The Magpies: A Psychological Thriller Page 3

  ‘Good idea. And there’s some wine left from last night.’

  Kirsty pulled on the black, sloppy jumper she had been searching for and stood up. She prowled around the flat, just looking at it, marvelling at every empty cupboard, at the Victorian fireplace, the intricate ceiling rose, the taps in the bath, the grain in the floorboards.

  ‘I still can’t believe that it’s ours,’ she said. ‘I was convinced that something would go wrong before we moved in. I thought we would get gazumped, or the owners would decide they didn’t want to sell after all. Even today, at work, I was stressed out, thinking that the phone was going to ring any minute and it would be you, telling me that the flat had burned down taking all our possessions with it.’

  She came to a halt before the bedroom window and Jamie came up behind her and put his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. They looked down at the garden. It was very neatly kept, with a large square of lawn surrounded by flower beds, the flora in full bloom. There was a little shed at the back of the garden. Only the occupants of the basement flat had access to the garden, although as this block of flats had once been a single house (only converted into flats earlier in the century) it was physically possible for the occupants of the ground floor flat to get down there. A set of concrete steps led from the bathroom balcony down into the garden. Kirsty planned to set a washing line up on this balcony. It was tiny and not at all private so it would have little other use.

  ‘You smell really sweaty,’ she said as Jamie kissed her cheek, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘That’s because I’ve been labouring hard all day – sweating under the hot sun.’

  Their first task was to put up the curtains in the bedroom. That morning, they had been woken up at five a.m. by the blazing sunlight that filled the room. With last night’s alcohol still circulating through their veins, they had both winced and groaned and tried to hide under the quilt. It was no good, though. They couldn’t sleep, and Jamie had pulled on his jockey shorts and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. There was a strange man asleep on the floor, dressed as a cowboy with his stetson over his face. He opened one eye, said, ‘Morning,’ then got up and let himself out. Then, while most of their new neighbours slept, Jamie and Kirsty cleared up the mess from the night before.

  ‘I’ll put the hooks up and then you can hang them,’ said Kirsty. ‘You order the pizza while I make a start.’

  Jamie phoned the pizza place, then fetched the iPod dock, finding an acoustic playlist.

  As he was attaching the curtains to the rail, standing on a wobbly chair with Kirsty holding onto his leg, there was a knock on the door.

  Kirsty raised her eyebrows. ‘That was quick.’

  Jamie clambered down from the chair. ‘That was the inner door, so unless someone left the front door open it can’t be the pizza guy.’

  He opened the door to the flat and found himself looking at a large man with a crew cut. As Jamie had expected, the man wasn’t holding a pizza.

  ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  The man looked him up and down, then said in a quiet voice that clashed with his bulky physique, ‘I’m Chris Newton. I live…’

  ‘Downstairs! Hi.’ Jamie stuck out his hand. ‘I met your wife earlier. Are you feeling better now?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m fine. I thought it would be a good idea to come up and introduce myself.’

  Kirsty came up behind Jamie and looked over his shoulder.

  Chris smiled at her. ‘You must be…’

  ‘Kirsty. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘And you.’

  There was an awkward silence, during which Jamie quickly appraised Chris in his mind. He was very fit and muscular. He looked a little like a nightclub bouncer or a security guard. But there was a gleam in his eyes that spoke of a sharp intelligence. Jamie also noticed that Chris was carrying a bunch of keys in his left hand; he clearly had a key to the front door. Jamie wasn’t worried by this. The four sets of neighbours paid service charges for the upkeep of the whole building, and therefore they all had every right to access the halls and stairways that they shared. They were equally responsible for keeping the building clean and in good condition.

  ‘I noticed the front door was sticking a bit and squeaking nastily,’ Chris said, as if reading Jamie’s mind. ‘I might have a look at it over the weekend.’

  ‘OK.’

  Chris nodded and ran the palm of his hand over the soft bristles on his scalp. ‘Well, I hope you both settle in alright. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.’ He turned to go. ‘Oh, by the way, would you mind turning the music down a bit? Only, Lucy’s in bed. It would help if you could move your dock into the living room as well.’

  ‘Oh…sure.’

  At that moment the front doorbell rang. It was the pizza courier, standing there with the visor of his crash helmet pushed up, revealing a look of impatience, and a twelve-inch pizza held out before him.

  ‘Smells good,’ said Chris, winking at Kirsty, then walking off, brushing past the pizza courier.

  Jamie paid for the pizza and carried it inside.

  He knelt by the dock and turned the volume down a notch. He couldn’t believe anyone could be disturbed by the music. It was at a very low volume, and it was hardly heavy metal. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s only eight o’clock. He did say Lucy was in bed, didn’t he, or was I hearing things?’

  Jamie pulled a face. ‘Maybe she’s ill.’

  ‘I thought you said he was the one who was ill.’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  Kirsty shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s caught it now.’

  They went into the kitchen and Kirsty uncorked the wine.

  ‘She seemed fine this afternoon,’ Jamie said, thinking about Lucy. ‘And the music was so soft. How could it have disturbed her?’

  ‘Like I said, she must have caught whatever Chris had. And I suppose sound must carry down through the floorboards where there’s no carpet. We’ll have to be careful whenever we play music. We don’t want to antagonise anyone.’

  They perched on the edge of a wooden crate and bit into their pizza. By the time they’d finished their food and drunk their wine, their conversation had moved on to other things. But when the playlist ran out, they didn’t put another one on.

  Three

  Moving into the flat invigorated and reawakened them. It was like it had been when they’d first started going out, unable to keep their hands off each other. They soon christened each room: making love in the bath, on the sofa, on the worktop in the kitchen, Jamie banging his head on the kitchen cupboard, both of them collapsing with the giggles. They held hands all the time; phoned each other at work twice a day, texted constantly; wrote each other silly notes that would have made other people puke and exchanged cards and gifts. They had never felt so close. Some of their friends had warned them that moving in together would diminish the magic between them, that the close proximity to each other’s dirty underwear and annoying habits would spoil things. In fact, the opposite had happened.

  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 la
ughed, 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.