The Magpies A Psychological Thriller - By Mark Edwards Page 0,106

take over other people’s. The winner was the one who took over the world, capturing all his opponent’s territories. Jamie had started the game with Kirsty, Paul, his money and his job; he had acquired the flat and was soon going to have a baby. Now almost everything he had started with, and everything he had acquired, had been lost to his opponents downstairs. All apart from one last territory: his flat.

He was not going to relinquish it. He would guard it with his life. No matter what Lucy or Chris did, no matter what attacks they tried, no matter how the dice fell, he was staying here. He would work out some way of paying the mortgage. He was not moving.

He was not going to lose.

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