by Mark Edwards
Kirsty hadn’t mentioned moving out again, either. Jamie got the feeling she had adopted a policy of ‘wait and see’. He knew she didn’t entirely trust this current state of peace, but as the days passed, and the baby inside her grew, and the Newtons’ campaign of terror failed to start up again, she relaxed too. She was four months gone now, almost halfway. They bought a cot and a couple of mobiles to hang up in the child’s room. When he had finished working in there, they went through lists of names together.
Heather came round some evenings. At first she had been maudlin and lovelorn, but now she seemed to be recovering. She insisted that she hadn’t slept with Paul on his last night, although both Jamie and Kirsty were sure she was lying. She insisted on reading Paul’s emails and got a bit upset when she read he was seeing someone else – but not too upset.
Christmas wasn’t a million miles away. Their first Christmas in the flat; their last Christmas when it would be just the two of them. They decided that they wouldn’t see anybody on Christmas day – no family squabbles, no arguments about Kirsty’s vegetarianism, which happened every year when the turkey was carved, as predictable and boring as the Queen’s Speech. No, this year, they would buy each other loads of presents, eat a ton of chocolate and spend the day in bed. Total bliss.
Three weeks became four. Still no threats or complaints. Jamie allowed himself to breathe a huge, huge sigh of relief. It seemed that the worst was over.
It was a mild Sunday; a warm island in the arctic sea of winter. Jamie got up, got dressed and went out to buy a paper. When he opened the front door he saw Chris coming up the steps.
He didn’t know what to do. Although it was true they hadn’t had any trouble from the Newtons lately, they hadn’t spoken to them either. A ceasefire existed between them, but not friendship. At that moment, Jamie remembered the letter he had sent to the previous occupants of the flat. He hadn’t received a reply. In a way, he was glad. He wanted to forget all the shit that had happened.
Both men paused.
‘Alright,’ said Chris.
‘Hi,’ said Jamie.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
‘Gorgeous.’
They fell silent. Jamie felt uncomfortable. He wanted to go, but he didn’t want to appear rude. With surprise, he realised he was afraid of upsetting Chris.
Chris broke the silence. ‘Have you heard from Paul?’
‘I’ve had some emails. He’s in Ibiza, having a great time by the sound of it.’
‘That’s good.’
More silence.
Chris again: ‘I’ve noticed that your front door’s started sticking again. And making this bloody awful squeaking sound.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Want me to take a look at it for you?’
Jamie felt a shiver of deja vu. Of course, it wasn’t really deja vu. He could remember Chris making the same offer months ago. Maybe it was just a case of history repeating itself. Maybe this was their opportunity to start over, to become friends again – without allowing things to go wrong this time.
‘That would be great.’
‘OK. I’ll take a look this afternoon.’
‘Cool.’
Jamie turned away, nodding to himself ever so slightly. Yes, this was their chance to reforge their friendship. They could put everything behind them. OK, he wouldn’t ever be able to forgive Chris and Lucy for some of the things they had done – and he still thought there must be something wrong with them to have done it in the first place. But surely this was better than being at war? They could co-exist, side by side. They wouldn’t be bosom buddies. But they could be good neighbours. It would make life a lot easier.
As he turned to walk down the hill he smiled.
Later, Jamie sat reading the paper, the radio on quietly in the background. He heard a noise at the front door and looked out of the window. It was Chris, kneeling by the door with his toolkit. He looked up and waved at Jamie. Jamie waved back.
About an hour later he heard the front door shut, then Chris’s footsteps going down to the basement. Jamie got up and went out into the hall. He tried the door. It didn’t stick or squeak any more.
‘He’s fixed it,’ he said to Kirsty.
‘Good. You were never going to get round to it.’
‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t actually that bothered by it.’
‘Chris obviously was. Or maybe he was just bored.’
‘Maybe…no, it’s stupid.’
‘What? Tell me.’
‘I just thought maybe he did it to try to make us happy. To try and make amends.’
‘Hmm. Who knows.’ She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. ‘We’ve got nothing in.’
‘We’ve got that pie.’
‘Yuk.’
‘What do you want to do, then? Go out for dinner?’
She kissed him. ‘What a nice offer!’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve been conned.’
She headed into the bedroom to change, putting a long, loose-fitting dress on. She looked lovely. Watching her touch up her makeup in the mirror, Jamie felt a rush of love that made his heart beat faster and compelled him to cross the room and hug her, burying his face in her hair and inhaling her. What would he do without her? He couldn’t contemplate it. She was both his compass and his map, and he would be lost on his own. Lost in the darkness.
‘Jamie, careful.’
She gently pushed him away, wincing.
‘You’ll hurt me or the baby if you squeeze me like that. You don’t know your own strength sometimes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She kissed him. ‘It’s OK. Just be careful.’
They finished dressing and Jamie picked up his keys. They left a light on but drew the curtains. It was only seven but it was pitch-black outside. They headed out towards the front door.
Jamie patted his pockets. ‘Shit, I haven’t got my wallet.’
Kirsty tutted. ‘Better go and get it then – I don’t want to end up doing the washing up. Give me the key and I’ll go and get in the car.’
He handed her the key and went back into the flat to find his wallet.
Kirsty opened the front door – hey, no squeak! Chris must have oiled it well – and was hit by a blast of icy air. No cloud cover, she decided, remembering an ancient geography lesson. She stepped down from the doorstep onto the path, and her foot made contact with something slippery.
The world dropped away.
Afterwards, she couldn’t remember if she had screamed or not. She must have, the way Jamie came running. She remembered that he had yelled her name. His voice was strangely high-pitched; he sounded like a woman.
Kiirrst…
Her right foot touched the path, but it was like an ice rink. That was her first thought: ice. Like the air. Like the weather. But it wasn’t ice. It was oil. A patch of oil left behind by Chris; a patch of the same oil that made the door sound so nicely squeak-free.
…tiiieee.
Her right foot slipped away from her, and to stop herself doing the splits she instinctively pulled her left leg forward. As she did this, she twisted – twisted right round so she was facing the door. And as she twisted she pitched forward, her hands trying to grab the doorframe – but she had her bag in one hand and the keys in the other. She twisted, pitched forward and fell.
Smack.
Her belly hit the concrete step.
Jamie sat outside the operating theatre, Heather beside him, holding his hand. Heather was wearing her nurse’s uniform. She was still meant to be working.
Jamie couldn’t stop shaking.
He had come running out of the flat, shouting her name. He had seen it happen: seen it even though he was inside the flat; her scream conjuring up a clear image. The slip, spin, smack. Her hands were full of objects and no use in stopping her from falling, or lessening the impact as she hit the concrete. Hard.
She had looked up at him, her eyes watery with pain. ‘My…’
He expected
her to say ‘stomach’.
She said, ‘My baby.’
The wait for the ambulance. The ride across town, sirens cutting through the night. Onto a trolley, down the corridor.
He couldn’t stop shaking.
‘She’s going to be alright,’ Heather said. ‘I can feel it. She’s going to be alright. She’s going to be–’
‘Mr Knight?’
The doctor came out of the room. He was frowning. Did that mean bad news? Not necessarily. Doctors always frown when they come out of the operating theatre. He had seen it on TV. The doctor sat down beside him, cleared his throat.
Jamie didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He heard Heather say, ‘How is she?’
Everything went out of focus. The doctor’s voice slowed down, like a stretched tape. The lights in the corridor were so bright. He tuned back in.
‘Kirsty’s going to be fine,’ the doctor said. ‘But I’m afraid–’
The voice warped. Jamie heard fragments of words that he would piece together later into some semblance of sense.
‘…the baby…trauma to the abdomen…placenta detached…sorry Mr Knight…’
Everything went black.
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 fucking upset!’ Jamie shouted. People further up the corridor looked, attracted to the drama. A man shouting at a policeman. ‘That bastard has murdered my fucking 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 fucking 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, unblinki
ng. ‘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.’
