The Magpies A Psychological Thriller

Twenty-seven


The letter arrived on a Tuesday morning.

The night before, he had eaten the last of the food he had bought on his final trip to the supermarket, and had lain awake half the night wondering what he was going to do. The quickest solution was to sell something. He didn’t want to sell any of his possessions, but the most obvious thing was his Playstation 3 and accompanying collection of games. He still had the games console’s original box, so he packed it up and put it by the door, along with a bag of games.

He walked down the hill with the box held out in front of him. There was no petrol left in his car, but luckily there was a shop nearby that bought second hand goods like computer games and videos.

The man in the shop offered him £50 for the lot. Jamie haggled and ended up with £65. On the way home he stopped at the local Co-Op and bought enough groceries to last a few days. He also bought more cigarettes and another bottle of vodka; the other one was long gone.

When he got home the post had been. There was a single letter lying on the doormat. He picked it up and studied it: it was for him, with a handwritten name and address.

He almost dropped it on the pile of letters that had accumulated over the last few weeks, post comprised of two distinct groups. Firstly, there were the bills and reminders, letters informing him of all the direct debits that had failed: the mortgage, the house insurance, the council tax, the phone bill.

Secondly, there was the junk mail. Lucy and Chris had started that campaign again. Letters from the Samaritans asked him if he was feeling lonely, depressed, suicidal? Worst of all were the letters from charities who raised money for parents who had lost babies; envelopes that bore statistics about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome; letters asking him to make a contribution towards research. Then there were the letters from pro-life groups, whose envelopes always bore pictures of foetuses; letters that spelled out exactly how developed an embryo or foetus was at four weeks, six weeks, eight weeks, twelve.

Jamie threw both types of letter onto a pile and refused to look at them. The thing with the junk mail was that he knew this was mild for Lucy and Chris. It was as if they weren’t really trying very hard. He knew that sooner or later they would try something bigger. He didn’t want to think about what that might be – but whatever it was, he was staying put.

He carried the handwritten letter in and sat down with it on the sofa.. He thought at first that it might be from Kirsty – who he still hadn’t spoken to – but a second glance told him that although it was similar to her writing, this hadn’t come from her. He lit a cigarette then tore the letter open.

It was from Letitia, the previous occupant of the flat. His heartbeat lost its steady rhythm for a moment. He had practically forgotten he had written to her, back when he was trying to find out whether she had lent the Newtons a key to the flat. He started to read:

Dear Jamie

Firstly, please accept my apologies that it has taken me so long to reply to your letter. At first, I thought the letter had been sent to the wrong person, because it was addressed to L Pica. My name is Matthews – it always has been, and David’s surname is Robson. Pica is the name of the woman we sold the flat to and, I assume, who you bought the flat from. I guess you never met Ms Pica – we never did either. It seems she bought the flat from us and then sold it on to you very quickly. I don’t know how much you paid for the flat, but she bought it from us very cheaply so I guess she made a tidy profit. Anyway, that isn’t important.

The other reason for my delay in replying is that your letter upset me a great deal. I had hoped to forget the names of Lucy and Chris Newton. I wish now that I hadn’t left a forwarding address with Mary. I had intended to sever all links with that flat. Before we left I scrubbed every inch of it. I wanted to wipe it completely from my memory.

Although that has been impossible.

Since we moved out in May, I have had the same dream every night. I am running through the woods when I spy the most wonderful looking gingerbread house, like in Hansel and Gretel. I go inside, and there is the witch. Lucy Newton, with that bastard husband of hers by her side. Chris Newton. That f*cker.

Excuse me. But I cannot write their names without shaking. Yes, many of the things they have done to you, they did to us as well. The hoax letters, the banging on the ceiling, the constant complaints about noise, even though we are both very quiet people. In fact, since living in that flat, I have developed an extreme aversion to noise. Several therapists have tried to cure me, but the only cure is peace and quiet. That is why it is so wonderful living here. We live in a small stone farmhouse on the edge of a very quiet village. Our nearest neighbour is a mile away. It is bliss.

I suppose I should start from the beginning, although I am afraid it upsets me too much to write about this at great length. I will try my best, though.

Jamie finished his first cigarette and lit another. He read on, enrapt.

We moved into the flat in April last year, thirteen months before we moved out. The flat seemed perfect. No, the flat was perfect: it was the neighbours who made it less so. The space, the light, the warmth. It seemed like the ideal place to start out. We were so full of optimism. Well, you say the very same thing in your letter. We thought it was paradise. We were under the impression that we were lucky.

When we moved in we saw that the flat downstairs was empty but had a Sold board up. A week later, Chris and Lucy moved in. The next day, they came up to introduce themselves. They said they had moved to this part of London from Ealing; they said they had left because they had had a run-in with a previous neighbour. I sympathised. Hah! I wonder now who that poor sod might have been and what kind of state they’re in now. Whatever, it seems that Lucy and Chris had grown tired of their old haunting ground and decided to try somewhere new. Fresh blood, as it were.

Sorry if I sound cynical and angry. Writing this is bringing it all back. David just told me to throw this letter away, to forget about it, but I feel we owe you something. We should have left a warning. Although I bet you wouldn’t have believed us. You saw the flat and fell in love with it like we did. Who would heed a warning about such a lovely place?

Anyway: At first, the Newtons were friendly – just like they were with you – coming to dinner, meeting our friends. We went to the pub with them once or twice. We lent them books and DVDs. I thought it would be a long, mutually-rewarding friendship.

Then one day, we went swimming: not just the four of us, but also two of our friends, Angela and Steve. We went to the beach at Camber Sands. Chris brought a dinghy and we took it in turns to go out in it. It was great fun. It was a hot, sunny day, and after going out on the dinghy, we lay on the sand, sunbathing, chatting, basically having a really nice time. Then Chris said that he wanted to go out in the dinghy again, and he asked if any of us wanted to come along. Most of us were too hot and settled where we were. Lucy hadn’t been out anyway, as she said she couldn’t swim. Chris made a point of asking Angela and Steve if they wanted to go out. Steve said no, so Chris turned to Angela, really badgering her until she said yes.

I ought to point out that Angela was my best friend, and had been for many years, since we were at school in fact. I knew Angela didn’t feel very confident in the water – she wasn’t a strong swimmer – but I also knew that she fancied Chris a bit (God knows why – he makes my flesh creep – and no, Angela wasn’t going out with Steve, in case you’re wondering). I thought it was peculiar that Lucy didn’t seem to mind the way Chris was flirting with Angela and trying to get her to go out on the dinghy. Lucy had always struck me as the jealous type. She hated Mary – called her a witch – and I thought it was because she thought Mary fancied Chris (again: uugh). But today, she seemed oblivious to Chris and Angela’s behaviour, and when Angela gave in and said she would go out on the dinghy, Lucy didn’t bat an eyelid.

I think you can probably guess what happened next, Jamie. We were lying on the beach, not paying much attention to the dinghy, which was by now a speck in the distance. Chris had gone a long way out. Afterwards, the lifeguards told me that they had been a little worried, and were keeping an eye on the dinghy.

Which was why they reacted so quickly when it capsized. I remember seeing two of the lifeguards run past us and into the water. I looked up and tried to focus on the dinghy. The sun was so high in the sky I couldn’t really see.

The four of us stood up and ran down to the water’s edge, where a small crowd had gathered, watching the lifeguards. I could see the dinghy in the distance, bobbing around. There was no-one in it.

Lucy let out this strange sound, which I thought was a yelp of distress. I think now it was actually excitement. We waited on the edge of the beach, the sea lapping at out feet, helpless, waiting to see what the lifeguards would do.

They eventually towed the dinghy in to shore. An ambulance was on its way. I ran over to the dinghy. Chris was sitting up, rubbing his face with his hands. One of the lifeguards was giving Angela the kiss of life. He kept blowing into her mouth then thumping her chest, then trying again. Eventually, another lifeguard touched him on the arm and told him it was no good. It was too late.

Chris’s story was that Angela had lunged at him, trying to kiss him. Appalled by the idea of being unfaithful, he had backed away quickly, capsizing the dinghy. Angela fell in and when she didn’t emerge, Chris dived in trying to save her. It was deep and the current was strong. It was too late. The lifeguards said that when they got there Chris was diving under and under, trying to find Angela, but without success. The lifeguards dove deep, found her and pulled her out. But she was already dead.

We came home in a state of shock. At the time, I believed Chris’s story. I went into a period of mourning for my best friend. I didn’t see Chris or Lucy for a while. The next time we had contact with them was when the hoaxes and threats started.

You see, that’s what they do. They hurt – or kill – someone you care for in order to make you weak. And then they move in for the kill. Your friend was lucky that he didn’t die. I imagine Chris and Lucy were rather upset by that. But you were still worried about him, and therefore you weren’t at full strength. You were still vulnerable enough for them to attack you.

Over the next year they waged a campaign of hatred against us. The letters and hoaxes I could put up with (in fact, as with yourselves, the hoaxes had begun before that trip to the beach – taxis turning up all hours of the day, which led to us being blacklisted by a lot of firms, and endless parcels). It was the other stuff that eventually drove us out.

They played recordings. Every night, almost all night long, they played these awful recordings of people whispering or screaming, talking or shouting. God, I can hear them now. On and on and on they went, getting inside your head until you thought the voices were actually originating inside your head. You could never quite make out what the voices were saying. Sometimes you could make out a line of dialogue, but because the volume was just too low, you started to make things up yourself. I thought I could hear Angela talking to me, asking me to help her, telling me she was still under the sea, drowning. Sometimes the voices sounded foreign, or they would let out ear-piercing screams in the dead of night. It was indescribably awful. Chris and Lucy had devised a way of torturing us, and it worked. In the end, we had to wear headphones in bed and listen to music. By then, though, it was too late. The damage had been done.

I went to the police and showed them the letters. I told them about the recordings. I asked them to come round in the night to listen to what we had to endure, but they never did. They thought I was making it up – especially when I accused Chris of murdering my friend. I saw bulbs light up above their heads. This mad woman – who spoke in a whisper – was upset with her neighbour because he had been involved in an accident with her best friend, and she blamed him. It was an easy conclusion to reach.

Jamie paused. Why were the police so useless? When he had complained about the Newtons, shouldn’t the police have looked them up in their records and seen that other people had complained before? Dodds had seemed sympathetic, but he hadn’t done his work properly, had he? It was a joke.

He read on.

Eventually, after months of torment, I couldn’t bear it any more. I was having violent dreams in which I attempted to kill Lucy and Chris and always failed. My psychiatrist told me I should move. I think one of the worst things was knowing that Chris was free, even though I was sure he was a murderer. I saw him nearly every day. He was a constant reminder of my loss.

I guess I have gone on at length, after all. I suppose I should be feeling some sort of catharsis now, but I don’t. In fact, I feel worse.

I really wish I could help you in some way, but I’m simply not strong enough to come down there. You could show this letter to the police to back up your story, but I don’t want to talk to them again about it. All I want is to forget.

In answer to your question – no, we didn’t ever give a key to the flat to Lucy and Chris. I thank God we didn’t.

Please don’t write back to me. Like I said, I want to forget. It’s going to take a long time, but I hope I might get there in the end. We both, however, wish you luck. My advice is to get out, go far away. But if you find a way of making Lucy and Chris pay for what they’ve done, I’ll be cheering you all the way – even if I do have to remain invisible in the background.

With very best wishes

Letitia and David

Jamie put the letter down. Thoughts refused to knit together properly in his head. Somehow, though, he knew, all this could have been avoided. If only.

It was too late for if only.

Suddenly, he had to get out of the flat. The rooms felt haunted. He put his coat on and ran out into the hallway. He collided with Mary and knocked her backwards, almost forcing her to lose her balance.

‘Jamie, mind where you’re… Hey, are you alright?’

He couldn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at her, mute.

‘Jamie, what’s happened? What’s wrong?’

He still couldn’t speak or move. He seemed to have gone into some sort of catatonic state.

‘Jamie? Wake up?’

He blinked at her, and she slowly came into focus. ‘Mary,’ he whispered.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s get you back in your flat.’

‘No! I don’t want to.’

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

He shook his head.

‘OK, come on. Let’s get you upstairs.’

She led him up the stairs. He was in a trance, and the next thing he knew he was sitting on Mary’s sofa, beside Lennon, who was purring steadily. Mary bent over him and offered him a mug of hot, steaming liquid. Jamie sniffed it. Some kind of herbal tea. Ugh.

‘What’s the matter, Jamie?’ she said.

‘It’s…everything.’

‘Has something happened to Kirsty?’

He shook his head. ‘She’s gone. She left me.’

She nodded. He guessed she had probably figured that out already. After all, Kirsty hadn’t been around for a while.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she said.

He sipped the tea. He was beginning to feel a little calmer, but his mind was still racing, remembering what he had read in Letitia’s letter. ‘You remember I asked you for the address of Letitia and David? I received a letter from them today.’

Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. What’s that got to do with Kirsty?’

‘No. It’s not Kirsty – it’s Lucy and Chris.’

‘What about them?’

He sighed. And then he told Mary everything, right from the beginning: from the first hoax, when the fire brigade turned up at his party, through the dead rats (‘I’m embarrassed to admit that I suspected Lennon at first,’ he said) and the letters and Paul’s supposed accident and the spiders and Kirsty’s miscarriage, all the way through to the second incident with the fire brigade. The only bit he left out was the part about the men he had given the money to. He was too ashamed to tell her about that.

After he had finished telling her she was silent for a while. Eventually she said, ‘My God, Jamie. I had no idea. I knew you were having some sort of problems, but I thought maybe it was just the worry of starting a family. I’ve never liked Lucy and Chris. I always thought there was something a bit nasty about them, but I really didn’t think–’ She shrugged. ‘Well, who would? It’s not the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen in real life, is it?’

‘I know.’

‘Poor Kirsty. Poor you.’

‘And Letitia and David too. The letter I got from them today explained that they’d been through pretty much the same as us.’

‘I always thought something had happened to them. They were so happy when they moved in. I remember Letitia coming up here and telling me how excited they were to have found the flat. I knew about Letitia’s friend dying, and I thought that was what made them want to move away. I feel so stupid. Maybe if I’d known, I could have helped.’

At that moment, Lennon walked into the room, sparking a memory in Jamie’s head. ‘You know when Lennon went missing and you were really worried about him? I saw him with Lucy. In fact, I’m sure she was keeping him in their flat.’

Mary’s mouth dropped open.

‘I expect she knew how worried you’d be and got a kick out of it.’

On cue, the cat jumped onto Mary’s lap and she wrapped her arms around him.

‘Perhaps you could help me now,’ Jamie said.

‘Of course. Anything.’

He put down his drink. He had only drunk half of it. ‘I need to get into the Newtons’ flat. I’ve been to the police about Lucy and Chris and they think I’m inventing it all. The same happened to Letitia and David. If I can get into the basement flat I might be able to find some evidence. A key to my flat, for example, to prove that Chris could have got into my flat to plant that virus. Or a diary. That would be good. There has to be something in there that will incriminate them, especially if I put it together with Letitia’s letter and remind the police that Chris has been involved in two accidents: three if you include Kirsty’s miscarriage.’

‘Isn’t that enough? Surely if you remind the police about Letitia’s friend…’

‘No, because there’s no evidence. It would never stand up in court. It wouldn’t even get to court. I need something more. I’m certain that if I get into their flat I’ll find it.’

Mary nodded. ‘So what can I do?’

‘I need them out of the way for an hour or so. Maybe you could ask them to dinner or something.’

‘But, Jamie, they don’t like me.’

‘I know. Lucy says you’re a witch.’

Mary raised an eyebrow. ‘Does she indeed. I wish I was. I’d turn her into a mouse and let Lennon play with her.’

Jamie laughed.

Mary said, ‘I’ve got an idea. Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.’

She left Jamie on his own and left the flat. She was gone for over half an hour, leaving him twiddling his thumbs, wishing he had his cigarettes with him. He chewed his fingernails, trying to work out another way to get into the flat if Mary couldn’t help him. What was she doing? He had a sudden horrible feeling that she had gone to tell Lucy and Chris what he planned to do; that she was colluding with them. A minute later she came back, and he realised he was being paranoid and ridiculous. She had Brian with her.

Jamie stood up and Brian said, ‘Mary’s just explained everything to me. I just feel sorry that I didn’t know about it before.’

Jamie shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘You should have told us, Jamie. We might have been able to help.’

‘I didn’t know you well enough, and anyway, nobody I told ever believed me. Apart from a friend at work.’ Yes, and his attempts to help had ended disastrously.

Brian nodded. ‘We’re here to help you now. We don’t want people like that living in these flats. It makes me feel ill. I quite understand your need to gather evidence, so’ – he looked at the ceiling – ‘as much as it will pain me to have those people eating from our plates and drinking from our cups, Linda and I will invite them to dinner. We’ve always got on alright with them. Obviously, we’re lucky that we don’t live in the flat directly above them.’

Jamie took hold of Brian’s hand and shook it. ‘Thank you so much.’

Mary said, ‘How will you get into the flat?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t break in because I don’t want them to know I’ve been in there.’

‘I think we can help on that score too,’ Brian said. ‘An elderly couple used to live in the basement flat.’

‘Mr and Mrs Chambers,’ said Mary.

‘Yes, and Linda and I were very good friends with them. It was very sad: Mr Chambers died and Mrs Chambers ended up in a home. Anyway, they were quite forgetful – a bit of a scatty old couple, actually. They locked themselves out a couple of times. In the end, they gave me a key in case they did it again. I’ve still got it. I know I should have given it back when they moved out, but I forgot. Luckily.’

‘Problem solved,’ said Mary.

‘Assuming the Newtons accept our dinner invitation.’

Jamie waited while Brian went upstairs and looked for the key. A few minutes later he returned and handed it to Jamie. ‘I just hope they haven’t changed the locks. If you go back to your flat now, I’ll call you and let you know if they’ve accepted the invitation.’

‘OK.’

Before he left, Mary hugged him. ‘We’ll sort this out for you, Jamie. Don’t you worry.’

Later that evening, the phone rang. It was Brian.

‘It’s all set,’ he said. ‘They were delighted to accept. I told them we’d planned a dinner party, even bought all the ingredients, and then our friends had dropped out. They didn’t seem to mind that they were last minute replacements.’

‘So when is it?’

‘Tomorrow night. Seven-thirty.’