The Magpies A Psychological Thriller

Twenty-three


Jamie stood outside and looked at the front door. The patch of oil had gone. There was no longer any trace of the mark Kirsty had made when she skidded and fell. He pulled the door to and fro. No squeak. He looked down the steps towards the Newtons’ flat. The curtains were drawn, a chink of light visible between them. He wondered what they were doing right now. Watching TV? Sitting side by side, reading? Or making plans, plotting, deciding their next move?

He picked up a large stone and weighed it in his hand, turned it over in his palm. He felt dizzy. He swayed and had to catch hold of the door to stay upright. He dropped the stone and it thudded harmlessly on the path.

The police had turned up at the hospital. Again, they were policemen he hadn’t seen before. Why was there no continuity? He wished there was someone who knew the story, who would believe him when he said that his downstairs neighbours wanted to destroy his life. Whenever he tried to tell the tale he saw the listener’s eyes glaze over; saw their mouth set in a sympathetic but disbelieving half-smile. Here was a man whose wife had just had a miscarriage, understandably angry and upset, ranting away in a hospital corridor, trying to pin the blame on someone, on the man who had kindly fixed their front door but had unfortunately – and accidentally – left some oil behind on the path.

‘I understand, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘You’re upset…’

‘Of course I’m f*cking upset!’ Jamie shouted. People further up the corridor looked, attracted to the drama. A man shouting at a policeman. ‘That bastard has murdered my f*cking baby! My wife had to deliver the baby – it was a girl. A little girl.’

Jamie collapsed onto a seat, covering his face with his hands, crying. Heather put her arm around him. The policeman shook his head. Sympathetic. But disbelieving.

Jamie came home on his own that night. Although Kirsty’s life was not in any danger, she was being kept in. Jamie went and sat beside her before he left. He kissed her cheek, which was wet with tears. She wouldn’t open her eyes.

The doctors had talked to them about what had to happen next. Jamie listened to it all in a daze. There was no need to register the birth, but the hospital offered a simple funeral service if they wanted one. Kirsty had nodded yes, tears running down her cheeks, her whole body shuddering with grief. The service was going to take place in a couple of days.

Jamie walked up the front path. There was the skid mark in the oil. And it had rained a little while he was at the hospital. There were colours in the oil. A bright rainbow. He sat down on the wall and stared at it, at all the pretty colours. The childhood mantra ran through his brain: Richard of York gave battle in vain. Red orange yellow green blue indigo violet. Battle in vain.

In vain.

(What are you going to do about it?)

The next evening, after a whole day at the hospital, he came home and found that the oil was gone. After hefting the stone, considering what damage he might be able to do with it, he went inside, into his empty flat. He got into bed and stared at the ceiling. There was a terrible sound in his head, like a radio that wasn’t tuned in properly. A hissing sound with a hint of voices and music behind the white noise. He strained, trying to hear what the voices were saying, but he couldn’t make it out. Maybe they weren’t human voices he was hearing at all. It sounded more like the chatter of monkeys or birds. He was about to fall asleep when he heard the music start. The music from War of the Worlds. At first he thought that too was in his head, breaking through the wall of static, but no: it was definitely coming from downstairs.

He got out of bed and got dressed. He went outside and spent the night in his car.

‘Come on, sweetheart.’

He opened Kirsty’s door and offered her his hand.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ she said.

‘I know. I was just–’

‘Yes yes. I know.’

As they walked up the path she kept to the left, warily eyeing the patch where she had slipped. They got inside and Jamie offered her a cup of tea. She looked at the door of the nursery. It was firmly closed.

‘I’m going to bed.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Whatever.’

Jamie lay beside her, listening to her crying. He felt so useless and helpless. His emotions swung between grief, hatred, misery, guilt and anger. His whole body felt weak, atrophied. His heart was dead. The funeral service had been the worst experience of his life. Kirsty sobbed throughout. Jamie had stood there feeling sick, useless, wishing he had a shell he could withdraw into. Their daughter, who now had a name: Lily. Jamie tried not to think of her as a living baby, a toddler, a little girl. He tried not to think about her wearing dresses with ribbons, sitting on his lap, laughing, cuddling him and calling him daddy.

He couldn’t bear the painful feelings of love so he smothered them with hatred.

He couldn’t believe he had been so f*cking stupid. Why had he trusted Chris? What had made him believe that they could be friends, or even just friendly? Chris and Lucy were sick, warped, evil. Words ran through his head – words he’d heard in films and read in newspapers to describe psychopaths and criminals; serial killers; Third World tyrants; people who tortured animals; fascists; rapists; teenagers who walked into schools with guns and mowed down their classmates and teachers.

Words like that were bandied around so frequently, they had almost lost their meaning. Now he understood the impact that evil can have on ordinary lives. There was no point trying to figure out why. (Did they have unfortunate childhoods? Had something happened in their past to make them like this? Was it inherent in their nature?) It wasn’t a question of why. It was a question of what:

What are you going to do about it?

He lay awake all night. By the time the sun had risen he had made up his mind.

Mike was standing by the photocopier talking to a blonde girl called Karen. Jamie went straight up to him and said, ‘I want your friends to help me.’

Karen gave them both a strange look. She remembered suddenly what had happened to Jamie’s wife – the sad news was all round the office – and she quickly made her excuses and left them alone.

Mike took Jamie by the elbow and turned him towards the wall so their voices wouldn’t carry.

‘What?’

Jamie looked him in the eye. ‘You know what I’m talking about. I need your friends to help me sort out my neighbours. I want them hurt. Badly. I want them scared. So scared that they’ll move out.’

‘Jamie, are you sure?’

‘Yes. I’m certain.’ He leaned forward until his nose almost touched his colleague’s. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘They killed my baby.’

Mike pulled back. ‘I thought it was just a fall, an accident?’

Jamie shook his head vigorously. His eyes were wide, unblinking. ‘I want you to help me.’

Mike studied him. ‘OK. If it’s what you really want. I have to say, I don’t blame you. If it wasn’t an accident. I’ll give my friends a call this evening and make sure they’re up for it.’

‘Tell them I’ll pay them.’

Mike put his hand on Jamie’s arm. He spoke quietly. ‘Look, I told you, they owe me a favour. I’ll give them a call later, then, if they’re able to do it, you can give me all the details when I next see you. I’ll need the address, descriptions, plus details of what you want done to them.’

‘I want them hurt.’

‘Yes, yes – but they might be able to tailor it to your requirements, if you see what I mean.’

Jamie nodded. ‘That would be good.’

Mike smiled. ‘Now, if I were you I’d go and get a cup of tea. Or go home. You look wrecked, mate.’

Jamie nodded again. ‘Yes, home. Good idea.’ He turned and walked away.

As Jamie stepped into the lift there was an announcement over the tannoy system. ‘Can all members of staff report to the board room on Floor C for an important meeting. I repeat, can all members of staff …’ Jamie stopped listening. The lift reached the ground floor and he walked out to his car. He was going to go home to his wife.

He got back to the flat and said Kirsty’s name as he opened the front door. He noticed that the door to the nursery was still closed. He wondered if she had been in there. He couldn’t bear to. He didn’t want to see the cot and the mobiles and the piles of tiny clothes. People always said that you couldn’t miss what you’d never had. What crap that was. What bullshit.

Kirsty was in the living room, ironing her nurse’s uniform. The TV was on. Some abysmal American talk show. Two women were arguing over an astonishingly ugly man whose face appeared to be sprouting sharp pieces of metal. Jamie turned the volume down.

‘What are you doing?’ he said.

‘Ironing my uniform.’

‘I can see that. But why are you doing it?’

‘Because I’m going into work tomorrow.’

‘Kirsty, it’s too soon. You should rest. Isn’t that what the doctors told you to do?’

She stopped moving. Jamie could see how stiff her shoulders were. She was tensed up like she was afraid the world intended to hurt her. A single tear rolled down her face and landed on the blouse she was ironing.

‘I can’t stay at home. If I stay at home I’ll have nothing to distract me. And I’ll know that they are close by.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Listening to me.’ She looked up. ‘I have to get out of here, Jamie. We’re going to put this place on the market. You can go into town tomorrow and do it, OK? We have to get out. I don’t want to live above them any more.’

‘But…’

‘No protests, please. I’m too tired to argue.’

‘OK. But shit, Kirsty, your uniform!’

She had been holding the iron down on it while they were talking, and now it had started to smoke. She pulled the iron away and a cloud of pale smoke rose upwards, making her cough.

‘Oh f*ck.’

She picked up the blouse and studied it. There was a brown scorch mark where she had burnt it. She held it against her face and began to cry. Jamie came around to her side of the ironing board, unplugged the iron and put his arms around her. They sat on the sofa and cried together for the first time since the accident. They sat there until it grew dark outside.

Jamie stood up and fetched a bottle of wine from the fridge. They both needed alcohol, to numb the pain, if only for one evening. Kirsty sat with her head on Jamie’s shoulder, her feet curled under her. She kept touching her belly, as if she was testing to see if it was really true, if it had really happened.

‘You will go to the estate agent tomorrow, won’t you?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘There’s no point trying to fight them, Jamie, you do know that, don’t you? We’ve already lost. And I just want to get away, start again somewhere else. We’ll buy a house, somewhere quiet. Outside London. You can commute. I’ll get a transfer. We’ll be OK.’

He nodded and kissed her forehead.

‘I take it the police weren’t interested,’ she said. There was so much weariness in her voice. Jamie wondered if she had taken anything: sleeping pills, tranquillizers, downers. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had.

‘They weren’t interested at all. “Just an accident, sir.” That was their line.’

‘That’s what I thought they’d say.’

They were quiet for a while. The TV was still flickering away silently. There was some kids’ programme on now: humanoid puppets in primary colours, dancing around. Jamie found them quite creepy with their mock-human gestures and huge, unblinking eyes. He looked away.

They finished the wine and Kirsty said that she was going to take a bath. Jamie ran it for her, adding loads of bath oil and lighting scented candles around the perimeter of the bath.

‘Can you leave me alone?’ Kirsty said as she stepped into the warm water.

‘Really?’

‘I’m not going to drown myself, Jamie. I just want to lie here in peace for a while.’

‘Okay.’

He went back into the living room and put the ironing board away. The wine was all gone so he opened a can of beer. He thought about what he and Mike had discussed earlier. He felt a shudder of revulsion, a spasm of nausea in his gut. He hated violence, had always abhorred it. But it had to be done. They deserved it. They needed to be punished.

It was important that Kirsty didn’t find out. She hated them too, but he knew she wouldn’t approve. To her, escape was the only solution. But why should they be the ones to flee in terror? Let’s drive Lucy and Chris out. Watch them run.

He listened to her splashing in the bath. He loved her so much, but there were things she didn’t understand: things like masculine pride. There were times when it had to be right to fight. Kirsty had said they had lost already, but he wouldn’t – couldn’t – accept that. They hadn’t lost. Shit, they hadn’t even started fighting back yet. And no, this battle would not be in vain.

He sat down with his beer. As he lifted the can to his mouth he noticed his hand was trembling. He gripped his wrist with his free hand. He reminded himself that he was a man, that he had to be calm. It didn’t help.

He called in sick the next day and drove Kirsty to work. They had both slept deeply, helped by the alcohol, although that hadn’t kept the bad dreams at bay. Jamie woke up and realised he’d had Paul’s coma dream: the birds (he was sure they were birds, not bats) swooping down at him, chasing him, terrifying him. How could a dream be passed from person to person? It made him feel like his grip on reality was even more tenuous than he feared.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he said.

Kirsty nodded. ‘I’m certain.’

‘Alright.’

He kissed her cheek and she got out of the car. She waved and then vanished into the hospital. He had told her he would go straight to the estate agents, and that was what he planned to do. He didn’t want to lie to her, so he drove across the city and parked outside the estate agents where they had first seen the flat advertised. He remembered that day so clearly. The estate agent had told them what a fantastic property this flat was, that it had just come onto the market, that it was sure to be snapped up really quickly.

‘The seller said she hoped it would go to a young couple,’ the agent said. ‘It’s a perfect first home. A great place to build a little nest.’

He sat in the car and looked at the pictures of houses and flats in the estate agent’s window. He wondered if the estate agent had been telling the truth when he said that the seller hoped a young couple would buy the flat. It didn’t really make sense. If Letitia and David had suffered at the hands of Lucy and Chris, why would they want another young couple to undergo the same fate? Maybe Lucy and Chris hadn’t driven them out like he suspected. Or, most likely, it had just been the estate agent spinning them a line, a bit of spiel, like estate agents do. He considered going inside to ask. But what was the point? He doubted if they would remember, or tell the truth. And it wasn’t important anyway. The matter was in hand.

He drove away, back to the flat. He was sure Kirsty would understand eventually. Once Lucy and Chris had been dealt with, there would be no need to move out. They could build their little nest in the flat after all. They could still win.

Later that afternoon, he went to pick Kirsty up from work. She wasn’t waiting outside, so he parked the car and went in. He checked the children’s ward but he couldn’t see her. He spotted Heather over the far side of the ward and went over to her.

‘Hi Heather.’

‘Oh, hi Jamie.’

He hated the way she looked so sorry for him, like he was some pathetic loser. When would people realise, he was going to win? He would show them. He wasn’t weak. He would show them all.

‘Where’s Kirsty?’ he asked.

‘She finished about fifteen minutes ago. I thought she’d be waiting outside.’

‘She’s not.’

Heather’s eyes widened. ‘Oh God, do you think she’s alright? You don’t think she’d do anything stupid, do you?’

He felt a fluttering in his stomach. That was exactly what he’d thought last night when she said she wanted to be left alone in the bathroom. That she would try to harm herself.

‘Come on, follow me.’ Heather led him towards the doctor’s offices. She knocked and entered. ‘Have you seen Kirsty Knight?’

Nobody had.

‘Jamie, I’m sure she’s OK.’

‘So why did you ask me if I thought she’d do something stupid?’

‘I don’t know. I was just…’ She broke off. ‘Come on, she’s probably in the canteen.’

They set off at a jog towards the staff canteen. It was half-empty. Jamie scanned the room quickly. She wasn’t there. He could feel the cold tentacles of dread spreading out, flexing themselves inside him. He could picture her in some store cupboard somewhere, half empty jars of pills lying beside her body. Or her body in a shower, wrists slashed, blood running into the drain. He pinched himself, twisting the skin on his arm until it bruised, trying to expel the visions.

Heather grabbed his arm. ‘Come on. I’ve got an idea where she might be.’

He followed her again: down the stairs, along a corridor, up another long corridor. It was so bright, so stainless. But the smell of death was less noticeable down here; it was replaced by a different scent. In the distance he could hear a baby crying. He suddenly realised where they were heading.

The maternity ward.

They found Kirsty standing against the glass, looking at the babies in the premature baby unit. There were six or seven babies in incubators; a couple of nurses moving among them. Kirsty leant against the glass, gazing in.

‘They’re so tiny,’ she said. ‘Look at them. That one over there was two months premature.’

Jamie put his arms around her and slowly led her away. Heather placed a hand on her back.

‘I was so worried,’ he said softly. ‘We were scared.’

She broke away from him. ‘Scared of what? That I’d kill myself. Or, hey, maybe you thought I’d try to snatch a baby?’

‘No, Kirsty.’

‘Leave me alone!’

She ran down the corridor. Jamie chased after her, their footsteps echoing through the sterile spaces. He caught her at the bottom of the stairs and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly until she stopped struggling and went limp in his arms.

Heather caught up. ‘Is she alright?’ she asked.

Jamie nodded. ‘I’ll take her home.’

He led her out to the car. People gave them strange looks. He could read their minds. How disgusting – that nurse was clearly drunk. And what was wrong with the fellow who was holding her up?

Why was he crying?