The Magpies A Psychological Thriller

Fourteen


Kirsty knelt by the toilet and threw up, one painful spasm followed by another. Finally, when she was certain she wasn’t going to be sick any more, she pushed herself upright and pushed the handle to flush the remains of last night’s curry away. She splashed cold water on her face and rinsed her mouth. Morning sickness already?

While she was cleaning her teeth, Jamie came rushing into the room, wearing nothing but his underwear. He threw himself onto the carpet by the toilet and vomited, making a terrible straining sound. When he had finished, he sat with his back against the bath. He was pale and clammy, strands of hair stuck to his forehead. His stomach hurt. He groaned.

‘I feel like death warmed up. I don’t think I can go into work.’ He took several deep breaths. ‘God, I’m hardly ever ill after drinking. I guess it must be because I mixed champagne and beer.’

Kirsty crouched beside him. ‘I was sick too.’

‘Were you? When?’

‘Just now, before you came in and made throwing up seem like such a drama. I’m quiet when I throw up.’

‘But you weren’t drinking.’

‘I know. And it seems a bit unlikely that my morning sickness would start the same morning you’re sick. Unless you’re going to be one of those blokes who has a phantom pregnancy. Please, Jamie, don’t be one of those blokes.’

Jamie stood up and spat into the sink. He took a swig of mouthwash and swirled a mouthful of neon blue liquid around his tongue and teeth before gargling briefly and spitting the mouthwash out. That was a little better.

‘Do you think it was the food?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We both had different main courses, but I suppose they could have shared some of the same ingredients. I wonder if Lucy and Chris are ill as well.’

‘Why don’t you go down and ask them?’

‘Very funny.’

‘After last night, I’m sure they’d be more delighted to see you than ever.’

Jamie groaned again, this time from the blurred memory of his behaviour. ‘Was I really awful?’

‘You were very embarrassing. Especially when you put your arm around the waiter’s shoulder and called him mate.’

‘Oh God. We can’t ever go back there again.’

‘I don’t know if we’d want to if they’ve given us food poisoning.’

‘Surely it’s not really food poisoning.’ He felt a rumble in his bowels and stopped talking. ‘Oh shit, you’d better leave the room. Kirsty, I mean it.’

She left the room and Jamie pulled his boxer shorts down and sat on the toilet. It hurt. As he wiped himself, he heard the phone ring, then Kirsty’s voice after she picked it up. She sounded shocked, and he heard her come to the bathroom door and open it just as he flushed the toilet.

‘Who was that?’ Jamie asked. More than anything else in the world right now, he wanted to go back to bed. Go back to bed and sleep all day.

Kirsty stared at him. ‘It’s about Paul,’ she said.

They drove to the hospital as fast as they could, Jamie racking his brain for shortcuts, accelerating towards amber traffic lights, guiltily ignoring zebra crossings. The traffic was dense and the streets were full of pedestrians enjoying the bright autumn sunshine, soaking up a final dose of rays before winter darkened the skies. Jamie turned the radio on then quickly turned it off again. The chatter of the DJ was too much. The cars up ahead were too slow. At times like this, he wished he could fly.

‘Take it easy,’ Kirsty warned as he swung a hard left. ‘I still feel like I’m going to be sick at any moment.’

He had forgotten the sickness himself, had rid his body of whatever it was that had upset it. And since he had heard about Paul he couldn’t think about anything else. His thoughts would return to it later, but for now he only had one thing on his mind: getting to the hospital; getting to Paul.

‘That was Paul’s dad,’ Kirsty had said, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. ‘We’ve got to get to the hospital.’

Jamie’s stomach had filled with ice water. In that instant he thought he had been wrong to believe that Paul would recover. But seeing the look of dismay on Jamie’s face, Kirsty said, ‘No, Jamie, it’s good news. They think he might be coming out of his coma.’

They turned in towards the hospital car park. Some idiot in a blue BMW was blocking the entrance. Jamie thumped the horn, leant on it, gestured angrily at the other driver. After an agonising wait for the BMW to pull out of the way, with hostile looks exchanged between the two drivers, Jamie shot into the car park, straight into an empty space.

They ran into the hospital. Through reception – Kirsty waving quickly to the girl on the front desk – dodging a porter with a laden trolley, up the stairs, down another corridor to Paul’s room. Puffing, they entered the room. Jamie had half-expected to see Paul sitting up in bed, drinking a cup of tea, saying, ‘Where am I? What happened?’, but he was still lying in the same position, the same bip-bip-bip providing the rhythm to this drama’s soundtrack.

Paul’s parents and Heather stood close to the bed, looking down at Paul, who was being examined by Doctor Meer. Heather turned round.

‘He said my name,’ she said.

Her cheeks were shiny and smeared with mascara where she had been crying. She was wearing her nurse’s uniform. ‘I was sitting here, talking to him, just talking away as usual, telling him about my day, when he suddenly spoke. He said my name!’ She grabbed Kirsty’s hands. She was shaking with excitement. ‘He said “Heather”. And at first I thought I’d imagined it, that it was wish-fulfillment, but then he said it again. So I rushed off and grabbed Doctor Meer.’

‘And has he said anything else?’ asked Jamie.

‘No. But Doctor Meer says he’s coming out of the deep coma. He says that Paul is now merely unconscious and that he could wake up any minute.’

‘Or he could slip back,’ said Paul’s dad. Reacting to their shocked looks, he said, ‘Somebody has to be cautious here. It might be a false–’

‘I think he’s waking up,’ said Doctor Meer from his position beside Paul’s pillow.

They stopped and stared. Paul looked like a man who’s been out on the most incredible drinking binge of all time and had passed out… had been passed out for a long time. His skin was colourless, there was a trail of saliva emerging from the side of his mouth. But as they watched, his eyelids flickered and, a second later, opened. His mother gasped and they all inched closer to the bed, like pilgrims moving tentatively towards a miracle. Doctor Meer had to stretch out his arms to prevent them getting too close. Jamie’s mouth went dry. Kirsty gripped his hand hard.

Paul focused his vision, looked at them, opened his mouth. He croaked and licked his lips.

‘I feel…’ he whispered.

They leaned closer.

‘…like shit.’

Doctor Meer had sent them out of the room while he and another doctor conducted a number of tests on their newly-awakened patient. Jamie, Kirsty, Heather and Paul’s parents walked towards the canteen in a daze. Heather and Paul’s mother were both in tears. Jamie and Kirsty were silent. Paul’s father kept rubbing his beard, dragging the palm of his hand across his face. None of them wanted to cheer or whoop or celebrate. They were all too worried that something might still go wrong – that Paul would not be the same as he was before the accident. Although nobody spoke them aloud, two words featured prominently in all their minds: brain damage.

He might have lost the use of his limbs. He might be suffering from amnesia. He might not be able to speak properly, although that didn’t seem to be too much of a worry. Eventually, Paul’s waking sentence would become a thing of legend among those who knew him. I feel like shit. It was so classic, so quintessentially Paul. Jamie knew that Heather, though, would always remember that his first very word upon waking had actually been her name.

They bought tea and coffee and sat around a table in the centre of the canteen.

‘I knew he’d wake up,’ said Jamie. ‘I always knew it. We just had to give him time.’

‘It was our prayers that did it,’ said Paul’s mum. ‘Our prayers and our faith.’

‘It was time,’ Jamie repeated softly.

‘What did Doctor Meer say about keeping him in the hospital?’ Paul’s father asked Kirsty.

‘He said that first of all there was no guarantee that Paul would stay awake. But if he does, they’ll have to keep him in for a while for observation. His body’s undergone a severe trauma. His muscles have been unused for so quite a while, so he’s going to be ever so weak. He’ll have to have a lot of physio. It won’t be easy. Plus they have to check his brain, make sure there isn’t any lasting damage. Even assuming he’s all right, he’ll probably be disorientated and confused. We can’t expect him to be his normal self – not straight away, anyway.’

‘He’s back,’ said Paul’s mum. ‘For now, that’s all that matters.’

‘I’m going to ask him to marry me,’ said Heather.

All heads swivelled towards her.

‘We could make it a double wedding,’ said Jamie. Attention turned to him. ‘Kirsty and I decided last night that we’re going to get married. And we’ve got some other news.’

Kirsty shot him a look. Shit. He’d forgotten, in his excitement, that he was supposed to wait till she was twelve weeks. Before he could think of some other news to share – we’re buying a new sofa, for example – Kirsty said, ‘I’m pregnant.’

‘Oh Kirsty!’ Heather leaned across the table and kissed her. ‘That’s excellent news.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Paul’s dad.

‘It’s been a somewhat overwhelming twenty-four hours,’ said Jamie.

Kirsty stood up. ‘I need to go to the loo.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Heather.

‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’

Jamie said, ‘Have you still got a bad stomach?’

‘Yes.’ To prove it, she hurried off.

‘We had an Indian last night,’ Jamie explained to the others, ‘and we were both sick this morning.’

‘Oh.’ Nobody was very interested. Paul had woken up. That was all that mattered. The news about Kirsty’s pregnancy was secondary right now. They were itching to get back to Paul’s room. They needed to know how he was.

Kirsty came back looking pale, and a few minutes later a nurse appeared. ‘Would you like to come back now?’ she said.

‘How is he?’ asked Paul’s mum.

The nurse smiled. ‘Why don’t you come and see for yourself?’

They filed back into the room. Doctor Meer was standing beside the bed, looking pleased, hands tucked into the pockets of his white coat. Paul was propped up with a pillow behind his back. He looked like the living dead, his eyes open but empty of feeling. Jamie wanted him to smile – wished his face would light up with that boyish grin – but he just looked at them, impassive. Heather, Kirsty and Paul’s parents each went up to him and hugged him. He didn’t reciprocate; his arms hung loosely by his side, his hands concealed beneath the sheets. When Heather pulled away Paul looked at her as if she was a stranger.

Amnesia, Jamie thought. He stepped forward, a cautious smile on his face. ‘Alright, mate?’ he said.

Paul nodded, still expressionless.

‘You do remember who we all are, don’t you?’

The others exchanged worried glances.

Paul looked at them all. After a long pause, during which Jamie noticed how silent it was in here without the constant bip-bip-bip of the heart monitor, he said, ‘Of course I remember. Mum. Dad. Jamie. Kirsty. And Heather.’ He pointed at the doctor. ‘I don’t think I’ve been introduced to this guy though.’

Doctor Meer stepped forward and told Paul his name.

‘And you’ve been looking after me?’

‘Not just Doctor Meer,’ said Paul’s mum. ‘All the nurses here, and your dad and me, and Heather and Kirsty and Jamie. We’ve all sat with you, Paul, waiting for you to wake up.’ Tears bubbled to the surface again, and she produced a damp tissue and blew her nose.

‘So I suppose I owe you all my thanks.’

‘You don’t owe us anything, son,’ said Paul’s dad.

‘We’re just so pleased to have you back,’ said Heather.

Paul brought his hands out from beneath the sheet and studied them. His voice was hoarse. ‘I feel so weak. All my muscles – I feel like a newborn kitten. It feels horrible.’

‘We’re going to have to build you up again, Paul,’ said Doctor Meer. ‘We have a program of physical therapy already planned out for you. It’s going to be hard work – but soon you’ll be back to peak fitness.’

Paul rubbed his eyes. ‘God, I had such dreams.’ He looked up, cast his gaze over each of them in turn, finally settling on Jamie.

‘I want to talk to Jamie,’ he said.

‘No, you need to rest,’ said the doctor. ‘Jamie can come back later.’ He turned to the group. ‘Paul’s not ready to talk to all of you yet. He needs time to adjust to being back among…the living. I know you’re all desperate to talk to Paul, but I have to put his well-being first.’

‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ Jamie said, as Doctor Meer ushered them out again.. As they left the room, Jamie looked back over his shoulder. Paul had already closed his eyes.

Over the next seventy-two hours, they were allowed in to see Paul one at a time. Jamie had to wait until Paul’s parents and Heather had taken their turn. The waiting was agony, but made bearable by the fact that Paul was now conscious: that he was back among the living, as the doctor phrased it.

Jamie grabbed the plastic chair he had sat on so many times and pulled it close to the bed. Paul looked a little better now, the effects of the long sleep fading from his face. He was still on a drip, but that awful bip-bip-bip noise had gone. There were magazines piled up by the bed, which Paul hadn’t touched.

‘What happened?’ Paul asked. ‘Heather told me the details but I can’t quite get my head round it. I want to hear it from you.’

‘You don’t remember it?’

‘I remember the go-kart race. I know I won. But the last thing I recall is crossing the finishing line.’

‘One of the other racers crashed into the back of your kart. I didn’t see it, but we were told that Chris braked too quickly in front of the other racer, making him swerve into you.’

‘That’s what Heather said. Poor Chris. I bet he feels really guilty.’

‘What? Why did you say poor Chris? He’s not the one they carted off in an ambulance.’

‘But to cause an accident like that, especially after we’d been getting on so well. He must have felt so…what’s the word? Oh, my head feels fuzzy.’ He concentrated. ‘Remorseful.’

Jamie shook his head. ‘He hasn’t exactly shown it. Paul, you don’t know what’s been going on while you’ve been in here. Chris and Lucy have turned into the neighbours from hell. I’ve been trying not to think about it while you were in the coma, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Chris had done it on purpose. They’ve been writing us letters, taping us having sex, joining us to endless clubs. You wouldn’t believe what…’

Paul yawned, the high-pitched noise drowning Jamie out. He realised Paul hadn’t been listening to a word he said. ‘You’ll have to tell me about it some other time. I’m too tired to concentrate.’

Jamie nodded. He didn’t want to upset Paul or do anything to hinder his recovery. ‘Do you want me to go already?’

‘Not just yet.’ He yawned again, and then a smile crept across his lips. ‘I gather everyone was heartbroken and worried that I wouldn’t come back.’

‘You could say that.’

Paul’s smile widened. ‘That’s good.’

Jamie was shocked. ‘I don’t think it’s something to be pleased about. We’ve really suffered, Paul.’

‘Oh come on, wouldn’t you be pleased to hear that everyone was really worried about you? It’s like going to your own funeral and seeing everyone crying over you and saying what a good bloke you were.’

Jamie shook his head. ‘You’re obviously not feeling yourself at the moment.’

Paul didn’t say anything.

Jamie looked around the ward, at the flowers beside the bed, the MP3 player in the corner so Paul could be played his favourite music. ‘The other day, you said something about having dreams.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes. Before Doctor Meer asked us to leave.’

‘Of course I’ve had dreams. I’ve been asleep for a long time.’

‘What kind of dreams?’

Paul closed his eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe I’ll tell you later.’

‘Were they bad dreams?’

‘I said I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘OK.’ He put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. He was cold beneath his pyjamas. ‘OK.’

Paul tried to smile. ‘What have I missed while I’ve been away?’

‘Oh, quite a bit. Kirsty’s pregnant.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, Heather told me. Congratulations.’ There was little sincerity in his voice.

‘And we’re going to get married.’

Paul rolled his eyes.

Undeterred, Jamie said, ‘Maybe it will be you and Heather next.’

‘I don’t think so somehow. God, I don’t even know what she’s been up to while I’ve been in here.’

Jamie exhaled. ‘She’s been absolutely grief-stricken. She’s been coming here every day to sit by your bed. Every time I see her she ends up crying. For some bizarre reason – and don’t ask me what it is – she loves you.’

‘I suppose it’s quite romantic, having a boyfriend in a coma. I bet it makes her feel really noble and worthy. It’s a great way to get sympathy.’

‘Paul! I can’t believe you can think that.’

‘Yeah, well. We’ll see if she’s still so keen now I’m back in the land of the living.’

All of a sudden, Jamie wanted to get out. He wanted to talk to Paul again after he’d had more time to adjust to what had happened to him. He knew this wasn’t the real Paul talking. This was someone who’d just woken up after a long time in another place.

‘I’d better go,’ Jamie said. ‘You need to rest.’

Paul nodded and Jamie stood up. He felt like he ought to be blissfully happy. His girlfriend was pregnant, he was getting married and now his best friend had come back from the dead. He ought to be ecstatic, but instead…

He shook away the feeling of foreboding and looked back at Paul, who was studying his hands again, flexing his fingers, casting shadows on the whitewashed walls.

‘Welcome back,’ he said, under his breath.





Fifteen


‘So how was Paul?’ Kirsty asked when Jamie got home. She had taken a couple of days off work; she still felt unwell, as if there was something poisonous still working its way out of her system. She was in bed reading a book about pregnancy, a glass of water beside her.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve got a horrible headache.’

‘Why don’t you come to bed?’

‘Good idea.’

He undressed and slid beneath the cool quilt, closing his eyes. It was early evening; the birdsong outside had ceased and shadows were beginning to darken the room.

Kirsty turned over to face the wall. She closed her eyes. She could still feel the rumblings deep down in her stomach. It was nothing to do with being pregnant. It was illness, impure and simple.

‘It’s so good to have Paul back, though, isn’t it?’ she murmured drowsily.

‘Yes it is. But–’ He realised that, within that second, she had fallen asleep.

When Jamie awoke, it was dark. He squinted at the bedside clock. It was nine. They’d been asleep for several hours. His mouth felt like something had died in it or like he’d been eating fur. He sat up and scratched his chest then crossed to the window, pulling back one edge of the curtain and peering out at the quiet night.

He sniffed. There was a strange smell in the air, faint but unpleasant. At first he thought it might be gas, but it was too pungent. In fact, it was making him feel sick so, despite the chill, he opened the window. It didn’t help, so he pushed down the sash window, harder than he intended so it closed with a bang. In the bed, Kirsty groaned. ‘What time is it?’

He crawled onto the bed and kissed her hot forehead. ‘Just gone nine.’

‘Bloody hell. We’ve missed the whole evening. Hey, what are you doing?’

‘Lighting an incense stick. There’s a horrible smell in the air.’

He found a packet of lavender joss sticks and lit one, waving it around like a Bonfire Night sparkler, trails of lavender smoke curling to the ceiling and cleansing the room.

Kirsty said, ‘I couldn’t smell anything.’

She got out of bed and stretched her arms above her head. Jamie moved towards her, putting one hand just above her hip, leaning into her.

‘Ooh, your breath.’ She waved him away.

‘Thanks.’ He put his arms around her and kissed her neck.

‘You’ve got morning mouth, Jamie. Even though it is nine pm.’

‘I’ll clean my teeth.’

‘Yes, do that. But I’m getting up now. I’m not in the mood for sex. My stomach still hurts a bit.’

‘It’s not because you’re worried about making noise?’

She tutted. ‘No. For God’s sake, Jamie, I’ve just got a stomach ache.’

‘Alright, there’s no need to snap.’

He walked into the bathroom and cleaned his teeth. He felt guilty, but also concerned. Their sex life had dwindled since the Newtons had sent them the CD. Obviously, there was a lot more to their relationship than sex, but sex with Kirsty was still pretty much his favourite thing in the world and he hated the fact that it had been marred by the worry that they were being listened to every time they did it. They could pretend defiance, but when it came down to it, that knowledge meant they could no longer relax one hundred percent. Those bastards downstairs were clever – he had to give them that. He bet this was exactly the effect they had intended.

He splashed his face with icy water and told himself to snap out of it. What did it matter, anyway? Sex, or the lack of it, was the least of his concerns at the moment. His whole life was going to change. He leaned against the sink, water dripping from his face into the basin. He opened his eyes and caught sight of something running across the bathroom floor.

‘I just saw a real f*ck-off spider in the bathroom,’ he said to Kirsty as they stood dressing in the bedroom.

‘What? Where did it go?’

‘Behind the toilet.’

‘And you didn’t try to catch it?’

‘I wish I hadn’t mentioned it now.’

Kirsty walked into the hall and peered into the bathroom without actually daring to go in there. Spiders terrified her and she hated herself for it: she didn’t want to be a pathetic female stereotype; but then, surely everyone was entitled to have at least one irrational weakness? Arachnophobia ran in her family. Her mum, her grandmother, her dad: they were all hopeless when it came to small, eight-legged creatures. It was the way they moved…oh God it made her go all cold and shivery inside. And in her imagination, the spiders were always much bigger than they really were. Multiply their size by five, or ten, or more. An average household spider turned into a tarantula. A common or garden British spider became a bird-eating monstrosity; a funnel-web beast that lay in wait for her behind the toilet, all eyes and teeth and long furry legs.

‘What did you mean when you said it was a f*ck-off spider?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Was it really big?’ she called out. ‘Come on, you’ve got to tell me.’

Jamie was really regretting saying anything. ‘No, not that big. It was barely bigger than a five pence piece.’

‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’ She went back into the bedroom and climbed on the bed. ‘You’ll have to catch it.’

‘But it ran behind the toilet. It’s probably disappeared beneath the floorboards by now. Kirsty, it was only a spider.’

She glared at him. ‘You know how I feel about spiders. And I shouldn’t be exposed to any stress in my condition.’ She touched her stomach.

Jamie realised she had found a way of making him do anything she asked over the coming months. He sighed. He loved her but sometimes she drove him mad. Her terror of spiders was so irrational. She was about a thousand times bigger than a spider. If this was Australia and the spiders were poisonous he’d understand it. But these were British spiders. They were pathetic little things. Completely harmless.

He went back into the bathroom and got down on his hands and knees. He peered behind the toilet. There were some dust-smothered cobwebs, but no sign of the spider. It had been quite big – one of those brown spiders with furry legs that they sometimes found in the bath (with Kirsty having to disinfect it after Jamie had scooped the creature up and thrown it out the window) – but Jamie wished he hadn’t described it as a ‘f*ck-off’ spider. What with all the excitement and too much sleep, he hadn’t been thinking straight. He wondered if he should pretend that he had found the spider and act out throwing it out the window. No, she would know he was lying, and that would only make things worse – especially if it reappeared later.

He went back into the bedroom and she looked up at him hopefully.

‘Sorry, there’s no sign of it. I’m sure it’s long gone. Come on, let’s put dinner…’

Kirsty let out a yelp and jumped backwards onto the bed. Jamie spun round. A brown spider was scuttling across the carpet towards him.

‘Catch it!’ Kirsty yelled.

He crouched and cupped his hand over it, then picked it up and took it over to the window. He could feel its feathery legs wriggling against his palm. With his free hand he opened the window – breathing in another lungful of that sickly sweet, foul smell – and tossed the spider down into the garden. He walked towards Kirsty.

She shrank away and pointed towards the bathroom. ‘Go and wash your hands before you touch me.’

‘It won’t have given me any contagious diseases, Kirsty.’

‘Just wash them. Please. I can’t bear the thought that it’s been on your skin.’

‘OK, OK.’

He washed his hands halfheartedly, dried them, then walked back into the bedroom. His stomach growled. It was nine-thirty and he hadn’t eaten all day.

‘I’m going to put dinner on, OK? What do you want?’

‘I don’t mind.’

In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and stuck his head inside. Recently, they had been living on pre-prepared meals from Sainsbury’s, with a side-serving of frozen chips or vegetables. Jamie pulled out a vegetable lasagne, shook some chips onto a baking tray and turned the oven on. Before closing the fridge he took out a beer and cracked it open. He went over and sat beside Kirsty in front of the TV.

‘Was it the same spider?’ Kirsty asked.

He had no idea. ‘I think so.’

‘You’re not just saying that?’

‘No. I’m sure it was.’

Thirty minutes later he crossed to the kitchen to check if the dinner was ready. Not quite. He took another beer out of the fridge.

‘Are you having another drink?’ said Kirsty disapprovingly.

‘Well, I’m drinking for two now.’

She tutted.

‘Actually, I’m celebrating – celebrating Paul’s recovery.’ He paused. ‘Assuming he has recovered.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He just seemed a bit odd. Cold. He didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me.’

‘You can’t expect him to be exactly as he was before the accident – not straight away. He’s probably experiencing a form of shock. And having all these people expecting him to be just as he was before the accident – I expect he feels a bit confused and pressurised. Like you said earlier, it must be quite overwhelming.’

‘I suppose so. I’ll go and see him during the next few days.’ He sipped his beer. ‘I can entertain him with tales of all that’s been going on here. Not that he was very interested when I tried to tell him today.’

‘I bet he’ll be really angry with Chris.’

‘No, that’s just it. He’s not. He said he was sure it was an accident.’

‘Really? Maybe the so-called accident’s made him turn religious. Forgive those who trespass against you and all that. God, what if he had one of those near-death experiences, where he was floating towards the light and a voice was calling him? He might become a born again Christian.’ She laughed at a sudden image of Paul standing in the street handing out religious pamphlets, trying to persuade lost souls to embrace their maker. ‘Maybe he’ll change his name to Lazarus.’

‘You’re dread…’ He stopped dead.

‘What is it?’ She followed his gaze. ‘Oh, shit!’

A small black shape crossed the threshold of the room and ran towards them on eight skinny legs. Kirsty jumped up onto the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. ‘It’s come back.’ In her eyes, the spider wasn’t small or skinny. It was huge, with fat legs that drummed on the floorboards.

Jamie stood up. ‘No, it’s a different one. This one’s stripy and has got shorter legs.’

She gasped. ‘I don’t want a f*cking description of it. I want you to get rid of it. Quickly.’

He knelt down and reached out for the spider, which was heading straight towards him. He grabbed it and, as he stood up, he heard Kirsty cry out.

‘It’s alright, I’ve got it.’

‘No – look – there’s another one.’

A second spider scurried into the room, heading straight towards the sofa. Jamie could tell that the magnifying glass of Kirsty’s arachnophobic vision made the spider swell to the size of a tarantula. ‘I don’t believe this,’ Kirsty yelled, her voice cracking. ‘What’s going on?

Jamie ran over to the front window, opened it with one hand, threw the first spider out, then tried to catch the next one. It ran under the sofa. Kirsty jumped off and ran over to the other side of the room. She was breathing heavily, clutching her chest.

‘It’s alright,’ said Jamie in a soft voice. ‘It’s only a little spider. It can’t harm you.’

‘Just catch it. Please. Oh my god…’ She screamed and started jumping up and down.

Jamie turned towards the doorway, to the spot at which Kirsty was pointing. Another spider entered the room. Then another. And another, and another, and another. A whole family of spiders, all of them with fat brown legs – all of them enormous, poisonous, hungry, as far as the barefoot Kirsty was doubtless concerned – scuttling across the carpet towards her.

‘Jamie!’

She screamed and threw herself back onto the sofa, eyes wide with phobic terror, clutching her feet to protect them from the wriggling legs that she was so scared of. She started to hyperventilate. Tears burned her eyes.

Jamie was frozen to the spot. He couldn’t believe this. Where were they all coming from? There was no way he could catch them all, so he picked up his shoe and brought it down on the first spider.

‘Kill them!’ shouted Kirsty.

The body of the first spider was stuck to the sole of his shoe. He whacked the second spider, then a third.

Kirsty shrieked. She had never let Jamie kill a spider before. No matter how much she hated and feared them, she would never allow one to be harmed. Now she wanted to see them crushed. She wanted them all dead. ‘Kill them!’

He killed them all, one by one, then sat back, panting, his heart thumping. He looked at the little wrecked bodies and immediately felt remorseful. They were only spiders, but they were so small and helpless. It was Kirsty’s fault for getting so hysterical.

He turned towards her. ‘Look what you made me do!’

‘What?’ She looked up at him. Her face was streaked with tears. He realised how petrified she had been, and now he felt remorse for shouting at her. He sat on the edge of the sofa and hugged her. She was shaking.

‘Where did they all come from, Jamie?’

‘I don’t know, sweetheart. I really don’t know.’

‘They were coming straight for me. They wanted to get me.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

She wiped her eyes with a trembling hand. ‘I bet it was them.’

‘Who?’

‘Them. Lucy and Chris. They sent them up here to get me.’

‘How could they have?’

‘Easily! They could have put them under the door, or I don’t know, maybe they trained them.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know what Lucy said about Mary being a witch. Well, maybe it’s really Lucy who’s the witch. She’s evil enough. I bet they poisoned us last night. We saw her go into the kitchen in the restaurant. And then they made those spiders come up here to get me.’

‘Kirsty, you should hear yourself. And how would they know you’re scared of spiders?’

‘They listen to us all the time. They’ve probably got it recorded.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘They’re probably listening to us right now, gauging our reaction, laughing at us. Oh God.’

Jamie shushed her. ‘Kirsty, this is crazy. Lucy and Chris are nasty, twisted people. We know that. But they’re not witches. They’re not able to command spiders and send them after people.’

Suddenly, the flat was filled with a deafening series of beeps.

‘Shit! The dinner!’ Jamie jumped up and ran towards the oven. Black tendrils of smoke emerged from the kitchen, setting off the smoke alarm which emitted a shrill, maddening beeping noise. He took the alarm down from its position on the wall, turned it off and then opened the oven door. A cloud rose up and made him cough. He pulled out the dinner. The chips looked like charcoal pencils; the lasagne was ruined.

Kirsty came over and looked at it. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m not hungry any more, anyway.’

Jamie opened the other front window to let out the smoke. Then he dug out the dustpan and brush and swept up the bodies of the dead spiders, throwing them out of the window. He deliberately let them fall onto the Newtons’ doorstep. Hopefully Lucy was scared of spiders too.

After that, Kirsty made him check the bed, the bath, under the sofa and wherever else there was a nook or cranny that might possibly hold a spider. To his great relief, he didn’t find any.

Kirsty didn’t sleep that night. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining that giant spiders were in the bed, or were pattering across the bedroom carpet, coming towards her; coming to get her.