The Magpies (5 page)
He looked down at the Newtons’ flat. The lights were out. There were no signs of life. But their car was there, parked in the spot Jamie and Kirsty had had to vacate earlier. He looked up towards Mary’s window. The light in the room flickered strangely, and at first he thought it was the flicker of a television. It took him a second to realise she must be sitting in candlelight.
He hugged himself. He still felt cold. The hoaxes had really unnerved him. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. He had never been targeted for mischief by anyone.
He thought about what Heather had asked. Had they made any enemies recently? He honestly couldn’t think of anyone. With the flat-buying and everything, they had hardly seen anyone lately, apart from at their party. He didn’t think they’d upset anyone at all. It was a mystery.
He turned round and went back inside, rubbing the skin on his arms, not warming up until he was safely indoors.
Jamie woke up and looked at the bedside clock, the LED numbers phosphorescent in the dark. It was half-past-midnight – or half-past-nothing, as the digits 00:30 seemed to indicate. He groaned and pushed the covers down to his waist. It was unbearably hot, even with the sash windows open as far as they would go. During the day, the temperature had hit the high Eighties, and it didn’t feel any cooler now, with the heat of their bodies adding to the humidity. The sheets were damp with sweat. His skin was slick and his hair was stuck to his scalp. He had a sudden, wonderful image of a tub of Häagen-Dazs. He would press its frosted exterior against his brow before devouring the cold, delicious ice cream inside. He groaned again.
Kirsty turned over and said, ‘Are you alright?’
‘I can’t sleep. It’s too hot.’
‘I know. And I’ve got to get up in a few hours.’ She reached out and touched Jamie’s side. ‘God, you’re burning up.’
‘I need a cold shower.’
‘Oh yeah?’ She put her hands on his chest and kissed him.
‘I thought you were worried about getting up.’
‘Mmmm.’
They kissed, Jamie running his hands up Kirsty’s back, over her bottom and hips, from the small of her back to her shoulder blades. Her skin was warm but dry, and so soft. He had spent the last two years marvelling over the softness of her skin. If somebody asked him to draw up a list of what he liked best about Kirsty’s body, the softness of her skin would be right up there competing for pole position – although, really, he loved everything about her body: the way she was slim but still endowed with curves that felt so good beneath the palm of his hand; the ever-clean scent of her; the constellations of pale freckles on her shoulders and breasts; the crescent-shaped scar on her hip, obtained during a childhood cycling mishap. He loved it all.
‘What was that?’ Kirsty opened her eyes and broke away from the kiss.
‘What?’
‘I heard a noise outside.’
Jamie sat up, reluctantly breaking contact with her flesh. He hadn’t heard anything. He had been lost in that kiss, the rest of the world fading away in a haze of arousal. He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, trying to remove the blur from his vision. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes!’ she whispered harshly. ‘I heard someone moving around. It sounded like it came from the garden.’
Jamie got up from the bed and crept over to the back window. He peeked out through a gap in the curtains, and a cool breeze caressed his face. He was still half-asleep, and he stood there for a second with his eyes closed, enjoying the sensation but wishing it was Kirsty cooling him with her kisses.
‘Jamie? Can you see anything?’
He remembered where he was and opened his eyes. He peered out at the garden, and straight away saw a shadowy figure move beneath him, a few feet from the Newtons’ back door. He ducked down beneath the windowsill and looked back at Kirsty.
‘There’s somebody down there,’ he whispered.
Kirsty’s mouth formed an O and she climbed out of bed and came over to the window, walking in a curious half-crouch, her arms folded over her breasts. They knelt together on the carpet, both of them naked, as if they were offering up a prayer to some nocturnal god.
Jamie stuck his head under the curtain and looked out again. He could see the person moving around. He didn’t think they would be able to see him, but then the moon came out from behind a cloud and the garden was illuminated. He ducked down again.
‘It’s Chris,’ he said.
‘Chris? What’s he doing?’
A second later, they had their answer. There came the sound of rushing water: the hiss and splash of water coming out of a hosepipe.
‘He’s watering the bloody garden!’
They collapsed together on the floor, trying not to laugh aloud. Jamie covered Kirsty’s mouth with his own to stop her laughter ringing out.
A week ago, the local council had announced a strict hosepipe ban because of the hot weather. It hadn’t rained for weeks, and reservoir supplies were running alarmingly low.
‘Should we grass him up?’ whispered Kirsty, after they had clambered back into bed. She was still trying not to laugh, not just because she found the situation funny but also because she was relieved that they weren’t about to be burgled or murdered in their bed. She couldn’t believe how silly she’d been.
‘Kirsty!’
She tutted. ‘I wasn’t being serious. It’s a bit sneaky though, isn’t it? Watering the garden under cover of darkness.’
‘Loads of people do it.’
‘Yeah. I guess you’re right. Anyway,’ she said, inching closer, giving him that look he loved so much. ‘Where were we?’
Jamie pulled her towards him. ‘Right about here.’
They didn’t get another full day together until Sunday. Jamie didn’t work at weekends, and Kirsty – who did – had the day off. It was another glorious, hot day and they had decided to take the train down to the coast for the day. In an hour and a half they could be in Brighton, eating greasy chips and sticky candy floss, or enjoying a drink in a seafront pub. As Kirsty got dressed, Jamie – who had been ready for almost an hour – looked out of the back window. There were Lucy and Chris, up early, working in the garden. Actually, it was just Chris doing the work. While he knelt beside the borders, pulling up weeds, Lucy stood over him, hands on hips, pointing at bits he’d missed or had yet to do. Jamie noticed they were wearing matching T-shirts which bore the logo of a large computer software company, Scion.
As he stood there looking at them, Lucy turned around and spotted him. She waved, the gold of her wedding ring glinting in the sun. She said something but he couldn’t make it out. He cupped his hand to his ear and she pointed at the balcony, gesturing for him to come out.
‘Lucy wants me to go out and see her,’ he said so Kirsty would know what was going on.
He went into the bathroom, opened the back door and stepped out onto the balcony. Sunlight hit him in the face and he shaded his eyes with his hand. Lucy walked up to the edge of the garden and stood at the bottom of the steps that led up to the balcony. Chris carried on working, only stopping briefly to nod hello.
‘Hi. Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ Jamie said. ‘You’re so lucky having a garden. It must be very therapeutic.’ He hoped his insincerity wasn’t evident. He didn’t want a garden. He had the exact opposite of green fingers, although he wasn’t sure what that was. Grey fingers? Concrete fingers? When he saw a garden he only thought what a hassle it must be to have to mow the lawn and pull up the endlessly-proliferating weeds.
Lucy nodded. ‘Yes. It is. We were just saying that, weren’t we, Chris?’
‘That’s right.’
Jamie smiled. He imagined it was therapeutic for Lucy, watching someone else do all the work while she supervised.
‘The reason I beckoned you outside was to ask you and Kirsty if you wanted to come round for dinner.’
‘Oh.’ His mind raced. ‘That’s really nice of you to ask. But why don’t you come round to us?’
Kirsty was, at this point, standing behind Jamie in the bathroom – unseen by the Newtons – with a look of horror on her face, making throat-cutting gestures with her finger.
‘Kirsty’s a great cook. We could come round to you next time.’
Lucy’s face lit up with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. She nodded.
‘That would be lovely. What do you think, Chris?’
He peeled off his gardening gloves and stood up. His T-shirt showed off the bulge of his muscles: his thick arms and broad chest. He nodded up at Jamie, one side of his mouth twitching in what Jamie interpreted as an attempt to show enthusiasm. ‘Sure. Sounds good.’
‘Great. Well, let’s make a date. Say, seven-thirty, this Friday? Fantastic. We’ll see you then.’
He went back inside, shutting the bathroom door behind him. Kirsty punched him lightly on the arm. ‘What the hell have you done?’
‘I thought you’d prefer to meet them on your own home territory.’
‘Oh God, I don’t believe this. That’s my week ruined.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because I’m going to be worrying about this bloody dinner party now. What to cook. What to wear. Does the flat look a state? Why couldn’t you have accepted their invitation? Or if you didn’t want to go down there, why didn’t you make up an excuse?’
‘I thought I was doing the right thing.’
‘Huh! I should make you cook the meal. That would teach you.’
‘OK, I will.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You’re the worst cook in London.’ She marched back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. ‘I think I’ll invite Heather and Paul too. Paul can entertain them.’
Jamie tutted. ‘Look, Kirsty, it will be fine. I genuinely thought it would be easier to invite them up here. We don’t want a repeat of that time we went to Sally and Jason’s and they served lamb because I’d forgotten to tell them you were a veggie.’
Kirsty shook her head. ‘I know, I know. I realise you were doing what you thought was best. I just wished you’d stalled them and asked me first.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’d better get going now, before the tide goes out and I miss my chance to drown you.’
Paul turned up first, bearing a bottle of cheap Chardonnay.
‘So what are we having?’ he asked after he had handed Jamie the wine and kissed Kirsty on the cheek.
‘Jamie’s having beans on toast.’
‘Yum. And the rest of us?’
She tapped the side of a saucepan with a wooden spoon. Onions and garlic cloves lay on the worktop, along with a bowl of shelled pecan nuts, a plate of mushrooms and artichokes, bottles of olive oil and vinegar, a can of tomatoes and a tube of tomato puree. Fresh tagliatelle already waited in the saucepan. ‘The rest of us are having pasta.’
‘Veggie stuff.’
‘That’s right, and if you don’t like it’ – she waved the wooden spoon at him – ‘you can have beans on toast too.’
‘But beans on toast are veggie as well! No, actually, it sounds great, Kirsty. And it smells delicious.’
‘My beautiful, talented girlfriend.’ Jamie put his arm around her.
‘Don’t start creeping. Remember, if it all goes wrong tonight, it’s your fault.’
He sighed. ‘Yes, I know. But nothing’s going to go wrong, is it? We’re going to have a pleasant, civilised evening. Which we might even finish with a couple of new friends.’
‘What time are you expecting them?’ asked Paul.
‘In about half-an-hour,’ Kirsty replied. ‘Now, pour me some wine then bugger off while I get this meal cooked.’
Jamie and Paul took their drinks into the living room, where Jamie had set up the dining table. The TV was on, and the newsreader was talking about an eight-year-old girl who had been found strangled and raped and dumped behind some dustbins in Colindale. Jamie turned the TV off.
‘The world is full of sick bastards,’ he said.
Heather turned up five minutes later. She was wearing a tiny dress that ended four inches above the knee and was sleeveless, revealing the small cat tattoo on her shoulder. She went into the kitchen to help Kirsty.
Paul said, ‘My God, what’s happened to Heather?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s suddenly gone all sexy. When did that happen?’
‘She’s always been attractive.’
‘Yeah, I guess so. Shame she hates me.’
‘What the hell makes you think that?’
‘She’s an intelligent, attractive woman. Ergo she hates me.’
Jamie rolled his eyes. He knew Paul was desperate for a girlfriend but couldn’t work out why he found it so difficult to get and hang on to one. He was quite good-looking, witty and clever. To Jamie – and Paul even more so – it didn’t make sense. The only explanation they could come up with was that fate was saving Paul, preserving him in a state of singleness until the right woman came along.
The doorbell rang and Jamie hurried out to open the door.
‘Lucy, Chris, hi, come in.’
They were both dressed up to the nines, Chris in an expensive Italian suit, Lucy in a scoop-neck maroon dress. Jamie was struck again by how tall she was. Chris handed Jamie a bottle of red wine which he took into the kitchen, leaving them with Paul.
‘They’re here,’ he whispered to Kirsty.
She took a big gulp of wine and went out to greet them.
They had already sat down on the sofa, both sitting stiffly upright, looking uncomfortable, like somebody visiting their parents-in-law for the first time. Chris stood up when Kirsty entered the room. She went to kiss him on the cheek but he shuffled away awkwardly and stuck out his hand. Bemused, she shook it.
‘I like what you’ve done to this room,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘Still, you couldn’t go far wrong with a place like this. Nice straight walls. Very solid.’
‘…Yes.’
Half-an-hour later the six of them were seated around the table. They made smalltalk and everyone complimented Kirsty on the food; there was a brief discussion about vegetarianism, Kirsty fending off the usual questions about whether she ate fish or chicken; the wine and conversation might not have flowed easily, but it was steady and there were no awkward silences. Kirsty started to relax, and, seeing her do so, Jamie winked at her across the table. He touched her foot gently with his.
Lucy told them about her job – about the old people and their peculiar habits, including the old lady who wrote phrases like ‘Piss off’ on pieces of card and flashed them at the other residents if they annoyed her (a kind of non-verbal Tourette’s Syndrome) – and Paul asked Chris what he did for a living.