The Magpies (32 page)
He leaned against the door, breathing heavily, and listened to Mary go up the stairs. He heard her door shut and thought he heard her call Lennon. He looked at his watch. It was only ten-thirty in the morning. He had a whole day to kill. He couldn’t stay in all day, waiting for the men to turn up. He would go insane. But he had no money and no petrol in the car. It was raining outside. There was no-one he could go and see. He hadn’t contacted any of his friends for months. The only person he could think of was Heather, but she would probably be at work.
He scanned the bookshelves looking for a book he hadn’t read before. He saw Brian’s book – the one that had scared Kirsty. He certainly didn’t want to read anything scary. There was nothing here that he wanted to read. He checked the spines of his DVDs. There was nothing he wanted to watch either. The thought of playing a video game bored him. He felt so tense, like a polar bear going mental in its enclosure at the zoo. He had to get out. He put on the coat and went walking in the rain.
He walked all day, walked until his feet throbbed, his clothes were soaked through and even his underwear was wet. He walked along the canal, passing by people in raincoats with miserable, drenched dogs. He wandered through the deserted park, watched the ducks and swans glide across the pond. He walked and walked until it was getting dark, and then he headed home.
He hung his wet clothes on the radiator and got in the bath. He sat in the bath with the scissors and cut most of his hair off, so there were just a few clumps left, sticking up in ugly clumps on top of his head. He shaved, nicking himself a few times but ignoring the pain and the blood that dripped into the water, where hair and stubble floated among the foam. He got out, smothered himself in talcum powder and pulled on a set of clean, dry clothes.
He waited.
At half-seven he found himself standing before the window, looking out at the dark road. He had been working out, and his muscles ached pleasantly. He ran his hand over his scalp, thinking how strange his hair felt. He wondered if Kirsty would like it when she saw him.
The minutes trickled by. Seven thirty-four. Seven forty-one. He made himself a coffee and scrolled through iTunes again, trying to decide what to play when the men arrived.
Seven forty-eight. Seven fifty-four.
He waited.
Eight o’clock arrived and there was no sign of them. He wasn’t worried. In fact, he had expected them to be a little late.
By half-eight, he began to wonder if they had got stuck in traffic.
By nine – when half his fingernails were gone, chewed up and spat out – he felt thoroughly sick and a cold, clammy sheen of sweat covered his body. Should he phone them? He didn’t want to piss them off. They had probably just been delayed somewhere. Maybe they had another job to do.
By half-nine, he had started to wonder if they had definitely agreed on eight o’clock. Had they actually said ten? The man had spoken in twenty-four hour clock, and Jamie was sure he’d said twenty-hundred, but maybe he’d said twenty-two hundred. Yes, that must be it. He relaxed a little. But only a little.
He realised he was standing in the dark, and had been for several hours. He wished he’d gone out after all. Except he didn’t have any money, and he would have got home expecting the job to be done…and what if it hadn’t?
What if they weren’t coming?
He sat down. It was now ten-thirty. He knew, with sudden and sickening conviction, that he had been conned, taken for a ride. They should have been here two-and-a-half hours ago. He bent over and his stomach spasmed. He ran to the toilet and threw up. He had been fucked over. For £10,000.
The realisation of what he had done made him start to shake. He had given away all of his and Kirsty’s money – his and Kirsty’s – to a pair of men whose names he didn’t even know. He started to laugh. He fell onto his knees, his laughter growing louder and louder. He clutched his stomach, trying to hold in the pain. Oh Jamie oh Jamie…you stupid fucking idiotic moron…
Eventually, the hysteria subsided. He lay perfectly still in the dark. He tried to think. What could he do?
He heard a car door close outside. They were here. At last. Oh thank God.
He leapt to his feet and ran to the front window. It wasn’t the men. It was Brian and Linda, coming home. He sobbed, bit his tongue, fell to his knees.
He crawled across the floor and grabbed the phone. He dialled the men’s number. The line was dead.
£10,000.
Kirsty had gone and he had stayed behind because he had planned to get some men to scare off Lucy and Chris. The men had taken his money and not done the job. Kirsty was going to be so angry that he had taken the money that he couldn’t even go after her now.
He was stuck.
He was fucked.
He lay on the sofa all night, the heating turned up as high as it would go, listening to noises in the street. He still thought they might come; they might turn up in the middle of the night, which, he persuaded himself, would surely make their actions more effective.
Jamie woke up shortly after the sun had risen. The flat was like a furnace and his clothes stank of stale sweat. He would take them off and put them in the washing machine with all the other unwashed clothes; clothes that reeked of cigarettes and sour, unhealthy perspiration. It was half-eight. He tried to remember when he had last looked at his watch during the night. About three, he thought. Maybe they had come after that, stealing in during the early hours of the morning, getting Lucy and Chris out of bed. But a few minutes later, any last hopes he might have had were dashed. He saw Lucy and Chris come up from their flat and walk down the front path to their car. They looked animated and happy: as happy as he had ever seen them.
He was so tired. He wanted to lie down and sleep forever.
He tried the nameless men’s number once more. The mobile was still switched off. He doubted if they would ever switch it on again. They had probably bought a new phone out of the £10,000 he had given them.
He pulled the curtains and undressed. He got into bed and tried to sleep.
He barely noticed Sunday morning or afternoon. Then, on Sunday evening, he heard sirens outside. The noise frightened him. He had a horrible fear – a feeling that had been with him all day – that the men had tried to do the job but had got the wrong address. What if that siren was an ambulance, carting away some other poor souls, people who had suffered because of him, because of mistaken identity?
There was a knock at the door. Jamie froze. What if it was the men? Or the police come to arrest him? He imagined “Charlie” being arrested on the way to the job – pulled up by traffic police who ran a check on the vehicle and realised it was stolen (Jamie’s imagination had gone into overdrive) and giving the police Jamie’s name. Maybe the police had been watching the two men, listening in on their calls. Maybe they knew all about it.
He looked out of the front window. There was a fire engine out there, several fire fighters standing beside it.
Jamie went out to the front door. The fireman in charge looked him up and down.
‘Where’s the fire?’ he said.
Jamie said, ‘There isn’t one. I think you’ve been hoaxed.’
The fireman’s eyes flickered with anger. ‘What did you say?’
‘Someone’s hoaxed you. It’s happened before. There’s no fire.’
‘It had better not have been you, pal.’ He sounded incredulous. Another fire fighter came over, who Jamie recognised from the night of the party.
The second fireman said, ‘I thought I knew this address. You’ve done this before, haven’t you? What the hell’s wrong with you? I told you before, it’s an offence to hoax the emergency services.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ Jamie said weakly. He had an inkling of what he must look like to them. He expected he made them feel sick.
The first fireman said, ‘Then who was it?’
Jamie shook his head sadly and closed the door. He went back inside, ignoring the furious knocks. Eventually he heard them go away, not wanting to waste any more time on this loser. For the rest of the day he waited for the police to come, to arrest him for hoaxing the fire brigade. For once, he was pleased that the police round this part of the city never seemed to do anything.
On Monday morning he called his old office and asked to speak to Mike.
The woman who answered the phone asked who it was. He heard her say something – to Mike, he assumed – then she said, ‘He doesn’t want to talk to you.’
Jamie shouted, ‘I have to talk to him. Get me him now!’
The woman gasped, then there was the sound of murmuring, and Mike came on the line. ‘Fuck off, James, I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘They’ve stolen my money.’
‘You deserved it, you twat. And how dare you drop me in it.’
‘Mike, you’ve got to help me.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
He slammed the phone down, leaving Jamie with the taste of bile in his mouth. That bastard. That fucking…
Who was he trying to kid? He did deserve it. He had broken his promise, he had behaved like a moron. He didn’t blame Mike for not talking to him.
He had to face it: he was never going to see that money again.
He stood up and looked out at the street. He had lost all his money, his job, his best friend, his wife and his baby. All that remained in his possession was this flat. It was the only thing he had left to cling on to. If he moved out of the flat he would have lost absolutely everything. He felt like he’d been playing that board game, Risk, in which each player starts off with a group of countries and has to guard their own countries while trying to take over other people’s. The winner was the one who took over the world, capturing all his opponent’s territories. Jamie had started the game with Kirsty, Paul, his money and his job; he had acquired the flat and was soon going to have a baby. Now almost everything he had started with, and everything he had acquired, had been lost to his opponents downstairs. All apart from one last territory: his flat.
He was not going to relinquish it. He would guard it with his life. No matter what Lucy or Chris did, no matter what attacks they tried, no matter how the dice fell, he was staying here. He would work out some way of paying the mortgage. He was not moving.
He was not going to lose.
The letter arrived on a Tuesday morning.
The night before, he had eaten the last of the food he had bought on his final trip to the supermarket, and had lain awake half the night wondering what he was going to do. The quickest solution was to sell something. He didn’t want to sell any of his possessions, but the most obvious thing was his Playstation 3 and accompanying collection of games. He still had the games console’s original box, so he packed it up and put it by the door, along with a bag of games.
He walked down the hill with the box held out in front of him. There was no petrol left in his car, but luckily there was a shop nearby that bought second hand goods like computer games and videos.
The man in the shop offered him £50 for the lot. Jamie haggled and ended up with £65. On the way home he stopped at the local Co-Op and bought enough groceries to last a few days. He also bought more cigarettes and another bottle of vodka; the other one was long gone.
When he got home the post had been. There was a single letter lying on the doormat. He picked it up and studied it: it was for him, with a handwritten name and address.
He almost dropped it on the pile of letters that had accumulated over the last few weeks, post comprised of two distinct groups. Firstly, there were the bills and reminders, letters informing him of all the direct debits that had failed: the mortgage, the house insurance, the council tax, the phone bill.
Secondly, there was the junk mail. Lucy and Chris had started that campaign again. Letters from the Samaritans asked him if he was feeling lonely, depressed, suicidal? Worst of all were the letters from charities who raised money for parents who had lost babies; envelopes that bore statistics about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome; letters asking him to make a contribution towards research. Then there were the letters from pro-life groups, whose envelopes always bore pictures of foetuses; letters that spelled out exactly how developed an embryo or foetus was at four weeks, six weeks, eight weeks, twelve.
Jamie threw both types of letter onto a pile and refused to look at them. The thing with the junk mail was that he knew this was mild for Lucy and Chris. It was as if they weren’t really trying very hard. He knew that sooner or later they would try something bigger. He didn’t want to think about what that might be – but whatever it was, he was staying put.
He carried the handwritten letter in and sat down with it on the sofa.. He thought at first that it might be from Kirsty – who he still hadn’t spoken to – but a second glance told him that although it was similar to her writing, this hadn’t come from her. He lit a cigarette then tore the letter open.
It was from Letitia, the previous occupant of the flat. His heartbeat lost its steady rhythm for a moment. He had practically forgotten he had written to her, back when he was trying to find out whether she had lent the Newtons a key to the flat. He started to read:
Dear Jamie
Firstly, please accept my apologies that it has taken me so long to reply to your letter. At first, I thought the letter had been sent to the wrong person, because it was addressed to L Pica. My name is Matthews – it always has been, and David’s surname is Robson. Pica is the name of the woman we sold the flat to and, I assume, who you bought the flat from. I guess you never met Ms Pica – we never did either. It seems she bought the flat from us and then sold it on to you very quickly. I don’t know how much you paid for the flat, but she bought it from us very cheaply so I guess she made a tidy profit. Anyway, that isn’t important.
The other reason for my delay in replying is that your letter upset me a great deal. I had hoped to forget the names of Lucy and Chris Newton. I wish now that I hadn’t left a forwarding address with Mary. I had intended to sever all links with that flat. Before we left I scrubbed every inch of it. I wanted to wipe it completely from my memory.