Those People

by Louise Candlish

  I wouldn’t count on it, Ralph thought. This guy wouldn’t know biscotti if they pounded him from the sky in a blizzard.

  The child-free window being narrow, the three set off at once. Since the Kendalls had revived number 3 with fresh paintwork and palm-print roller blinds, number 1 had been a drab counterpart to its twin, but the contrast this morning was more pronounced than ever. The wall was completely eviscerated, or, rather, redistributed into a mountain of bricks and rubble on the lawn, and the effect on the house was to make it look far more desolate than when it had been unoccupied. The white van had been moved into the drive, parallel with a ten-year-old Ford Focus parked partially on the grass, and bumper to bumper with a Honda, which hung off the bottom of the drive and blocked the sidewalk. The Honda was raised on a professional-looking hydraulic jack and under its chassis lay Booth, his face just visible.

  “Hello again,” said Ralph. “I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday.” Perhaps it was his choice of words, perhaps the shattered remains of the wall in his peripheral vision, but he had the sudden hooligan impulse to step forward and stamp on the man’s head.

  Don’t be a nutter. Breathe more out than in.

  “Any chance you could come out from under there for a minute?” Naomi called, pitch-perfect breezy, and Booth duly slid out and sprang to his feet, unsettlingly agile.

  Devoid this time of dust and dirt, his features were clearer to see—a bulging forehead and flat boxer’s nose; a relaxed, almost gentle mouth that was at odds with the insolence of his pale-eyed gaze.

  Was it insolence, or was that Ralph’s own projection? He wasn’t so egocentric as to not suspect that the others’ instincts might differ from his. They might like him.

  “We wanted to welcome you to the street,” Naomi said warmly. “I’m Naomi Morgan and this is my husband, Ralph, and his brother, Finn.”

  Booth glanced from Naomi to Ralph to Finn, settling on Ralph. “What is this, the return of the Kray twins?”

  Naomi smiled gamely. “They’re not twins, no, but they are next-door neighbors. We’re at numbers 5 and 7.”

  Booth screwed up his eyes like this was hard to process. “You’re brothers, living next door to each other?”

  “Yes,” Naomi said. “We’re lucky—it’s a very happy arrangement. You’re probably wondering who lives next door to you.” She gestured to number 3 and Booth glanced over his shoulder as if only now noticing his new house had another one attached to it. “Ant and Em Kendall, a lovely couple with a gorgeous baby boy. They’re on holiday at the moment, back next weekend, I think.”

  Poor buggers, Ralph thought. “I didn’t catch your name yesterday,” he said. He knew it, of course, but he didn’t want the guy to know they’d been checking up on him like the secret police.

  “Darren.”

  “Well, full disclosure, Darren,” Naomi said, her voice conspiratorial. “It’s disappointing for us to see the wall taken down, because we campaigned to save it three years ago, when the council wanted to widen the road. It was blatant land grabbing, completely illegal.”

  “You need to make sure you rebuild on exactly the same boundary. Otherwise they’ll be straight back in there,” Finn advised.

  “He’s right,” Ralph said. “That’s why I was so shocked yesterday. I’m sorry if I was a bit abrupt.” He was aware that the apology didn’t sound sincere—it wasn’t—but the sight of Sissy crossing to join them inspired fresh bonhomie: “Ah, Sissy, come and meet our new neighbor, Darren!”

  “Morning, everyone,” said Sissy, in her pleasant, unassuming way. She held a bunch of crocuses, hand-tied with green ribbon. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Darren. I see you’ve already been busy. . . .”

  Destroying a historic part of our street, Ralph finished silently. To him—to all of them—Sissy was a touchstone of old-school decency. Solidly built and direct of gaze, she always kept her silver-streaked hair pinned from her face as if to display the full force of her integrity. Today she was dressed in a well-pressed skirt and blouse, which likely meant she had B and B guests, as she often did at weekends. Breakfast must have been served by now. Lowland Way was wide, wide as an avenue, but Ralph didn’t envy her the direct view she had of the rubbish heap Booth had created in less than twenty-four hours.

  “Are you related to Jean?” she asked Darren.

  “She was my mum’s half sister. We weren’t close.” Even though it was Sissy who’d asked the question, Ralph noticed that Darren eyed him when he answered.

  “She was a lovely lady,” Sissy said. “I’m sorry for your loss. Are you new to the area? Where did you live before?”

  Again, he directed his response at Ralph. “Loughborough Estate.”

  Quite an upgrade, then: the Loughborough Estate was a few miles north and not without its share of crime and deprivation.

  “Is it just you or do you have a family?” Naomi asked.

  “Just me and my other half.”

  “Is she in? Busy unpacking, I expect. I’d love to give her these.” Sissy raised the flowers. “They’re from my garden.”

  “She’s still in bed, I think,” Darren said.

  Ralph didn’t need to look to know that both Sissy and Naomi would be suppressing raised eyebrows at this. It was ten thirty; the families on the street had been up since seven.

  “This house has got so much potential, hasn’t it?” Naomi said. “Seventies houses are really in vogue right now. Have you had an architect in?”

  “An architect?” Darren sniggered, scornful, as if she’d suggested getting the Historic Royal Palaces people in to advise on his moat. “I’m doing all the work myself, love.”

  All the work?

  “That sounds ambitious.” Naomi cocked her head. “Have you applied for permission to extend, then? I don’t think I’ve seen the notice up.”

  Ralph smirked. Nobody did it better than Naomi, that easy reminder that there were rules (even in this council) and they’d all get along just fine if he remembered to follow them.

  Darren shrugged. “Need to have a proper look at the place first. New bathroom for starters, and the roof needs fixing.”

  Neither of which required permission, Ralph knew.

  “What d’you do for a living?” Finn asked.

  Darren gestured to the tools at his feet. “I’m a mechanic, aren’t I?” As if it were a totally moronic question.

  Ralph remembered what Naomi had said about the repairs recommendation and his gaze swept past the three vehicles in the drive to a Peugeot parked in the street, its bonnet open: if that was Booth’s as well, that made five including the van. Five! And maybe the dirty Toyota, too. The van was presumably a repository of tools, though Ralph stopped short of opening the doors and inspecting its contents. “Where’s your garage based?” he asked; then, when there was no response: “You’re not thinking of working from here, are you?”

  Darren looked from brother to brother with the same mocking expression as before. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?” But Ralph knew a deflection when he heard one. You needed a license to run a business from residential premises and he had a strong hunch this guy didn’t have one.

  He met Darren’s eye. “So, these vehicles are all for your personal use, are they? All taxed and insured?”

  “Ralph,” Naomi said mildly, “we don’t want to jump to—”

  “Keep your fucking nose out, mate,” Darren snapped at Ralph, interrupting her, and there was a collective intake of breath.

  “I’m really not sure that’s how you want to be speaking to your new neighbors,” Ralph began, and he felt his wife’s fingers on his arm, steering him backward. As if in counterbalance, Finn took a pace forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll love it here,” Naomi told Darren, as if the scene had not taken an unpleasant turn. “We’d love you an
d your wife to come over for a drink sometime—wouldn’t we, boys?”

  “Yeah,” Ralph said, though to his knowledge no man of Booth’s charmless ilk had ever crossed the threshold of number 7, not unless he’d come to read the meter.

  Having presented the biscotti and flowers, Naomi and Sissy turned to leave. Finn, fixing Darren with an unimpressed last stare, followed them. Only Ralph lingered, he and Darren regarding each other in silent dialogue.

  You’ve been warned, Ralph’s stare said.

  And Darren’s responded: I see who you think you are, but I know you’re no better than me.

  Suppressing a shudder, Ralph retreated. Some of the rubble from the wall had spilled across the shared drive to Ant and Em’s side and he spent a moment or two toeing the stones back across before joining Finn and Naomi on the sidewalk. Sissy was already through her own gate at number 2, rows of bays in tall pots like staff lined up to greet her.

  “I have two words,” Naomi told the brothers as they walked back.

  “What?” Ralph said. “Complete twat?”

  Loud enough, maybe, for Booth to hear.

  “No,” Naomi said. “Open mind. And don’t even think about going near those cars. I know what you two used to get up to back in the day.”

  The brothers had done their share of keying cars and letting down tires as kids, edited highlights of which Ralph had shared with his wife. She was happy to joke about juvenile delinquency, sure, but there was no question she’d have been repelled if she’d known him growing up. If she’d looked at him at all it would have been with pity, perhaps while helping in the community as part of her Duke of Edinburgh’s Award or whatever. Lucky they’d met in their twenties, then, when Ralph was a reformed specimen, already twice promoted by a big importer based in Battersea and researching start-up costs for his own business. He’d flat-shared in Clapham with a young colleague and barfly, and Naomi had been among the many attractive female graduates who’d gravitated to the area’s drinking holes in the late 1990s.

  Back then, they wouldn’t have cared about someone like Darren Booth; they wouldn’t have cared about old walls or cars being repaired in neighbors’ front gardens.

  Well, they cared now.

  CHAPTER

  2

  ANT

  No, no one saw it happen, as far as I’m aware, but we heard it. Well, I was upstairs in the shower, so I didn’t hear it so much as feel it. My wife, Em, was downstairs and she rushed straight out. She’s told you she was the one who called the ambulance? She had to run back in for her phone and she shouted upstairs to me to take over with Sam—that’s our baby. I could tell from her voice something awful had happened, but I had no idea it was this awful! By the time I came out the emergency services had already arrived and the whole street was in chaos. The cordons went up and all the cars coming up from the park end were having to turn and go back down. There was a big crowd of gawkers.

  I’d say we are close, yes. Friends as well as neighbors.

  Darren Booth? No, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He’s made our lives a misery from day one. He’s the proverbial neighbor from hell—and I say that as someone who’s genuinely tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean, who wants to fall out with the guy next door? It destroys your life.

  Come on, you can see for yourself the state of the place. Those officers I’ve seen taking bits away—are they Forensics or something?

  Health and Safety Exec, right. Well, they’ll tell you the same: the place was a total deathtrap. I’m amazed something like this didn’t happen sooner.

  MR. ANTHONY KENDALL, 3 LOWLAND WAY, HOUSE-TO-HOUSE INQUIRIES BY THE METROPOLITAN POLICE, AUGUST 11, 2018

  Seven weeks earlier

  The flight into Gatwick was late, the traffic on the A23 the usual nightmare, and so tiredness at the wheel must surely have been a factor in Ant’s failing to recognize his own street. He missed the turn off Portsmouth Avenue and had to take the next right, coming back up Lowland Way from the park end.

  Already, about half of the residents’ cars had been removed for Play Out Sunday.

  “Looks like someone’s bought next door,” Em said, peering in horror at what looked like a landfill site where the neighboring garden used to be, right down to the bathroom sink, almost jaunty, like a cake decoration, angled atop the pile. “What a state! I can’t believe no one warned us.”

  “Didn’t want to ruin our holiday, probably. They’re obviously putting in a new bathroom. How many cars have they got?” Ant and Em had grown used to having the shared drive to themselves, but now Ant had to reverse the car into their side with care.

  “Our windows are going to be caked with dust,” Em grumbled. “I hope we didn’t leave any open.” There was a faint edge to this remark. Ant knew she considered locking windows and doors men’s work—some throwback perhaps to when primitive females lacked the muscular strength to roll the boulder into the mouth of the cave. Crazy.

  “We should go and say hello to them,” he said, but once inside, what with unpacking and getting the laundry on and feeding Sam and the whole bath-and-bedtime routine that bisected every evening, he forgot all about the new neighbors, the apocalyptic new landscape next door. Then, at about eight, when Em was still settling Sam to sleep, his Winnie-the-Pooh music box tinkling its lullaby, there was the sudden earsplitting stop-start of drilling.

  He dashed up in time to see Em appear from Sam’s room, pulling the door behind her. “What the hell was that?”

  “It came from next door.” Em led the way into the spare bedroom, a stud partition from where Sam slept. “They must be putting up shelves or something on the other side. At this time!”

  “To be fair, they don’t know we’ve got a baby here,” Ant said. “They probably haven’t even noticed we’re back.”

  “Then we need to tell them.” Em sighed. Thanks to the best sleep of Sam’s young life on holiday, she looked more like the old Em, which was to say young and attractive and smiling freely. Though fair-skinned, she’d even tanned a little. “We knew someone would move in sooner or later.”

  This was true, but what they’d possibly taken for granted was that the new neighbors would be, if not older and peace loving like Jean, then certainly self-aware and considerate like Finn and Tess Morgan on the other side.

  Even before Sam was born, the Morgans had been solicitous about their children’s noise, which could be considerable, what with their communal garden arrangement with Finn’s brother, Ralph, who had two kids of his own—Ant was still not sure who belonged to whom. Often there were friends over, creating an unholy chorus of screams and bossy voices, plus a pack of dogs in the mix, one of which was a bit of a yapper. But the moment levels rose intolerably, an apologetic face would appear over the wall, usually Tess’s: “Oh God, is it a nightmare? I’m so sorry. It’s Isla’s birthday and we’ve got the whole class here, plus all the parents. You’ll see, when the time comes, you can’t leave anyone out! Why don’t you come over and have a glass of prosecco?”

  On this basis, Ant and Em had been invited to half a dozen gatherings, once even offered a lightweight stepladder to climb over the wall, though Em, pregnant at the time, had opted for the traditional method of front doors. She and Tess had struck up a friendship—they were both stay-at-home mums (if you were allowed to use that term anymore), temporarily in Em’s case, as she’d be returning to work at the end of the year.

  Privately, Ant preferred Naomi Morgan, who was a standout—charismatic, and sexy too, for a woman in her forties. “It’s against the rules to fall out on this street,” she’d told Ant the first time they met, borderline flirtatious with her wide ink black eyes and smile that curved naughtily at the corners. In a culture of highlighted blondes, her drape of raven hair was exotic. “We’re practically a hippie commune,” she declared.

  Hardly. The two families’ gardens were sha
red but Ralph and Naomi’s house was manifestly their own, with Elton John levels of floristry and a profusion of original art that Em said Finn and Tess had no hope of replicating. (There was one particular sculpture, some sort of copper spiky cactus-man, that Ant had mentally noted as a hazard for when Sam started toddling.)

  “They obviously haven’t got young kids or there’s no way they’d be being so noisy,” Em said now, and, on cue, voices rumbled behind the wall, a man’s and a woman’s, the words not quite distinct. Then, half a minute later, there was rock music. Very heavy rock.

  “They’ve put that on to drown out the drilling,” Ant said. “Sounds like thrash metal or something. What were those old bands called? Was Megadeth one? Wow, that’s brutal. What’s wrong with a bit of Ed Sheeran?”

  Em peeked around Sam’s door and made a face that meant, We’re all right for now.

  “I imagine they’re perfectly nice,” Ant added hopefully.

  Em’s brows twitched. “That’s like a line from a movie before you find the Boston Strangler adjusting his balaclava on the doorstep next door. Oh, come on,” she said, as the churn of the drill began again and the music was turned up a notch. “He’s not going to sleep for much longer if this goes on.”

  When the drilling sounded a third time, they stared at the wall as if expecting to see a hole open up in front of their eyes. The air tasted different, Ant thought, its atmospheric properties altered. It was surreal to think that there was a man—or woman—standing a couple of feet away on the other side of the wall, almost as close to them as they were to each other. Was this person aware they were here? Could he hear their voices? And what kind of an architect designed semidetached houses like this, anyhow, with the front doors and stairs on the outer sides? Wouldn’t they be better side by side in the center, twin pockets of hallway and stairwell providing insulation between living rooms? The two households might as well have been a single barn with a screen down the middle.