The Magpies A Psychological Thriller - By Mark Edwards Page 0,107

Pica – we never did either. It seems she bought the flat from us and then sold it on to you very quickly. I don’t know how much you paid for the flat, but she bought it from us very cheaply so I guess she made a tidy profit. Anyway, that isn’t important.

The other reason for my delay in replying is that your letter upset me a great deal. I had hoped to forget the names of Lucy and Chris Newton. I wish now that I hadn’t left a forwarding address with Mary. I had intended to sever all links with that flat. Before we left I scrubbed every inch of it. I wanted to wipe it completely from my memory.

Although that has been impossible.

Since we moved out in May, I have had the same dream every night. I am running through the woods when I spy the most wonderful looking gingerbread house, like in Hansel and Gretel. I go inside, and there is the witch. Lucy Newton, with that bastard husband of hers by her side. Chris Newton. That fucker.

Excuse me. But I cannot write their names without shaking. Yes, many of the things they have done to you, they did to us as well. The hoax letters, the banging on the ceiling, the constant complaints about noise, even though we are both very quiet people. In fact, since living in that flat, I have developed an extreme aversion to noise. Several therapists have tried to cure me, but the only cure is peace and quiet. That is why it is so wonderful living here. We live in a small stone farmhouse on the edge of a very quiet village. Our nearest neighbour is a mile away. It is bliss.

I suppose I should start from the beginning, although I am afraid it upsets me too much to write about this at great length. I will try my best, though.

Jamie finished his first cigarette and lit another. He read on, enrapt.

We moved into the flat in April last year, thirteen months before we moved out. The flat seemed perfect. No, the flat was perfect: it was the neighbours who made it less so. The space, the light, the warmth. It seemed like the ideal place to start out. We were so full of optimism. Well, you say the very same thing in your letter. We thought it was paradise. We were under the impression that we were lucky.

When we moved in we saw that the flat downstairs was empty but had a Sold board up. A week later, Chris and Lucy moved in. The next day, they came up to introduce themselves. They said they had moved to this part of London from Ealing; they said they had left because they had had a run-in with a previous neighbour. I sympathised. Hah! I wonder now who that poor sod might have been and what kind of state they’re in now. Whatever, it seems that Lucy and Chris had grown tired of their old haunting ground and decided to try somewhere new. Fresh blood, as it were.

Sorry if I sound cynical and angry. Writing this is bringing it all back. David just told me to throw this letter away, to forget about it, but I feel we owe you something. We should have left a warning. Although I bet you wouldn’t have believed us. You saw the flat and fell in love with it like we did. Who would heed a warning about such a lovely place?

Anyway: At first, the Newtons were friendly – just like they were with you – coming to dinner, meeting our friends. We went to the pub with them once or twice. We lent them books and DVDs. I thought it would be a long, mutually-rewarding friendship.

Then one day, we went swimming: not just the four of us, but also two of our friends, Angela and Steve. We went to the beach at Camber Sands. Chris brought a dinghy and we took it in turns to go out in it. It was great fun. It was a hot, sunny day, and after going out on the dinghy, we lay on the sand, sunbathing, chatting, basically having a really nice time. Then Chris said that he wanted to go out in the dinghy again, and he asked if any of us wanted to come along. Most of us were too hot and settled where we were. Lucy hadn’t been out anyway, as she said she couldn’t swim.