Get out of my garden.’

Jamie flapped the letter at her. ‘I want an explanation of this. And I want you to erase the recordings you’ve made of us. Now.’

She shook her head. ‘Get out or I’ll call the police.’

‘Go on then, and I’ll tell them how you’ve been harassing us – recording us illegally. I’d like to see you explain that to them.’

She ignored him. ‘Chris. Chris!’ she called. ‘Phone the police. Tell them we’ve got a trespasser.’

Jamie looked up at Kirsty, who was leaning over the balcony. He felt exasperated, unable to believe this was really happening. It was crazy. Completely stupid. He tried to see through the Newtons’ open door, to see if Chris really was there. Half of him wanted Lucy to call the police. But really, he just wanted to get this whole, ridiculous mess sorted out.

He lowered his voice. ‘Look, Lucy, can’t we talk about this? We’re supposed to be friends, aren’t we? Let’s sit down and talk about it.’

‘No! I’m going to count to ten.’

‘Let me speak to Chris.’

She smiled with one half of her mouth, a horrible, lopsided expression that made her look unhinged. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t want to talk to Chris right now. Let me tell you. You really wouldn’t want to.’

‘I bet he’s not even in…’

‘Lucy,’ Kirsty called from above. ‘Why are you being like this?’

Lucy’s face had gone pink. Jamie thought she looked like she was about to burst something. ‘How do you expect me to react when you write me threatening, insulting letters?’

‘But it wasn’t threatening. We were trying to make peace. And you wrote to us first.’

Lucy shook her head violently. ‘No I didn’t.’

‘But Lucy, we’ve got the letter to prove it.’

Lucy threw her arms in the air and turned round, putting her hand on the door handle. In a calm, quiet voice, she said, ‘I really am going to call the police now.’ As she went inside, Lennon ran out of her flat and bounded up the garden. Jamie looked up at Kirsty as if to say, Did you see that?

Kirsty said, ‘Jamie, come on, get back up here.’

He walked up the stairs slowly, defeated. The moment he got back inside and Kirsty shut the door, he started to shake. Kirsty put her arm around his shoulders, pulling his body against hers. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

He sat on the sofa and Kirsty handed him a beer. He drank it without tasting it. All his life he had tried to avoid conflict – shying away from arguments, never going near a fight – and the scene with Lucy left him feeling shocked and numb. He could hardly believe it had happened to him. She had been so aggressive and irrational. When confronted with something as crazy as this, he didn’t know how to react. It left him floundering.

‘She’s mental,’ he said, looking up at Kirsty.

She sat beside him.

‘Completely mental.’

Kirsty kissed him just above the cheekbone. ‘I was kind of proud of you, though.’

‘Why? What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. Seeing you stand up for us. I know you want a quiet life, and I thought you’d always shy away from confrontation. It was actually quite nice to see you get passionate about something – to get angry.’

‘I’m often passionate.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, I know. But I don’t mean in that way.’ She paused and sipped her beer. ‘But you’re right – she’s mental. Mad as a bloody hatter.’

‘But what are we going to do?’

‘I don’t…’

The doorbell rang. They froze and looked at each other. ‘Who is it?’ Jamie whispered.

Kirsty stood up and crept to the front window, peering through the crack in the curtains. She turned and faced Jamie, her eyes wide. ‘It’s the police.’

‘She really called them! I don’t believe it.’

‘But this is good, Jamie. It gives us the opportunity to tell them what’s been going on.’

‘You’re right.’

Jamie went out into the hall and opened the front door. Two policemen stood there, one of them looking over his shoulder towards their car, which had already attracted the attention of several children, who crowded round it, peering in through the windows and – in the policeman’s mind – threatening to remove the wheels and smash the headlights.

Jamie said, ‘Can I help?’

The older policeman said, ‘Can we come in, sir?’

Jamie shrugged. ‘Sure.’

They followed him into the flat, the younger policeman seemingly reluctant to leave his car at the mercy of the local hooligans. Eventually, he managed to tear himself away, but it was obvious his mind wasn’t going to be on the job.