The Magpies: A Psychological Thriller Page 6

  ‘There’s a fire escape just to the right of the window there. He climbs up it from the garden then jumps across to the windowsill. It’s a death-defying leap, actually. I’ve watched him do it. It’s terrifying. Every time I see it I’m convinced he’s going to miss the windowsill and plummet to his death.’

  As they walked up the stairs past the cat, Jamie looked down at him. Lennon rubbed against his ankle. Jamie had a thought, but didn’t say anything.

  They went up another flight to Brian’s front door. Brian unlocked the door and they went inside. There was a strong smell of fresh coffee, which was one of Jamie’s favourite smells in the world. As if he had seen Jamie’s nostrils twitching with pleasure, Brian said, ‘Coffee?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘The computer’s in there, if you want to take a look.’

  ‘OK. Is Linda not in?’

  ‘No, she works Saturdays.’

  ‘In Boots.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Jamie went into the room Brian had pointed out. Brian and Linda’s flat was slightly bigger than Jamie’s. It had a larger second bedroom, which Brian had converted into a study. As he stepped into the room, Jamie caught his breath. ‘Bloody hell.’

  It was like stepping in to a vampire’s crypt – or a gothic teenager’s bedroom. The walls were painted black, and a black blind was pulled down over the window, blocking out all light. Dyed-black fisherman’s netting was strung across the ceiling. Statuettes of gargoyles sat on dark wood cabinets. Packets of tarot cards lay among piles of books; fat candles protruded from elaborate candleholders, their bases encrusted with dried rivulets of wax. There were pictures of ghosts and witches and demons all over the walls. Jamie quickly realised these were the reproductions of the covers of Brian’s books. One showed a child being held over a cauldron by a green-faced witch. Another showed a vampire bending over a sleeping girl.

  ‘Boo!’ said Brian, coming into the room behind Jamie. For the second time in five minutes, Jamie jumped.

  ‘I was just admiring the decor,’ he said nervously waiting for his heartbeat to slow down.

  Brian laughed. ‘Atmospheric, isn’t it? I have to keep it this way to make sure I’m in the right mood when I’m writing.’ He picked up a book off a pile on his desk. It was called The Creature in the Cradle. The cover showed a pair of red eyes peering out of a cot, and a clawed hand reaching out towards the reader.

  ‘That was one of my early books, before the latest craze for vampires started.’

  ‘Wow. I’d have loved this stuff when I was a kid. I was really into monsters and make-believe. I remember watching Doctor Who with a cushion over my face.’

  ‘At least you weren’t behind the sofa. You can have that if you like.’

  ‘Are you sure? Thanks. Now, let’s have a look at this problem of yours.’

  He booted up the PC and sat down in front of the monitor. ‘It’s a nice system. Must have set you back a fair whack. But you’re having problems with the internet? Is it the router, I wonder?’ He mumbled to himself.

  He checked the phone line then pressed a few keys. Within a few minutes he had solved the problem. The router was working fine.

  ‘What was wrong?’

  Jamie sipped his coffee. It tasted as good as it smelled. ‘It was something to do with your WEP key. That was all. Dead easy to sort out. But you’re ready to go online now.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  Jamie left him to it. He went back down the stairs carrying his copy of Brian’s book. Lennon had gone, either into Mary’s flat or back out the window. At the bottom of the stairs, Chris was working on the door, planing its edges. Jamie waved at him then went back into his own flat. The thank you card was still lying on the carpet. He carried it in to Kirsty, who was where he had left her, lying on the sofa. She had managed to put the TV on and was watching a makeover show.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  She coughed and said, ‘Not too good. It’s come on really quickly. I felt fine when I got up. Why were you so long?’

  ‘I had to help him get on the internet. Look, he gave me a book.’

  ‘Oh. For readers aged ten to fourteen. Your kind of book.’

  ‘And we got a card from Lucy and Chris.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘It’s to say thanks for last night, apparently.’

  She took the card from Jamie and opened it. ‘Oh God, there are rats on it.’ She closed her eyes and thrust it back at Jamie.

  ‘They’re mice, Kirsty. You must be ill. Look, they’re cute little mice. Squeak squeak.’

  She grimaced. ‘Take it away.’

  ‘Shush. Chris is just out there. He’ll hear you. And you’re certainly not well enough to go into town. In fact, you ought to be in bed.’

  After he had led Kirsty into the bedroom and watched her curl up beneath the quilt, Jamie went back into the living room. He picked up the card and read the message inside. It simply said To Jamie and Kirsty. Thanks. From Lucy and Chris.

  He put the card on the mantelpiece. The funny thing was, Kirsty was right: the creatures on the front did look a bit like rats.

  The next morning, Kirsty’s condition had worsened. She had lain awake half the night, coughing and keeping Jamie awake as well, and now she had a sore throat and a headache, and she said her bones felt like lead-lined pipes and her skin was sore. ‘I need drugs,’ she said. ‘Paracetamol, Lemsip, Anadin, cough mixture, Tunes…’

  ‘Then I’d better go down the shop.’

  He got dressed and opened the front door.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  From the bedroom, Kirsty called hoarsely, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing – my shoelace came undone. I was just over-reacting.’ He had decided to lie because he didn’t want to upset her when she was ill. There was another dead rat lying in the same spot as yesterday. In fact, it looked like the same rat. Jamie felt as if he had entered some weird time-loop, like in Groundhog Day. He crept back inside, grabbed a carrier bag and picked up the animal’s body the same way he had the day before. Then he went out to the dustbin. He had a horrible feeling that it was the same rat – but there was yesterday’s carrier bag, in the same place. He wondered how hygienic this was, putting dead rats in the dustbin. But he didn’t know what else to do with them. He dropped the second rat on top of the first and replaced the dustbin lid.

  When he got back from the chemists, he noticed the front door had stopped sticking. Chris had done a good job. He would have to thank him when he next saw him.

  He went into the bedroom and watched as she took a couple of spoonfuls of cough medicine. Then he went back into the kitchen to prepare a Lemsip for her. While waiting for the kettle to boil he looked out of the front window. He saw Chris come up the steps from his flat and head towards his car. Jamie hurried back outside.

  ‘Hi, I just wanted to say thanks for fixing the door.’

  Chris nodded. ‘No problem.’

  Jamie hesitated. ‘I wanted to ask you – have you ever had any problems with Mary’s cat?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, we’ve had a couple of dead rats left on our doormat, and the only thing I can think of is that it’s the cat. I know it goes up and down the fire escape, and I thought it might be catching rats somewhere and bringing them in, leaving them as little presents for us.’

  Chris shrugged. ‘It’s never left anything outside our door. Probably knows it would get a shovel over its head if it did. Best have a word with her upstairs, mate.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Chris opened his car door. ‘How’s Kirsty? We could hear her coughing all night.’

  ‘She’s not well at all. I thought maybe she had the same cold you and Lucy had.’

  ‘Yeah, that was a bad one. Talk about a thumping headache. Christ. Anyway, I must shoot off. There’s an emergency at work.’

  ‘On a Sunday?’

  ‘Yeah. No peace for the wicked.’ He got in
to the car and wound the window down. ‘And don’t worry – you don’t owe me anything for the door.’ He drove off.

  Jamie went back inside and took Kirsty her Lemsip. She was asleep. This was going to be a crappy Sunday, what with Kirsty sick in bed. He looked around the flat. The housework needed doing, but he didn’t want to disturb Kirsty with the vacuum cleaner. That was his excuse, anyway. He decided to go up and see Mary, ask her about the rats. Maybe Lennon had a history of it.

  He went up and knocked on the door. No answer. Shit. Maybe he should write her a note, or try again later. He sighed, pissed off that he was stuck indoors on a day like this, when it was so glorious outside and the sky was so blue. Still, if he had to be stuck indoors, he couldn’t think of a better place to be.

  He turned to go down the stairs and then heard a noise out in the garden. He looked through the gap. Lucy was standing in the middle of the lawn, facing the house. She was holding Lennon, stroking his head and jiggling him a little, like a mother holding a baby. As Jamie watched, she walked inside with him and closed the door behind her.

  Six

  Kirsty’s flu dragged on for the rest of the week. She was too ill to go to work so she carried the duvet into the living room and spent four days in front of the TV. Jamie went to work, phoning her a couple of times every day to check how she was feeling. She told him she felt like death, but, truth be told, she was quite enjoying her spell at home. Apart from the throat-shredding cough and the constant nose-blowing, she rather liked being the patient for once, groaning hoarse requests for cups of tea and medicine. During the days, she gorged herself on daytime TV and staggered around in her dressing gown, feeling wonderfully decadent and sluttish.

  On Thursday afternoon, there was a knock at the door.

  Kirsty, who had been flicking through the channels, trying to decide between a Jeremy Kyle repeat and an ancient episode of Morse, dragged herself to the door and opened it. The woman standing there had an anxious expression on her face.

  ‘Hello, I’m Mary.’ She offered her hand. ‘You must be Kirsty.’

  Kirsty’s first concern was how awful she must look. She always hoped to look her best when meeting someone for the first time. She was a firm believer in the importance of initial impressions, and here she was with a red-raw nose, flaky skin, greasy hair and most probably the sour smell of someone who hasn’t left the house for days. Her second thought was, It’s the witch. Then she thought, She doesn’t look much like a witch – just a hippy, like Jamie said. All this flashed through her head in the second it took her to shake Mary’s hand.

  ‘Are you ill?’ Mary asked, looking concerned.

  ‘Oh, just a touch of flu, that’s all.’

  Mary nodded. ‘That awful virus that’s going around. Everybody I know has had it. You should try drinking ginger – it kills flu in its tracks, stops it dead. Ginger with a drop of honey in it.’

  ‘I’m quite happy with paracetamol and codeine, thank you.’

  Mary looked appalled. ‘They won’t help. Trust me, ginger’s what you need. I’ve got some upstairs. I’ll fetch it for you in a minute.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘And I won’t take no for an answer.’

  Kirsty smiled politely. Now she was thinking, What a pushy cow. She sniffed. Suddenly, she felt cold, and she wanted to get back to her quilt on the sofa.

  ‘The reason I came down was to ask if you’ve seen Lennon, my cat. I haven’t seen him since Sunday and I’m really worried. He does sometimes wander off for a couple of days, but he’s never been gone this long before.’

  Kirsty shook her head. ‘No, I’ve been stuck indoors since Sunday morning. I’ve hardly even had the curtains open.’

  Mary sighed. ‘Oh well. Just thought I’d ask. Brian and Linda haven’t seen him either.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up.’

  Mary looked at the front door, listening to the traffic beyond it. She had a sad, worried look in her eye, and Kirsty felt an twinge of sympathy. She understood the agonies of anxiety: she dealt with the worries of parents every day. This was a cat, not a child, but at its root lay the same emotion. Mary lived alone with the cat; she probably treated it like a child.

  Mary forced a smile. ‘I’ll get you that ginger.’

  Kirsty waited while Mary went up the stairs, her long skirt rippling around her ankles, forcing her to go slowly. She returned a minute later with a pale-brown lump of vegetation in her hand. She held it out to Kirsty who took it tentatively.

  ‘This is root ginger. All you need to do is cut off about an inch, grate it into a mug then pour boiling water onto it. Leave it for about ten minutes then strain it. Add a spoonful of honey. It will take away your flu. I guarantee it.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll give it a go.’ She felt her nose start to run and sniffed. ‘I hope your cat turns up.’

  ‘I’ll be heartbroken if he doesn’t.’

  Jamie came through the front door struggling under the weight of a large cardboard box and perspiring heavily. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt before making his way back out to the car and bringing in another box. Kirsty had fallen asleep on the sofa, and he woke her with a kiss. She sat up, rubbing her sleep-gummed eyes.

  ‘What have you bought now?’

  He tore open the boxes to reveal a barbell and set of weights. Kneeling on the carpet, he screwed a weight to each end of the barbell, then lifted it above his head.

  Kirsty applauded. ‘It’s Mr Universe!’

  ‘That’s right. Bullies will no longer kick sand in my face!’ He paused. ‘Actually this is hurting my arms.’

  Kirsty laughed.

  He put the weights down and knelt beside her. ‘How are you feeling? Any better?’

  ‘Not really. I still feel really tired, as if I’ve sprung a leak and all my energy has ebbed away.’

  ‘Poor Kirsty.’ He stroked her hair, then turned back to his weights. ‘So what do you think? There are a couple of smaller, single-handed ones which I thought you could use. And I’ve ordered a rowing machine as well. I thought I might start swimming again as well. I haven’t been for ages.’

  Kirsty coughed. ‘I’m not really in the mood to talk about physical exercise right now.’

  ‘So you don’t want to go to bed then?’ He winked at her and she groaned and covered her face with a cushion. Whenever she was ill, Jamie became even more libidinous. His theory was that it was because she seemed so vulnerable, lying there sniffling: his primeval instincts came out and he wanted to carry her off to his cave.

  ‘Lemsip?’ he asked, putting thoughts of passion aside.

  ‘Yes please.’

  He went into the kitchen and saw the chunk of ginger sitting on the worktop, untouched. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, going back out to Kirsty.

  ‘That’s root ginger. Mary came down earlier and gave it to me. She said it would cure my flu.’

  ‘And have you taken any?’

  ‘No, of course not. How’s that going to help me? I’ll stick with my Lemsips, thanks.’

  Jamie tutted. ‘You should try it, Kirsty. What do we have to do with it?’ She explained the process. ‘Right, I’ll make you a cup.’

  After Jamie had strained the ginger, he carried it out to Kirsty. She sniffed it and pulled a face, but then took a sip. ‘It’s foul.’

  ‘Come on, drink it.’

  He knelt beside her and stroked her hair as she sipped it, screwing up her face in with distaste. ‘So what was Mary doing down here? Did she hear you coughing and blowing your nose and come down to offer you her miracle cure?’

  ‘No, she came down to ask if I’ve seen her cat. It’s gone missing.’

  ‘Lennon? Oh no. When did she last see him?’

  ‘Sunday, I think she said.’

  Jamie scratched his head. ‘Oh. Because I saw him on Sunday. Lucy had him. I saw her carry him into her flat.’

  ‘Lucy?’

  He stood up. ‘I’d better go and tell Mary.’

 
‘What was Lucy doing with him?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’

  At the top of the stairs, he knocked on Mary’s door. He felt uncomfortable. He had this strange, irrational fear that Lucy had done something to Lennon. She had made it clear that she didn’t think much of Mary (calling her a witch was hardly a display of neighbourly good feeling), but surely – surely – she wouldn’t do anything to harm her cat.

  Mary opened the door. She was smiling, and Jamie noticed that her pupils were dilated. He guessed she had been smoking weed – in fact, there was the distinct smell of cannabis in the air as he stepped into the hallway.

  ‘Kirsty told me Lennon has gone missing. It’s just that, well, I’m not sure how to say this…’

  Mary cut him off, a wide grin on her face. ‘He’s come back. Come and see.’

  She led him into the living room and there, sitting on the sofa with his legs tucked under his body, was her cat.

  ‘I was so relieved,’ Mary said. ‘I thought he’d been run over, or, well, I don’t know what. You hear of awful things happening to people’s cats. In the paper last week there was a report of these children shooting a cat with an air rifle and killing it. Horrible. But Lennon’s safe and sound. As you can see.’

  Jamie crossed the room and bent to stroke the cat, who rolled over onto his back, inviting Jamie to scratch his belly.

  He remembered what he had meant to ask her. ‘Does Lennon ever bring rats in?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘God, no. He never brings anything in apart from the odd earthworm. I remember he caught a butterfly once, and that was a major achievement. He was really proud of himself. But rats – well, he’d run a mile if he saw a rat. Especially the big ones you get round here. Linda upstairs told me she saw a rat that was as big as a puppy – a monstrous thing.’ He wasn’t really convinced by what she said about her cat. It reminded him of the parents of a school bully who think the little brat is in fact an angel. It probably was Lennon who had left the rats on their doorstep.

  Mary walked over to the fireplace and took a silver cigarette case off of the mantelpiece. She produced a ready-rolled spliff, confirming Jamie’s suspicions. She held it up. ‘Care to join me?’