The Magpies (4 page)

Sometimes, when he allowed himself to think about his good fortune, Jamie felt sick. This wasn’t because he was a masochist who craved misfortune and pain, but because he was so scared something might go wrong. He had never done anything particularly wonderful – he didn’t think he had too many credits in the karma bank. He had never saved anyone’s life, and he only gave money to charity occasionally: usually when someone rattled a tin in his face. He had never made any great contribution to world peace, unless you counted that time he broke up a fight between Paul and some moron who had given them grief in the pub. Then again, he had never done anything very bad, either. He had never broken the law, other than speeding a few times and smoking the odd spliff. He had never been unfaithful to any of his girlfriends and he had never stabbed anyone in the back, literally or metaphorically. He wasn’t bitchy or two-faced or deceitful.

Because of this neutral position – a position he was sure most people held – he was convinced that sooner or later his good luck would have to be balanced out by a spate of bad luck. Kirsty told him he was crazy. ‘So if you won a million in the Lottery you’d then be convinced that it would be stolen from you?’

‘Either that or something worse would happen. Like I’d get cancer. Or have a horrible accident.’

She shook her head. ‘God, you’re so morbid.’

‘I think the word is paranoid.’

‘Oh, look, it’s Lucy.’

Jamie turned to look. They had just back from the supermarket.

Their neighbour was coming up the road in her care assistant’s uniform, her head down, the sun beating on the back of her neck. She reached Jamie and Kirsty’s car and stopped, clearly waiting for them to get out.

‘Do you think we should apologise for disturbing her the night we moved in, when Chris asked us to turn the music down?’ Kirsty whispered. She had yet to meet Lucy. She worked odd shifts, and she assumed Lucy did too, so their paths hadn’t crossed.

‘I don’t know. I didn’t get the impression they were too upset about it. And we turned it down straight away.’

They got out of the car and Kirsty came around to the pavement, offering a smile to her neighbour.

‘Hello, I’m Kirsty. You must be Lucy.’

Lucy nodded. The transforming smile she had shown Jamie materialised, lighting up her face. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. It’s nice to have somebody my own age move in.’

Kirsty was seven or eight years younger than Lucy, but she didn’t point that out. She didn’t really know what to say.

Lucy elaborated. ‘I was worried we might have some really young people move in, with all the problems they bring, if you know what I mean.’

Kirsty said, ‘Well, yes.’

Jamie could tell she was perturbed by Lucy’s assumption that they were the same age, and he tried not to smile.

‘Or a deaf old couple, with their TV turned up to full volume day and night.’

‘Yes. You wouldn’t want that, I guess.’

Lucy smiled and touched Kirsty’s forearm. ‘Maybe we could get together some time. Go shopping, or go for coffee. What do you think?’

Kirsty was taken aback. She opened her mouth to speak, but Lucy got in first, saying, ‘And the men could get together too, talk about cars and football, or whatever it is men talk about.’

Jamie said, ‘Yes. We must.’

Lucy looked at Jamie and Kirsty’s car, and a troubled look replaced her smile. ‘Oh. I don’t suppose you’d mind backing up a bit, would you? It’s just that Chris always parks in that spot and he’ll be home soon.’

Jamie wanted to ask why Chris couldn’t park behind him, but he didn’t want to be the cause of any tension between them and their new neighbours. ‘Sure,’ he said instead.

He climbed back into the car and reversed into the space behind. Lucy said to Kirsty, ‘So, we’ll meet up soon for a chat and a coffee, yes?,’ then she headed up the path and down the steps to her flat.

Jamie got out the car.

Kirsty’s eyes were wide. ‘That was a bit off, wasn’t it? Asking you to move the car.’

Jamie shrugged. ‘I guess they’re just used to always parking in the same spot. Their car is always parked right there, and you know what some people are like about routine.’

They carried their shopping up to the front door and Jamie noticed a piece of white card on the doormat. It was from Parcel Force, addressed to Mr J Knight.

‘Somebody’s tried to deliver a parcel,’ he said, coming back inside.

She looked up. ‘Been on eBay again?’

‘No! Hey, maybe someone’s sent us a housewarming present. It’s been left with the neighbour in the first floor flat.’

‘Mary.’ Kirsty stood up. ‘Well, now’s your chance to meet her. Today is obviously the day for meeting neighbours.’

‘What did you think of Lucy, then, apart from the car-parking thing?’

‘Hmm. I don’t really know if she’s my kind of person, but, yeah, I thought she was alright. It’s nice to have neighbours who seem keen to get to know you – as long as they don’t want to interfere with your life.’

‘It’s better than having neighbours who ignore you completely. My mum’s lived next to her neighbour for fifteen years and they’ve barely even said hello.’

‘Yes, but that’s your mother.’

‘Don’t start.’

‘Hadn’t you better go and see what the postman left you?’

Jamie went up the stairs to the first floor. Halfway up the stairs was a frosted window with an air freshener on the sill. The window was open a couple of inches and Jamie peeked through the gap. He could see the Newtons’ garden and the backs of all the houses in the next street. He continued upwards and found himself standing in front of a plain brown door. He knocked and immediately heard footsteps.

Mary opened the door. She was in her forties, but her soft features and long brown hair made her look younger. She had large, alert eyes, and as soon as she saw Jamie those eyes lit up.

‘Hi. You must be the fellow from downstairs? I’ve got a parcel for you. Come in.’

He stepped into her flat and straight away noticed the strong smell of patchouli oil. Ah, a hippy, he thought. Mary disappeared into the living room, gesturing for him to follow.

He stood in the doorway, looking in at the room. There was an oil burner on the mantelpiece: the source of the patchouli smell. He felt something brush against his leg. It was a fat snow-white cat. He crouched down and scratched it behind its ears, eliciting a purr.

‘Lennon likes you,’ Mary said. ‘That’s nice.’

She came over and handed him the parcel. It was a package from Amazon. Must be a present.

‘Are you a big reader?’

‘Pardon?’

‘That. I assume it books?’

He studied it. ‘I haven’t ordered any books. How weird. Maybe Kirsty ordered them in my name.’

‘A present? How lovely.’ She bent down and scooped up the cat, cradling it like a baby. ‘You must bring your girlfriend up to say hi. I’ve seen you both coming and going but I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself yet.’

‘You’re Mary.’

‘Ah, you’ve done your homework.’

‘Brian upstairs told me.’

‘At your party? How did it go? I was sorry to miss it. Brian’s a lovely man, and extremely talented. Have you read any of his books?’

‘They’re kids’ books, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, but please don’t let that put you off. They’re wonderful. And Linda’s lovely too.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. I liked them.’

‘So what do you do, James?’

‘Call me Jamie.’

‘Sorry – Jamie.’

He told her. ‘What about you? What do you do?’

‘I’m a herbalist.’

‘Really? Wow, that’s really unusual.’ He couldn’t think what else to say.

‘It’s not that unusual.’

‘No. I suppose I’m just a bit ignorant when it comes to such things. What does it involve?’

‘Well, people come to me with their problems – physical, emotional, mental, whatever – and I advise them about different herbs and alternative treatments for their ills. I get a lot of people who’ve got nowhere with their doctors so they try me. People are sceptical at first – I’m a kind of last resort. That’s until they try it. I’ve got books that are hundreds of years old, detailing medicines that have been passed down from the beginnings of history.’ She smiled broadly. ‘I prescribe tinctures and infusions and decoctions. Lotions and potions that can help practically any ailment. For example, basil is great for curing stomach cramps, and sage is good for anxiety or depression.’

‘It seems like all the women in this building work in the health industry.’

‘You’re right. Even Linda upstairs does. She works in Boots the Chemist.’

They laughed, then Jamie said, ‘I’d better get back downstairs. Kirsty will wonder where I’ve gone, and we’ve got loads of decorating to get on with. But thanks for taking in our parcel.’

‘Any time.’

She showed him out and he went back down the stairs to his own flat. Kirsty was spreading newspaper out across the floor, and she had pulled the sofa into the centre of the room.

‘What was she like?’

‘Really nice. She’s a herbalist. She was telling me about all the lotions and potions she makes.’

Kirsty rolled her eyes. ‘Alternative medicine. It’s all bullshit, Jamie. They’re all frauds and charlatans, the lot of them.’

They had had this conversation before, so Jamie kept quiet. He wished he hadn’t mentioned it. It was one of Kirsty’s personal bugbears.

‘We get all these kids coming in who’ve been dragged by their parents from herbalist to homoeopath to acupuncturist to hypnotist. It’s all a waste of time. These people just offer false hope. They sell false hope. When none of these miracle cures work they end up in hospital. They put their faith in science again – but I’ve seen cases where it’s too late. This poor little boy who had leukaemia. His mother thought the NHS was a last resort – if you can believe that – and by the time he came in for treatment he was too far gone. He died..’

Jamie sighed.

‘Well, she may be a fraud and a charlatan but she seemed really nice. I liked her.’

‘Hmm.’ She lay down the last sheet of newspaper. ‘So what was in your parcel?’

‘Oh, some books. Did you order them?’

‘No, I would have told you. What are the books?’

‘Let’s see.’

He opened the box and lifted out half-a-dozen books, reading out the titles: ‘
Making Love Last – how to keep the sexual magic in your marriage. Burning Fat – a 20- minute workout. A History of Satanism. Australia – a guide to emigration. The British Beef Cookbook
.’ Kirsty was vegetarian. ‘
The Book of Embarrassing Illnesses
.’

‘Oh my God.’

They both laughed. Jamie held up
A History of Satanism
, which featured a goat’s head and a pentagram on the cover.

‘Paul. It must be.’

He took out his phone and sent Paul a text:
Thanks for the reading material. Haha!

A minute later Paul texted back.
Eh??

Jamie smiled. ‘I’ll get him back.’ He flicked through the sex manual. ‘Now, actually, this has got some good tips in it.’

Heather came round at eight-thirty. She worked with Kirsty at St Thomas’s, and as they wielded their brushes – inch-by-inch turning the walls of the flat a pale, even blue – they chatted about people from work. Dr Singh was having an affair with an anaesthetist called Claire. Pat and Michael had had a blazing row about the allocation of beds in Ward F. Jamie enjoyed listening to their conversation. He had met most of the characters discussed, and listening to Kirsty and Heather gossip about their colleagues was like tuning in to a particularly interesting soap opera.

‘How’s Dracula?’ he asked Heather teasingly.

‘What? Oh God, him. He keeps hounding me, ringing me up, telling me he thinks he’s fallen in love with me.’

‘How sweet.’

‘He makes me feel sick. He really smells.’ She grimaced.

‘How’s Paul’s wild love affair with Wonderwoman coming along?’ Kirsty asked.

‘She dumped him,’ Jamie said.

‘Oh, poor Paul,’ said Heather.

‘I know. I think he really liked her. But he got an email from her saying they should call it a day. That she didn’t want to get serious.’

‘She dumped him by email? Nice.’

‘So now he’s young, free and single again,’ said Heather.

Kirsty glanced up at her. ‘Why, are you interested?’

‘No, of course not.’

Jamie and Kirsty exchanged a knowing look.

‘I’m not interested in Paul, OK?’

Jamie laughed. ‘So why are you blushing?’

‘I’m not!’

Before Heather could get any more embarrassed, the doorbell rang. Jamie looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. ‘Are we expecting anyone? Hey, maybe it’s Paul. Maybe he telepathically tuned in to your lustful thoughts about him, Heather, and came running.’

Heather flicked paint in Jamie’s direction. ‘You’re such a wanker.’

Chuckling to himself, Jamie went out to the front door.

It was a pizza courier, holding out two boxes and a litre bottle of Coke. ‘That’ll be £21.’

‘But I haven’t ordered a pizza.’

The courier checked the name and address on the order slip. ‘Jamie Knight. Ground floor flat, 143 Mount Pleasant Street.’

‘Yes, that’s me, but I haven’t ordered…’ He sighed. ‘Hold on a minute.’

He went into the flat. ‘You didn’t order a pizza, did you Kirsty?’

‘No, you know I haven’t.’

‘Oh God.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘It’s looks like we’ve has another hoax. Still, at least this one’s not as bad as the fire brigade turning up.’

Heather said, ‘This is really creepy. Have you made an enemy recently?’

Kirsty’s face creased with anxiety. ‘I don’t believe this. Who can be doing it?’

Jamie said, ‘I’d better go and tell the pizza guy to take it away.’

He went back into the hall, leaving Kirsty cursing behind him. He felt sick.

‘Sorry mate, but I think you’ve been hoaxed. You’d better take it back.’ He pulled an apologetic face.

The pizza courier turned round and stomped back to his moped. As he rode off down the road, Jamie stepped onto the front path and looked left and right, up and down the street. For a city street, there were hardly any signs of life. It was almost unnaturally quiet and still. He turned to go in and the oddest feeling came over him – the feeling that he was being watched. Despite the balmy summer air, he suddenly felt cold. Goosepimples ran up his arm and he shivered a little. He looked around again. No, there was no-one about, although there were lights on in most of the flats in the street; windows thrown open to let in whatever breeze there was.