The Magpies: A Psychological Thriller

by Mark Edwards

  He hurried down the stairs.

  He dialled directory enquiries and tried to get a telephone number for the address Mary had given him. The operator told him the number was ex-directory. He wasn’t exactly surprised. He Googled Letitia Pica too, but despite it being an unusual name, nothing showed up.

  Okay. If he couldn’t call or email them he would have to write them a letter. He found some writing paper – the same paper they had used to write to Lucy and Chris – and sat on the sofa with a cushion on his lap.

  Dear Letitia and David

  Firstly, let me introduce myself. My name is Jamie Knight. My wife, Kirsty, and I bought your flat from you earlier this year. I will not beat around the bush. We have been having a few problems with Lucy and Chris downstairs and I wanted to ask you if you had had similar experiences.

  I also need to know if you ever gave them a key to the flat…

  He let it all flow out. By the time he had finished, the letter was nine pages long. He read over it, corrected a few spelling mistakes, and then folded it and put it in an envelope before he changed his mind. He didn’t have any stamps, so he needed to go to the post office.

  Leaving the flat, he froze. Lucy was standing in the entrance hall, looking through the post.

  He took a few steps towards her. ‘What are you doing?’

  She ignored him.

  ‘I said, what are you doing?’

  She rolled her eyes, huffed, then turned and looked at him. ‘I was checking the post. Seeing if there was anything interesting.’ She looked back down at the shelf of mail, where a number old letters for previous occupants and junk mail lay. ‘For us, I mean.’

  ‘If anything comes for you, I’ll bring it down.’

  Lucy turned fully towards him, folded her arms and looked him up and down. ‘Would you really?’

  Talking to her made him feel sick. ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘How’s Kirsty?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It must be weird, having something living inside you.’ She looked up at a cobweb on the ceiling and said faintly, ‘I would hate it.’

  ‘I can’t picture you as a mother.’

  She stared at him. Her expression was blank, her eyes unfocused. It would have been less creepy if she’d given him daggers, or sneered at him. Instead, she broke into a smile.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said brightly. ‘We’re expecting company.’

  He exhaled.

  As she stepped through the front door she paused. ‘Be careful, Jamie,’ she said. And then she was gone.

  Twenty

  Kirsty and Heather sat in the staff canteen. Heather was going on and on about how Paul had ruined her life.

  Kirsty was sympathetic, but she was also tired of hearing about it. Firstly, it wasn’t as if Heather was the first person in the history of the universe to get chucked. It happened every single frigging day, but Heather was acting as if life had conjured up a cruel punishment for her alone; something unique. All that had happened was that Paul had decided that he didn’t want to be with Heather any more. He had been through a trauma. He clearly had things to work out and work through, and Heather was in the way. End of story.

  Secondly, Kirsty had problems of her own. The dreams had returned – the terrible dreams of delight turning to horror inside the gingerbread house. To make things worse, details from Paul’s coma dream had seeped into her dream, so the roof of the house was battered by flying beasts, creatures with sharp talons and a rank smell, creatures that – she knew without a doubt – wanted her dead.

  Waking up offered little respite. Jamie was in a world of his own, paranoid and jittery, convinced he was going to lose his job and all his friends because of this business with the computer virus. He had stayed awake all night, making these bizarre grumbling noises. She didn’t think he was aware he was doing it. He had looked really shocked when she had taken a blanket with her into the living room and curled up on the sofa.

  She was sick of it all. She wanted out.

  Their dream home had turned out to be, well, a nightmare. They were living above a pair of psychopaths. That was the only word for them. Sending spiders in to terrify her; taping her in her most private moments; robbing her of the ability to relax. That was one of the worst things. She had a really stressful job – ten times as stressful as Jamie’s job, dealing as she did with mortality and sickness every day – and she needed a sanctuary. Somewhere to switch off, chill out, recover from the stresses of the day. But no – she was forced to tiptoe around her own flat, and if she forgot about the Newtons for a second, Jamie would say something to remind her. Before they went to Gretna, she had been coping. The thrill of finding out she was pregnant and the thought of being a mother had made her feel calm and happy. She had managed to switch off; she had made a conscious effort to leave the worrying to Jamie. She couldn’t afford to worry. She had another life inside her. Anxiety and stress were bad for the baby. That was common sense.

  That had all changed in Gretna. As soon as she saw that grave she knew she had been kidding herself. And when they got home and found that word written on the computer screen – proving that someone had been in the flat – that was the last straw.

  She wanted to leave the flat. Because now, not only did she feel stressed in there, she felt unsafe as well. Her own flat was the gingerbread house in her dream. Her subconscious had been warning her for months, telling her to get out. In retrospect, she had thought there was something not right about Lucy the first time she met her. Something about Lucy had made her bristle, although she hadn’t admitted it at the time. Kirsty thought Lucy was dangerous – more so than Chris – and she didn’t want her child anywhere near her.

  It was no place to bring up a child – in an atmosphere like that. Children needed space, somewhere to run and play. They couldn’t spend their lives on tiptoe. All that ‘children should be seen and not heard’ crap had gone out of the window years ago. And it wasn’t just that. If anyone she had ever met was capable of violence – including violence against children – it was Lucy. She wouldn’t say this to anyone, because they would think she was mad, but living above Lucy felt like living next door to a child molester.

  Her mind was made up on the train home from Scotland. They were going to have to move.

  But Jamie refused to even think about leaving the flat. ‘If we do,’ he said, ‘we’ll be giving in to them. It’s what they want. We can’t quit.’ Or, ‘Once they get used to us living here they’ll probably stop harassing us.’ Or, ‘We can’t afford to move anywhere else.’

  Well, that last excuse was bullshit. They could sell the flat and get a similar one somewhere else. Or they could sell the flat and buy a house outside London. They could find new jobs, make new friends. It wouldn’t be that difficult. That part of Jamie’s argument was easy to shoot down.

  She knew Jamie didn’t really believe that the Newtons would get bored or accustomed to them and leave them alone. She had once tried to persuade herself of that, but now she knew she had been foolish, naive. And Jamie knew as well as her that things would only get worse.

  So that left the real reason he didn’t want to move. Typical male shit. He didn’t want to be seen to give in, to quit, to wave the flag of surrender. As if leaving would make him less macho somehow. At first she had actually agreed with this point of view. She didn’t believe in being pushed around. She didn’t want to give Lucy and Chris the satisfaction of knowing they had won. But now things were different. They had the baby to think about. Kirsty had seen an image of death, heard the portentous caw of the crow.

  They were going to move out. And if Jamie didn’t want to go with her she would go alone.

  Twenty-one

  On his way home from posting the letter, Jamie saw Paul – just Paul’s head at first, then neck, shoulders, torso – coming up the steps from Chris and Lucy’s flat.

  Jamie stopped in his tracks. He blinked hard, not quite believing what he was seeing. He felt like a husband who had j
ust found his wife in bed with another man. Shocked. Betrayed.

  He hurried up the path. Paul turned and saw him, a smile spreading across his face.

  Jamie marched right up to him. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I was just coming to see you.’

  ‘But you’ve been down there. You’ve been to see Lucy and Chris!’ As he spoke, he realised how indignant he sounded – how hurt. Well, good. Let Paul know how he felt. He was sick and tired of bottling everything up.

  ‘Jamie, you’re acting like a dick. I’ve just been to see Chris to talk about what happened at karting track.’

  Jamie’s eyes widened. ‘And now you’re going to go to the police?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Jamie? Why the hell would I be going to the police?’

  ‘Because – because Chris tried to kill you. He put you in that coma.’

  Paul laughed. ‘Oh Jamie, you should hear yourself. It was an accident. I can see that, and I was the one who was in a coma. Why can’t you see it?’

  ‘Because I know Chris. And because I was there.’

  ‘You didn’t see the accident though. You were in the cafe. Chris and I were having a race. We allowed things to get out of hand. We were being stupid, getting over competitive. Chris was pissed off that I beat him, of course, and he braked the second he crossed the line, causing the driver behind him to swerve into me. Chris shouldn’t have braked so suddenly – he knows that. But Jamie, you have to believe me – it was an accident.’ He clapped his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. ‘An accident. That’s it.’

  Jamie opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but seeing Paul staring at him, a broad smile on his face, he fell silent. He felt so confused. He hadn’t seen Paul since that day in the hospital when Paul had been so nasty to him. His friend had been so cold that day, but now, with that smile on his face and that light in his eye, he seemed like the old Paul. A voice in Jamie’s head was screaming that Paul was wrong – that it hadn’t been an accident – but he was so pleased to see Paul smiling again, up and about and acting like himself again, that he didn’t argue. ‘Are you feeling better?’ Jamie asked. His voice was hushed and he became aware that he was holding his breath.

  Paul nodded, his hand still on Jamie’s shoulder. ‘I feel great, actually. Better than ever. I feel, y’know, reborn, clean. I’ve had loads of time to get my head together and, God, I’m really sorry I was such a bastard in the hospital. I felt trapped and I was finding it difficult to cope. The frustration of lying there, unable to get out because my muscles were too weak – it was unbearable. And the constant stream of sympathy. It was too much. Everybody treated me as if I was some kind of crippled Lazarus. How was I supposed to react?’

  ‘Well, you reacted like a complete bastard.’

  They both laughed.

  Paul pulled a face. ‘I guess I had a bit of brain damage.’

  ‘What? Impossible! There’s nothing there to damage.’

  They laughed more, still standing there at the top of the Newtons’ steps. Paul looked serious for a second. ‘I do feel different though, Jamie. And, well, there’s something I’ve decided to do. Something I need to talk to you about. I was going to call on you after I’d been to see Chris. In fact – just in case you feel second-best and get all sensitive – I did call on you first but you were out.’

  ‘OK. Let’s go inside.’

  As Jamie took his keys out of his pocket, he heard the door slam at the bottom of the steps. He jumped, then went rigid. Footfall sounded on the steps and, before he could react, Chris appeared.

  ‘Alright mate,’ Paul said to Chris.

  Chris smiled at him, ‘Haven’t you cleared off yet?’ Then he turned to Jamie. ‘Hello Jamie.’

  Jamie’s heart was beating so fast and loud it almost drowned out Chris’s voice. It was the first time Chris had spoken to him for a long time. He expected to feel hatred. He had fantasised about hurting this man, about doing him damage. But instead of hatred or anger, he felt fear, and confusion. Most of all, confusion.

  ‘Hi,’ he managed to croak.

  ‘You alright?’ He was talking to him as if nothing bad had ever passed between them. As if there had been no letters or CDs; no threats; no virus. As if they were simply neighbours who exchanged a friendly hello whenever their paths crossed.

  ‘I’m–’ Jamie broke off, unable to speak.

  ‘You don’t look too good, mate,’ Chris said, and he stretched out his hand to touch Jamie’s arm.

  Jamie leapt backwards as if a bullet had torn into him. Chris and Paul both looked shocked. Jamie instantly felt ridiculous, foolish. He tried to compose himself. He stood up straight, coughed, ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  Chris gave him a strange look – the kind of look you might give to a patient in a mental hospital; a potentially dangerous patient who you didn’t want to upset. ‘Good. That’s good.’ He turned to Paul. ‘Anyway, I must get on. Got that business meeting to attend. Good luck and all that.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They shook hands, then Chris walked off and got into his car.

  Paul turned back to Jamie, who was shaking as if he’d been in a car crash. ‘Wow, you really don’t like him, do you? I don’t understand what your problem is. He’s a good bloke.’

  Jamie was speechless.

  ‘Come on,’ Paul said, ‘let’s go in.’

  It felt colder in the flat than it did outside. Jamie cranked up the heating. He could feel goosepimples beneath the sleeves of his shirt, the hairs on his arms bristling.

  ‘Do you want a cup of–’ He changed his mind halfway through the sentence. ‘Do you want a beer?’

  ‘I’d love one.’

  He took a couple of tins of lager out of the fridge and tossed one to Paul. Jamie cracked the ringpull and took a slow, greedy sip. God, he had needed that, although he was still cold and shaky. Maybe he should open that bottle of whiskey. Firewater – that’s what he needed. He could almost taste it, could feel it scorching his throat, burning his chest, seeping into his bloodstream and washing away the pain. He licked his lips.

  ‘You were so lucky finding this place,’ said Paul, interrupting Jamie’s train of thought. ‘I think that every time I come round.’

  ‘You haven’t been round here for quite some time.’

  ‘I know. But I expect it seems longer to you than it does to me. The weeks I was in a coma, while you were living your lives, passed like that.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘From the moment of the accident to the moment I woke up. My body was ageing but I lost a chunk of my life. Hey, I’m not explaining myself very well, am I?’

  ‘No, I do understand what you mean. But did it really pass in a flash? You told Kirsty you had bad dreams.’

  Paul stared into his beer; Jamie thought he saw him shudder. ‘Yeah, but I only remembered that afterwards. It wasn’t as if I was aware of being in a coma.’

  ‘You didn’t find yourself floating close to the ceiling, looking down at your body?’

  Paul laughed quietly. ‘No, and I didn’t find myself in any long tunnels either, floating towards a bright white light.’

  ‘No voices calling you back? Paul, Paul, come back – your time is not up.’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  Jamie had pulled up a chair and was sitting close to Paul. He studied him closely. He looked so much better. Healthier than ever before, in fact. Almost glowing.

  ‘So you feel better now?’

  ‘God yes. I feel great. Fantastic.’ He rubbed his palms together vigorously. ‘I feel so full of energy, you know? I wake up in the morning and instead of groaning and pulling the quilt up over my head, I get up immediately. And you’ll never guess what I do then. I go out for a run.’

  Jamie almost choked on his beer. ‘You? Running?’

  ‘I know. It doesn’t seem natural, does it? But I was such a slob before. My body was starting
to atrophy. So was my brain. All I thought about was sex and food and drink and having a laugh. Obviously, those things are still important’ – he laughed – ‘but – I don’t know – I just feel that there’s got to be more. Maybe this happened to me for a reason. Like I was given a message.’

  ‘Oh shit– you’ve gone and discovered God.’

  They cracked up. Paul leant forward, rocking with laughter. Jamie laughed so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks. It felt so good to laugh, to laugh so hard that your stomach hurt and your ribs ached. Like a release of pressure, a slap to the system. They laughed and laughed.

  Eventually, Paul recovered enough to say, ‘No, not God. But, please. Let me be serious for a minute.’

  They quietened. Jamie drained the remains of his beer.

  ‘I’ve decided to go away,’ Paul said. ‘I’m going travelling.’

  Jamie absorbed this.

  ‘I’m going to start by catching a ferry across to France, then make my way from there. Head south to Spain, maybe spend some time down there, find some work, whatever. Then I’m going to go east through Europe into Asia. India, Thailand, China, Japan. Wherever the wind carries me, basically. I’ll work out my route as I go.’ He leaned forward, so his face was just a few inches away from Jamie’s. ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life stuck here, in this city. There’s so much to see out there. I want to fly. I want to gather stories. When I die and the whole of my life flashes before my eyes, I want the flashes to contain beauty and excitement; gold temples; blue seas; women with black hair and deep chocolate eyes.’

  Jamie still didn’t speak.

  ‘This is the conclusion I came to lying in that hospital bed. I almost died, Jamie, and if I had – if I had died – what images would have flashed before my eyes then? My average childhood. Entering the father and son talent contest at Butlins and coming fifth out of seven. That time I walked four miles to Gemma Baker’s house to give her a valentine card and the look of horror on her face. Falling asleep at the back of the lecture hall at university. Snogging Wonderwoman at your party. What a life, eh? There’s got to be more.’