The Magpies: A Psychological Thriller by Mark Edwards
‘But they won’t even answer the door to us.’
‘So let’s write them a letter. That’s obviously how they want to communicate.’
She opened a desk drawer and took out a writing pad and a pen. Then she sat on the sofa and chewed the end of the pen thoughtfully.
‘What are you going to put?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to help me. I haven’t written a letter on paper for years.’
Jamie sat beside her and, over the next hour, they composed a letter, Kirsty holding the pen because she had the neatest handwriting (Jamie had been using a keyboard to write everything for so long he had almost forgotten how to do joined-up writing), with Jamie looking over her shoulder, making suggestions.
Dear Lucy and Chris
We have to confess that we were surprised by your letter. We class ourselves as your friends, as well as your neighbours, and we would have thought that if you have a problem with the levels of noise (of whatever sort) coming from our flat you would have felt able to approach us in person. We could then discuss the situation as friends – and as adults.
As it is, the tone of your letter is very unpleasant, and we also find it difficult to express how unhappy we are that you recorded us. We insist that you delete the recording and destroy any physical copies you’ve made.
‘Should we state that if they don’t we’re going to go to a solicitor?’ said Jamie.
‘Jamie, you know what I think. I don’t think we should get too heavy – not yet anyway. I’m hoping we can sort this out among ourselves.’
‘Yes. You’re right.’
We will make sure that we don’t play music loudly, and will try to ensure that we don’t make any unnecessary, excessive noise. However, when you live in a flat you have to accept that you will experience a certain amount of noise from your neighbours, and you need to learn to tolerate this. For example, when you had your barbecue a fortnight ago we did not complain about the raucous laughter coming from your garden until late at night (or the smoke that came in through our back window).
We do hope that we can rebuild our relationship as neighbours, and live in harmony. We would like to discuss this, so feel free to visit us at any time.
Yours sincerely
Kirsty and Jamie
P.S. You may be interested to know that Paul is still in a coma following the accident. The doctors are unsure when – or even if – he will recover.
‘Are you sure we should include the bit about the barbecue?’ said Jamie.
Two weeks ago, Lucy and Chris and two other couples had stood in the Newtons’ back garden, eating burnt sausages and telling bad jokes loudly. Jamie and Kirsty hadn’t been at all disturbed by the event, although they both thought privately that it wasn’t right that Lucy and Chris were out there having what they clearly saw as fun, while Paul lay in a hospital bed, especially when Lucy and Chris hadn’t even asked how Paul was. Jamie was still outraged by this – almost as much as he was outraged by the letter and CD. He had insisted that Kirsty add the P.S. about Paul’s condition. He wanted the Newtons to be reminded that Paul existed.
Kirsty considered Jamie’s question about the barbecue. ‘I don’t see why not. We’re making a valid point about neighbourly tolerance. Maybe it will make them see things from our point of view.’
They both signed the letter and sealed it in an envelope. Then they went outside to post it, Kirsty waiting at the top of the steps while Jamie ran down to put it through their neighbours’ front door. The letter box closed with a loud thud and Jamie hurried back up the steps. Earlier, he would have been just about able to handle a confrontation. Now, though, he was tired, and he wanted to get indoors, to the safety of the flat, his haven.
They went back into the communal hallway and Kirsty closed the front door, the hinges squeaking noisily. They heard a door close above them and Mary came into view, heaving a large suitcase down the stairs. She smiled when she saw Jamie and Kirsty, and they waited for her to reach the bottom of the stairs. As she descended, the smell of some herb or flower that neither Jamie nor Kirsty recognised, drifted ahead of her.
‘How are you both?’ Mary asked in a concerned tone. Jamie had told her about Paul – who she said she had seen coming and going – when he had bumped into her a couple of weeks before.
‘Oh, not bad. Just waiting to see what happens.’ He shrugged sadly.
(Kirsty told Jamie later that she was convinced Mary was going to suggest some kind of herbal remedy to rouse Paul from his coma. ‘If she had,’ Kirsty said, ‘I would have really lost my temper.’)
‘That’s the worst part, isn’t it? Waiting. Hoping time will heal.’
Jamie nodded. ‘That’s exactly right.’
Mary touched him at the top of his arm, then did the same to Kirsty. She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind.
‘Are you going on holiday?’ Jamie asked, gesturing towards the suitcase.
‘I wish. But I’m going to a convention in Birmingham. It’s a kind of trade fair for practitioners of alternative medicine. I go every year. Actually, I was going to come and knock on your door because I need to ask you a small favour. Would you mind feeding Lennon for me while I’m away? I’ll only be gone three nights.’
‘Sure. No problem at all.’
Mary fished her keys out of her bag and handed them to Jamie. ‘I’ve left the tins of food on the worktop in the kitchen. He won’t need feeding now until tomorrow morning. Half a tin morning and night.’
‘I’ll pop in before I go to work.’
‘That’s marvellous. Thank you so much.’
When Mary had gone and Jamie and Kirsty were in their flat, Kirsty said, ‘I think she fancies you.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Haven’t you noticed the way she looks at you?’
‘What way?’
‘Like she wants to eat you for breakfast.’
‘You’re loopy. Although, of course, one couldn’t blame her if she had developed an overwhelming lust for someone as gorgeous as me. It would only be natural, after all.’
‘That’s right. I’ve had such a terrible life since we got together, fighting other women off you, never a moment’s peace.’
Their laughter filled the flat, and as they laughed the tension in the air dissipated. Jamie put Mary’s keys down on his desk, where the writing pad lay open, displaying the rough first draft of their letter.
‘Do you want a drink?’ he said, going to the fridge and taking out a bottle of wine.
‘Hmm, yes please. I need one.’
That night, in bed, Jamie moved close to Kirsty and began to kiss her face and neck, stroking the silk-soft skin of her inner thigh. He moved down beneath the quilt and kissed her breasts and tummy, gradually moving lower until his head was between her legs. He kissed her and moved his tongue in slow circles around her clitoris, an action that usually made her groan and push herself against his face. Tonight, though, she didn’t react. Something was wrong.
He tried again, pushing his tongue inside her, stroking her thighs with his palms, moving his tongue in motions that normally made her gasp. But still, she gave no reaction.
He shifted up the bed so he was lying beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m not in the mood, Jamie.’
‘Oh. OK.’
She kissed him, grimacing slightly at the taste of herself on his lips. ‘I’d like to, but I can’t really relax. Listening to that CD really freaked me out. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do.’ He sighed. ‘I still can’t believe they did it.’
‘When you started to go down on me just then I imagined that they were down there, listening, maybe even taping us. And I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t get into it.’
‘Do you think they get some kind of perverted thrill out of it?’
‘I don’t know, Jamie. But do you remember all the things they said about the couple who lived here before us? Lucy even said something about noise that day a
‘Because otherwise we’re going to have to soundproof the bedroom.’
They kissed goodnight and turned over to face their separate ways. Jamie kept his eyes open for a few minutes. His heart was beating fast. He wasn’t able to sleep until his anger had subsided.
Beside him, Kirsty entered REM sleep and began to dream. She had the dream about the gingerbread house again. She ran through the woods, saw the beautiful, tempting house and went inside. This time, the witch was absent, and Kirsty saw that the door handles were actually the most delicious-looking toffee apples. She took one and bit into it.
Like Snow White, a piece of the poisoned apple caught in her throat and she fell to the floor. As her eyes closed she saw a figure standing over her. The figure was wearing a black cloak and hood and she couldn’t make out if they were male or female. All she could see was a pair of eyes, glowing in the shadow cast by the hood.
She woke up sweating, turned over and put her arm around Jamie. With her hand on his chest, she could feel the rapid, angry beat of his heart. Both of them lay awake for a long time, not speaking. They were both thinking about Lucy and Chris. Kirsty felt as if the poison from the dreamt-of apple had stayed in her body, and was seeping into her bloodstream. It was the last thing she thought of before she finally got back to sleep: herself poisoned, in a coma, lying beside Paul.
‘Right, I’ll pop up and feed that cat.’ Jamie picked up Mary’s keys.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘It’ll only take one of us.’
‘I know. But I want to have a look at Mary’s flat. I haven’t been in there yet, unlike you, you tart. Always visiting strange women’s flats while your poor, long-suffering girlfriend sobs alone at home.’
‘Yes, I suppose I could show you the spot where she jumped on me and forced me to shag her.’
‘Oh yes. That would be a treat.’
They were both a little shaky after a night of bad dreams, but neither of them wanted to show it, over-compensating with humour. Jamie had half-expected to find a letter from the Newtons on the doormat, but so far there was nothing. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed.
They went up to Mary’s flat hand-in-hand, noting the rain that pattered against the window in the stairwell. Jamie unlocked the door, pushing it open cautiously. They went inside.
‘Nice place,’ said Kirsty. She looked around, scanning the bookshelves, inspecting the Pre-Raphaelite prints on the walls. There were numerous bottles of oils and essences laid out on the table, and she picked up a few and sniffed them. Joss stick holders and incense burners lined the mantelpiece. An Indian throw hung on one wall. There were carved figurines from Africa and Asia all over the place. ‘It’s bigger than our flat, isn’t it?’
‘It’s exactly the same.’
Kirsty returned to the bookshelves. ‘Look at these. Enchanted. A Practical Guide to Magick. The Wiccan Arts. Loads of books about black magic. Hey, maybe Lucy was right about her.’
Jamie crouched beside her and looked at one of the books. ‘These are about white magic,’ he said. ‘But look, here’s a truly Satanic tome: The Reader’s Digest Guide to Alternative Medicine. Now where’s that cat?’
His question was answered immediately as Lennon came padding into the room.
‘Hi cat,’ said Kirsty.
They went into the kitchen, found the supply of cat food and Jamie forked some of the meat onto a plastic dish. Lennon ate away happily.
‘So,’ Jamie said. ‘Have you had a good enough nose around?’
‘Yes thanks.’ She looked at the floor. ‘Actually, while we’re up here, I want to try something. I want to see how sound carries between these flats. We hardly ever hear Mary moving around, do we? You go downstairs into our flat and I’ll run around a bit.’
‘OK.’
He went downstairs and stood in the living room, knowing that Kirsty was standing right above him. It was silent in the flat, and he cocked an ear to the ceiling. He heard a light padding sound; he thought he could hear someone talking, but very faintly. He went back upstairs.
‘So what could you hear?’ Kirsty asked.
‘Hardly anything. Very light footsteps, some muffled talking – but I had to really listen hard. What were you doing?’
‘I was running up and down the room. I jumped a couple of times, like this.’ She jumped and landed heavily. ‘And I put the TV on and turned it up loud. Like this.’ She flicked the TV on and boosted the volume. ‘Are you saying you couldn’t hear that?’
‘Hardly.’
‘It doesn’t make sense. It can’t be that the floorboards in our flat are extra thin. Lucy and Chris must have really sensitive hearing.’
‘Yeah. Like dogs.’
Kirsty was right. It didn’t make sense.
Eleven
Jamie couldn’t stand the smell of hospitals. The cloying stink of disinfectant; the vapour trails of anguish and pain and disease. He was glad that Kirsty showered and changed when she got home from work – he would hate it if that smell clung to her all evening instead of the clean, warm natural smells of her body. He sometimes felt that he had a more finely-tuned sense of smell than most people – a sensitivity that made it impossible for him to stay in certain malodorous places. When he drove past a crematorium, he could smell ashes and fumes. Public toilets contained many horrors. The stink of body odour on the Tube made him want to be sick. But the worst smell of all was the smell of hospitals.
He sat beside Paul’s bed, sucking a mint, exhaling in sharp breaths so its smell replaced that of the hospital. Walking up the corridor this afternoon he had seen a porter hurriedly pushing a trolley on which there lay a dead body, covered from head to toe with a green sheet. Now Jamie looked at Paul, his chest rising and falling, the steady pulse of his heartbeat amplified electronically by the machines that monitored his condition, and felt a rush of gratitude and relief: Paul was still alive, and whatever else happened, that was a blessing to cling to. Every morning, a nurse came to give Paul a wash and a shave. Periodically, hospital staff trimmed his nails and cut his hair. In fact, Heather had asked if she could cut his hair herself and, having done so, she carried a lock with her in her bag. Jamie thought that was pretty morbid himself, but he understood Heather’s motivation. Paul’s body was still functioning – growing, aging, shedding, replenishing; all the things that bodies do. These things were a tangible reminder that Paul was still with them.
Jamie sat silently as usual. He had spoken to Dr Meer earlier, who said there had been no change in Paul’s condition. Jamie wondered how far beneath the surface Paul was, if he was making any progress that they couldn’t see. He wondered if, in his comatose state, Paul dreamed – and, if so, what he dreamed of. Women, probably. Megan Fox mud-wrestling with Rihanna.
He stood up. It was six o’clock – time to meet Kirsty and take her home. As he was about to leave the room he turned round and looked down at his friend. He could have sworn he had moved. He bent over him, holding his breath, searching for signs of movement or change. There were none.
‘Must have imagined it,’ he murmured to himself. He touched Paul’s cheek. It was warm.
He walked back down the corridor and up a long flight of stairs. A pair of nurses passed him as he headed towards the children’s ward. They recognised him, and smiled. After they’d passed by he heard them laugh, and he felt a stab of paranoia, convinced they were laughing at him. He hurried on, suddenly desperate to be out of here, away from the smell and the people and the bright, sterile lighting. He wanted to be at home.
But when he thought of home, he felt anxious too.
All day he had been haunted by
‘Hiya darling,’ said Kirsty, when they met outside the main entrance. He was so pleased to see her he almost burst into tears.
‘Are you alright? You look–’
He nodded quickly. ‘I just want to get home.’
‘OK.’
Kirsty took the wheel because Jamie didn’t feel in the mood to tackle the traffic. He couldn’t even stand listening to the radio. The news gave him a headache so he turned it off and they drove home in silence, Jamie resting his head against the window, gazing out at the city streets.
Litter twisted and turned as it danced along the pavement from the high street McDonalds. A group of boys stood on the corner outside the off-license, trying to persuade passers-by to go in to buy them some beer, hurling abuse after everyone who said no. A young Asian woman in a business suit stood at a bus stop, studying her reflection in the sheen of the glass that covered an advert for health insurance, reapplying her lipstick. A fat man stood close by with a Staffordshire bull terrier on a lead. The dog shivered as it pushed out a large turd, then the man produced a plastic bag and a scoop, cleaning up after his pet before hurrying away. Somewhere up ahead, a police car’s siren wailed histrionically before stopping dead. This evening, the city seemed tawdry and sad. Jamie heard himself sigh. Kirsty touched his leg.
‘Do you want to pick up a Chinese on the way home?’
‘I’m not really hungry.’
‘Suit yourself.’