The Magpies (27 page)

Jamie thought back to that day, the day they had said goodbye to Paul. After that day he had felt wrecked, emotionally drained by all the tears and laughter. But he also felt a little better. Their sex life had reignited, although at first he had been worried about harming the baby (Kirsty had to assure him that it would be OK). Even though, unable to help themselves, they had been quite noisy they hadn’t received any complaints. Jamie had even done a bit of DIY, putting some shelves up in the spare room, which was going to be the nursery. He was sure Lucy and Chris would write to them about the hammer blows, or even his footsteps as he walked around stripping and painting the walls, but no. Not a peep from them.

‘Well, maybe they’ve given up,’ Mike said. ‘You never know.’

Jamie smiled. It would be so wonderful if they had given up. Or maybe – just maybe – they felt remorseful about what they had done.

Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

A month had now gone by. Thirty one days without a threat or a complaint. There hadn’t even been any spiders in the flat, although, Jamie thought, that was probably because of the cold weather. As each day went by, he felt himself relax more and more, massaged by this new trouble-free life. He worked on the nursery in the evenings, painting the walls a neutral, sunny yellow. Kirsty spent a lot of time curled up on the sofa, reading; sometimes novels, sometimes books about pregnancy and motherhood. The results of her scan had been good, and she carried the photograph around in her bag, showing it to anyone who was interested. As Jamie painted away in the nursery, and Kirsty brought him a beer, he thought, God, my life is so run of the mill. But he didn’t care. He was pleased.

Paul had emailed them, telling them that he was in Ibiza, working in a restaurant, having a fantastic time and sleeping with another traveller, an American girl called Sam. Jamie wasn’t envious at all. This – right here – was the life he wanted. He still felt tense at times – still worried about the neighbours, still trod quietly – but it was nothing compared to how he had felt a few weeks ago. He knew he had been heading towards a breakdown. He felt like he’d had a lucky escape.

Kirsty hadn’t mentioned moving out again, either. Jamie got the feeling she had adopted a policy of ‘wait and see’. He knew she didn’t entirely trust this current state of peace, but as the days passed, and the baby inside her grew, and the Newtons’ campaign of terror failed to start up again, she relaxed too. She was four months gone now, almost halfway. They bought a cot and a couple of mobiles to hang up in the child’s room. When he had finished working in there, they went through lists of names together.

Heather came round some evenings. At first she had been maudlin and lovelorn, but now she seemed to be recovering. She insisted that she hadn’t slept with Paul on his last night, although both Jamie and Kirsty were sure she was lying. She insisted on reading Paul’s emails and got a bit upset when she read he was seeing someone else – but not too upset.

Christmas wasn’t a million miles away. Their first Christmas in the flat; their last Christmas when it would be just the two of them. They decided that they wouldn’t see anybody on Christmas day – no family squabbles, no arguments about Kirsty’s vegetarianism, which happened every year when the turkey was carved, as predictable and boring as the Queen’s Speech. No, this year, they would buy each other loads of presents, eat a ton of chocolate and spend the day in bed. Total bliss.

Three weeks became four. Still no threats or complaints. Jamie allowed himself to breathe a huge, huge sigh of relief. It seemed that the worst was over.

It was a mild Sunday; a warm island in the arctic sea of winter. Jamie got up, got dressed and went out to buy a paper. When he opened the front door he saw Chris coming up the steps.

He didn’t know what to do. Although it was true they hadn’t had any trouble from the Newtons lately, they hadn’t spoken to them either. A ceasefire existed between them, but not friendship. At that moment, Jamie remembered the letter he had sent to the previous occupants of the flat. He hadn’t received a reply. In a way, he was glad. He wanted to forget all the shit that had happened.

Both men paused.

‘Alright,’ said Chris.

‘Hi,’ said Jamie.

‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

‘Gorgeous.’

They fell silent. Jamie felt uncomfortable. He wanted to go, but he didn’t want to appear rude. With surprise, he realised he was afraid of upsetting Chris.

Chris broke the silence. ‘Have you heard from Paul?’

‘I’ve had some emails. He’s in Ibiza, having a great time by the sound of it.’

‘That’s good.’

More silence.

Chris again: ‘I’ve noticed that your front door’s started sticking again. And making this bloody awful squeaking sound.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Want me to take a look at it for you?’

Jamie felt a shiver of deja vu. Of course, it wasn’t really deja vu. He could remember Chris making the same offer months ago. Maybe it was just a case of history repeating itself. Maybe this was their opportunity to start over, to become friends again – without allowing things to go wrong this time.

‘That would be great.’

‘OK. I’ll take a look this afternoon.’

‘Cool.’

Jamie turned away, nodding to himself ever so slightly. Yes, this was their chance to reforge their friendship. They could put everything behind them. OK, he wouldn’t ever be able to forgive Chris and Lucy for some of the things they had done – and he still thought there must be something wrong with them to have done it in the first place. But surely this was better than being at war? They could co-exist, side by side. They wouldn’t be bosom buddies. But they could be good neighbours. It would make life a lot easier.

As he turned to walk down the hill he smiled.

Later, Jamie sat reading the paper, the radio on quietly in the background. He heard a noise at the front door and looked out of the window. It was Chris, kneeling by the door with his toolkit. He looked up and waved at Jamie. Jamie waved back.

About an hour later he heard the front door shut, then Chris’s footsteps going down to the basement. Jamie got up and went out into the hall. He tried the door. It didn’t stick or squeak any more.

‘He’s fixed it,’ he said to Kirsty.

‘Good. You were never going to get round to it.’

‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t actually that bothered by it.’

‘Chris obviously was. Or maybe he was just bored.’

‘Maybe…no, it’s stupid.’

‘What? Tell me.’

‘I just thought maybe he did it to try to make us happy. To try and make amends.’

‘Hmm. Who knows.’ She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. ‘We’ve got nothing in.’

‘We’ve got that pie.’

‘Yuk.’

‘What do you want to do, then? Go out for dinner?’

She kissed him. ‘What a nice offer!’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve been conned.’

She headed into the bedroom to change, putting a long, loose-fitting dress on. She looked lovely. Watching her touch up her makeup in the mirror, Jamie felt a rush of love that made his heart beat faster and compelled him to cross the room and hug her, burying his face in her hair and inhaling her. What would he do without her? He couldn’t contemplate it. She was both his compass and his map, and he would be lost on his own. Lost in the darkness.

‘Jamie, careful.’

She gently pushed him away, wincing.

‘You’ll hurt me or the baby if you squeeze me like that. You don’t know your own strength sometimes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She kissed him. ‘It’s OK. Just be careful.’

They finished dressing and Jamie picked up his keys. They left a light on but drew the curtains. It was only seven but it was pitch-black outside. They headed out towards the front door.

Jamie patted his pockets. ‘Shit, I haven’t got my wallet.’

Kirsty tutted. ‘Better go and get it then – I don’t want to end up doing the washing up. Give me the key and I’ll go and get in the car.’

He handed her the key and went back into the flat to find his wallet.

Kirsty opened the front door – hey, no squeak! Chris must have oiled it well – and was hit by a blast of icy air. No cloud cover, she decided, remembering an ancient geography lesson. She stepped down from the doorstep onto the path, and her foot made contact with something slippery.

The world dropped away.

Afterwards, she couldn’t remember if she had screamed or not. She must have, the way Jamie came running. She remembered that he had yelled her name. His voice was strangely high-pitched; he sounded like a woman.

Kiirrst…

Her right foot touched the path, but it was like an ice rink. That was her first thought: ice. Like the air. Like the weather. But it wasn’t ice. It was oil. A patch of oil left behind by Chris; a patch of the same oil that made the door sound so nicely squeak-free.

…tiiieee.

Her right foot slipped away from her, and to stop herself doing the splits she instinctively pulled her left leg forward. As she did this, she twisted – twisted right round so she was facing the door. And as she twisted she pitched forward, her hands trying to grab the doorframe – but she had her bag in one hand and the keys in the other. She twisted, pitched forward and fell.

Smack.

Her belly hit the concrete step.

Jamie sat outside the operating theatre, Heather beside him, holding his hand. Heather was wearing her nurse’s uniform. She was still meant to be working.

Jamie couldn’t stop shaking.

He had come running out of the flat, shouting her name. He had seen it happen: seen it even though he was inside the flat; her scream conjuring up a clear image. The slip, spin, smack. Her hands were full of objects and no use in stopping her from falling, or lessening the impact as she hit the concrete. Hard.

She had looked up at him, her eyes watery with pain. ‘My…’

He expected her to say ‘stomach’.

She said, ‘My baby.’

The wait for the ambulance. The ride across town, sirens cutting through the night. Onto a trolley, down the corridor.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

‘She’s going to be alright,’ Heather said. ‘I can feel it. She’s going to be alright. She’s going to be–’

‘Mr Knight?’

The doctor came out of the room. He was frowning. Did that mean bad news? Not necessarily. Doctors always frown when they come out of the operating theatre. He had seen it on TV. The doctor sat down beside him, cleared his throat.

Jamie didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He heard Heather say, ‘How is she?’

Everything went out of focus. The doctor’s voice slowed down, like a stretched tape. The lights in the corridor were so bright. He tuned back in.

‘Kirsty’s going to be fine,’ the doctor said. ‘But I’m afraid–’

The voice warped. Jamie heard fragments of words that he would piece together later into some semblance of sense.

‘…the baby…trauma to the abdomen…placenta detached…sorry Mr Knight…’

Everything went black.

Twenty-three

Jamie stood outside and looked at the front door. The patch of oil had gone. There was no longer any trace of the mark Kirsty had made when she skidded and fell. He pulled the door to and fro. No squeak. He looked down the steps towards the Newtons’ flat. The curtains were drawn, a chink of light visible between them. He wondered what they were doing right now. Watching TV? Sitting side by side, reading? Or making plans, plotting, deciding their next move?

He picked up a large stone and weighed it in his hand, turned it over in his palm. He felt dizzy. He swayed and had to catch hold of the door to stay upright. He dropped the stone and it thudded harmlessly on the path.

The police had turned up at the hospital. Again, they were policemen he hadn’t seen before. Why was there no continuity? He wished there was someone who knew the story, who would believe him when he said that his downstairs neighbours wanted to destroy his life. Whenever he tried to tell the tale he saw the listener’s eyes glaze over; saw their mouth set in a sympathetic but disbelieving half-smile. Here was a man whose wife had just had a miscarriage, understandably angry and upset, ranting away in a hospital corridor, trying to pin the blame on someone, on the man who had kindly fixed their front door but had unfortunately – and accidentally – left some oil behind on the path.

‘I understand, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘You’re upset…’

‘Of course I’m fucking upset!’ Jamie shouted. People further up the corridor looked, attracted to the drama. A man shouting at a policeman. ‘That bastard has murdered my fucking baby! My wife had to deliver the baby – it was a girl. A little girl.’

Jamie collapsed onto a seat, covering his face with his hands, crying. Heather put her arm around him. The policeman shook his head. Sympathetic. But disbelieving.

Jamie came home on his own that night. Although Kirsty’s life was not in any danger, she was being kept in. Jamie went and sat beside her before he left. He kissed her cheek, which was wet with tears. She wouldn’t open her eyes.

The doctors had talked to them about what had to happen next. Jamie listened to it all in a daze. There was no need to register the birth, but the hospital offered a simple funeral service if they wanted one. Kirsty had nodded yes, tears running down her cheeks, her whole body shuddering with grief. The service was going to take place in a couple of days.

Jamie walked up the front path. There was the skid mark in the oil. And it had rained a little while he was at the hospital. There were colours in the oil. A bright rainbow. He sat down on the wall and stared at it, at all the pretty colours. The childhood mantra ran through his brain: Richard of York gave battle in vain. Red orange yellow green blue indigo violet. Battle in vain.

In vain.

(What are you going to do about it?)

The next evening, after a whole day at the hospital, he came home and found that the oil was gone. After hefting the stone, considering what damage he might be able to do with it, he went inside, into his empty flat. He got into bed and stared at the ceiling. There was a terrible sound in his head, like a radio that wasn’t tuned in properly. A hissing sound with a hint of voices and music behind the white noise. He strained, trying to hear what the voices were saying, but he couldn’t make it out. Maybe they weren’t human voices he was hearing at all. It sounded more like the chatter of monkeys or birds. He was about to fall asleep when he heard the music start. The music from
War of the Worlds
. At first he thought that too was in his head, breaking through the wall of static, but no: it was definitely coming from downstairs.