The Magpies A Psychological Thriller

Twenty-two


Several weeks later, Kirsty stood naked in front of the mirror, examining herself. For years, she had wanted a flat stomach – achieving it by spending countless hours doing sit-ups – and now that flat ‘ideal’ had gone, replaced by a slight curve: the gentlest of contours, but a contour nonetheless. And she didn’t care. In fact, she felt wonderful. Her hair was shiny, her breasts had swollen and her nipples had darkened. She was amazed by them, thought she looked like a Page Three girl. Jamie was amazed by them too, predictably. She had always thought it was a cliché, that pregnant women glowed. But she felt it, in her skin, deep in her flesh. Apart from the occasional bout of sickness, she loved being pregnant. I’m radiant, she thought, giggling to herself.

Jamie came into the room and stood behind her, put his arms round her, resting his hands on her belly.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.

They kissed gently, moving towards the bed. Jamie sat down on the edge and Kirsty leant towards him, her tongue touching his, her fingers unbuttoning his shirt. Some women craved bizarre combinations of food when they were pregnant. Right now, she craved this. She threw Jamie’s shirt aside and he lifted himself up so she could pull down his jeans and boxers. She curled her fingers around his penis, making his breathing become deeper.

‘Lie back,’ she said.

He pushed himself backwards onto the bed and lay down. She leant over him, her soft hair tickling the skin of his chest and stomach. She took the tip of his penis between her lips, ran her tongue over the head. He said her name. She removed it from her mouth and moved up to kiss him on the lips, so he could taste himself. They kissed deeply. He tried to pull her down, but she put her hands on his chest and held him there, flat on the bed.

She positioned herself over him and took his penis in her hand, holding it so she could lower herself onto it, slowly, so it sank into her millimetre by millimetre, until he was fully inside her.

‘Kirsty.’

She moved so, so slowly, her eyes closed. He gently stroked her belly, her large breasts, feeling the novel weight of them in his hands. She licked the tip of her middle finger and put her hand down behind her, between his thighs, sliding the tip of her finger into his anus.

‘Oh Christ.’

He tried to wriggle, but she pushed down on his chest with her free hand, pinning him down. She stretched out her finger and slid it in as far as she could reach.

‘Kirsty.’

He came, shouting as he did so.

She withdrew her finger, leaned forward, kissed him and rolled onto her back. He went to kiss her lips again but she pushed his head down over her belly and towards her thighs, down between her legs.

‘My turn,’ she said.

Jamie drove to work. The first day back after his enforced holiday, he had been terrified. Firstly, he was afraid that they would have decided to sack him after all and, secondly, if they didn’t do that, he was afraid that his colleagues would hate him. He had almost been sick in the lift up to his floor. But the moment he had stepped out of the lift he had seen Mike, who had come straight over to talk to him.

‘Welcome back,’ he said.

‘Thanks. Has my desk been cleared while I was away?’

‘Eh? No, of course not. You don’t think they’d sack you over that, do you?’

‘I was worried they might.’

Chris rolled his eyes. ‘Listen, the management have got more important things to worry about than you and your virus. Have you heard?’

‘What?’

‘The takeover’s definitely going ahead.’

They walked over to their desks and sat down. All around them, people were chatting, gossiping, an electric current of nervous excitement buzzing around the office. Nobody paid any heed to Jamie. He relaxed, felt the knot in his shoulders untwist itself.

‘Has it been officially confirmed?’

‘Not exactly. We had a memo to say that the rumours were correct, that the company was on the verge of accepting an offer from another company, but that we shouldn’t panic, blah blah blah.’

‘Panic about what?’

Mike gave him a funny look. ‘What do you reckon? Our jobs. That’s been the number one topic of conversation this last fortnight. Will there be redundancies? Who’s for the chop? Lots of worried faces around – especially among the management. The word is that we plebs are pretty safe, but the middle managers are going to be – what’s the word? – culled.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Yeah. Ouch, indeed.’

‘And do we know who’s taking over?’

Mike shook his head. ‘Not officially. But I reckon it’s going to be Software Logistics.’

‘That Croydon firm? Really?’

‘I’d put money on it.’

Jamie switched his terminal on. To be honest, he didn’t care who his boss was, as long as they paid his wages and didn’t interfere too much or try to change things for the sake of it. And he was so relieved that he wasn’t a pariah among his colleagues. Now he just wanted to get down to work. Lose himself in it for a while.

At lunchtime, Mike said, ‘So how are things at home? Have you had any more grief from those neighbours of yours?’

Jamie paused. ‘Well, it’s strange. We haven’t. I saw Chris – that’s the bloke downstairs – and he said hello to me. He was quite civil, actually. I was a bit freaked out.’

‘I bet.’

‘But since then, we’ve heard nothing from them. No letters, no hoaxes, no banging on the ceiling. Nothing weird has happened at all.’

Jamie thought back to that day, the day they had said goodbye to Paul. After that day he had felt wrecked, emotionally drained by all the tears and laughter. But he also felt a little better. Their sex life had reignited, although at first he had been worried about harming the baby (Kirsty had to assure him that it would be OK). Even though, unable to help themselves, they had been quite noisy they hadn’t received any complaints. Jamie had even done a bit of DIY, putting some shelves up in the spare room, which was going to be the nursery. He was sure Lucy and Chris would write to them about the hammer blows, or even his footsteps as he walked around stripping and painting the walls, but no. Not a peep from them.

‘Well, maybe they’ve given up,’ Mike said. ‘You never know.’

Jamie smiled. It would be so wonderful if they had given up. Or maybe – just maybe – they felt remorseful about what they had done.

Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

A month had now gone by. Thirty one days without a threat or a complaint. There hadn’t even been any spiders in the flat, although, Jamie thought, that was probably because of the cold weather. As each day went by, he felt himself relax more and more, massaged by this new trouble-free life. He worked on the nursery in the evenings, painting the walls a neutral, sunny yellow. Kirsty spent a lot of time curled up on the sofa, reading; sometimes novels, sometimes books about pregnancy and motherhood. The results of her scan had been good, and she carried the photograph around in her bag, showing it to anyone who was interested. As Jamie painted away in the nursery, and Kirsty brought him a beer, he thought, God, my life is so run of the mill. But he didn’t care. He was pleased.

Paul had emailed them, telling them that he was in Ibiza, working in a restaurant, having a fantastic time and sleeping with another traveller, an American girl called Sam. Jamie wasn’t envious at all. This – right here – was the life he wanted. He still felt tense at times – still worried about the neighbours, still trod quietly – but it was nothing compared to how he had felt a few weeks ago. He knew he had been heading towards a breakdown. He felt like he’d had a lucky escape.

Kirsty hadn’t mentioned moving out again, either. Jamie got the feeling she had adopted a policy of ‘wait and see’. He knew she didn’t entirely trust this current state of peace, but as the days passed, and the baby inside her grew, and the Newtons’ campaign of terror failed to start up again, she relaxed too. She was four months gone now, almost halfway. They bought a cot and a couple of mobiles to hang up in the child’s room. When he had finished working in there, they went through lists of names together.

Heather came round some evenings. At first she had been maudlin and lovelorn, but now she seemed to be recovering. She insisted that she hadn’t slept with Paul on his last night, although both Jamie and Kirsty were sure she was lying. She insisted on reading Paul’s emails and got a bit upset when she read he was seeing someone else – but not too upset.

Christmas wasn’t a million miles away. Their first Christmas in the flat; their last Christmas when it would be just the two of them. They decided that they wouldn’t see anybody on Christmas day – no family squabbles, no arguments about Kirsty’s vegetarianism, which happened every year when the turkey was carved, as predictable and boring as the Queen’s Speech. No, this year, they would buy each other loads of presents, eat a ton of chocolate and spend the day in bed. Total bliss.

Three weeks became four. Still no threats or complaints. Jamie allowed himself to breathe a huge, huge sigh of relief. It seemed that the worst was over.

It was a mild Sunday; a warm island in the arctic sea of winter. Jamie got up, got dressed and went out to buy a paper. When he opened the front door he saw Chris coming up the steps.

He didn’t know what to do. Although it was true they hadn’t had any trouble from the Newtons lately, they hadn’t spoken to them either. A ceasefire existed between them, but not friendship. At that moment, Jamie remembered the letter he had sent to the previous occupants of the flat. He hadn’t received a reply. In a way, he was glad. He wanted to forget all the shit that had happened.

Both men paused.

‘Alright,’ said Chris.

‘Hi,’ said Jamie.

‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

‘Gorgeous.’

They fell silent. Jamie felt uncomfortable. He wanted to go, but he didn’t want to appear rude. With surprise, he realised he was afraid of upsetting Chris.

Chris broke the silence. ‘Have you heard from Paul?’

‘I’ve had some emails. He’s in Ibiza, having a great time by the sound of it.’

‘That’s good.’

More silence.

Chris again: ‘I’ve noticed that your front door’s started sticking again. And making this bloody awful squeaking sound.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Want me to take a look at it for you?’

Jamie felt a shiver of deja vu. Of course, it wasn’t really deja vu. He could remember Chris making the same offer months ago. Maybe it was just a case of history repeating itself. Maybe this was their opportunity to start over, to become friends again – without allowing things to go wrong this time.

‘That would be great.’

‘OK. I’ll take a look this afternoon.’

‘Cool.’

Jamie turned away, nodding to himself ever so slightly. Yes, this was their chance to reforge their friendship. They could put everything behind them. OK, he wouldn’t ever be able to forgive Chris and Lucy for some of the things they had done – and he still thought there must be something wrong with them to have done it in the first place. But surely this was better than being at war? They could co-exist, side by side. They wouldn’t be bosom buddies. But they could be good neighbours. It would make life a lot easier.

As he turned to walk down the hill he smiled.

Later, Jamie sat reading the paper, the radio on quietly in the background. He heard a noise at the front door and looked out of the window. It was Chris, kneeling by the door with his toolkit. He looked up and waved at Jamie. Jamie waved back.

About an hour later he heard the front door shut, then Chris’s footsteps going down to the basement. Jamie got up and went out into the hall. He tried the door. It didn’t stick or squeak any more.

‘He’s fixed it,’ he said to Kirsty.

‘Good. You were never going to get round to it.’

‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t actually that bothered by it.’

‘Chris obviously was. Or maybe he was just bored.’

‘Maybe…no, it’s stupid.’

‘What? Tell me.’

‘I just thought maybe he did it to try to make us happy. To try and make amends.’

‘Hmm. Who knows.’ She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. ‘We’ve got nothing in.’

‘We’ve got that pie.’

‘Yuk.’

‘What do you want to do, then? Go out for dinner?’

She kissed him. ‘What a nice offer!’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve been conned.’

She headed into the bedroom to change, putting a long, loose-fitting dress on. She looked lovely. Watching her touch up her makeup in the mirror, Jamie felt a rush of love that made his heart beat faster and compelled him to cross the room and hug her, burying his face in her hair and inhaling her. What would he do without her? He couldn’t contemplate it. She was both his compass and his map, and he would be lost on his own. Lost in the darkness.

‘Jamie, careful.’

She gently pushed him away, wincing.

‘You’ll hurt me or the baby if you squeeze me like that. You don’t know your own strength sometimes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She kissed him. ‘It’s OK. Just be careful.’

They finished dressing and Jamie picked up his keys. They left a light on but drew the curtains. It was only seven but it was pitch-black outside. They headed out towards the front door.

Jamie patted his pockets. ‘Shit, I haven’t got my wallet.’

Kirsty tutted. ‘Better go and get it then – I don’t want to end up doing the washing up. Give me the key and I’ll go and get in the car.’

He handed her the key and went back into the flat to find his wallet.

Kirsty opened the front door – hey, no squeak! Chris must have oiled it well – and was hit by a blast of icy air. No cloud cover, she decided, remembering an ancient geography lesson. She stepped down from the doorstep onto the path, and her foot made contact with something slippery.

The world dropped away.

Afterwards, she couldn’t remember if she had screamed or not. She must have, the way Jamie came running. She remembered that he had yelled her name. His voice was strangely high-pitched; he sounded like a woman.

Kiirrst…

Her right foot touched the path, but it was like an ice rink. That was her first thought: ice. Like the air. Like the weather. But it wasn’t ice. It was oil. A patch of oil left behind by Chris; a patch of the same oil that made the door sound so nicely squeak-free.

…tiiieee.

Her right foot slipped away from her, and to stop herself doing the splits she instinctively pulled her left leg forward. As she did this, she twisted – twisted right round so she was facing the door. And as she twisted she pitched forward, her hands trying to grab the doorframe – but she had her bag in one hand and the keys in the other. She twisted, pitched forward and fell.

Smack.

Her belly hit the concrete step.

Jamie sat outside the operating theatre, Heather beside him, holding his hand. Heather was wearing her nurse’s uniform. She was still meant to be working.

Jamie couldn’t stop shaking.

He had come running out of the flat, shouting her name. He had seen it happen: seen it even though he was inside the flat; her scream conjuring up a clear image. The slip, spin, smack. Her hands were full of objects and no use in stopping her from falling, or lessening the impact as she hit the concrete. Hard.

She had looked up at him, her eyes watery with pain. ‘My…’

He expected her to say ‘stomach’.

She said, ‘My baby.’

The wait for the ambulance. The ride across town, sirens cutting through the night. Onto a trolley, down the corridor.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

‘She’s going to be alright,’ Heather said. ‘I can feel it. She’s going to be alright. She’s going to be–’

‘Mr Knight?’

The doctor came out of the room. He was frowning. Did that mean bad news? Not necessarily. Doctors always frown when they come out of the operating theatre. He had seen it on TV. The doctor sat down beside him, cleared his throat.

Jamie didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He heard Heather say, ‘How is she?’

Everything went out of focus. The doctor’s voice slowed down, like a stretched tape. The lights in the corridor were so bright. He tuned back in.

‘Kirsty’s going to be fine,’ the doctor said. ‘But I’m afraid–’

The voice warped. Jamie heard fragments of words that he would piece together later into some semblance of sense.

‘…the baby…trauma to the abdomen…placenta detached…sorry Mr Knight…’

Everything went black.