The Magpies A Psychological Thriller - By Mark Edwards Page 0,109
On and on and on they went, getting inside your head until you thought the voices were actually originating inside your head. You could never quite make out what the voices were saying. Sometimes you could make out a line of dialogue, but because the volume was just too low, you started to make things up yourself. I thought I could hear Angela talking to me, asking me to help her, telling me she was still under the sea, drowning. Sometimes the voices sounded foreign, or they would let out ear-piercing screams in the dead of night. It was indescribably awful. Chris and Lucy had devised a way of torturing us, and it worked. In the end, we had to wear headphones in bed and listen to music. By then, though, it was too late. The damage had been done.
I went to the police and showed them the letters. I told them about the recordings. I asked them to come round in the night to listen to what we had to endure, but they never did. They thought I was making it up – especially when I accused Chris of murdering my friend. I saw bulbs light up above their heads. This mad woman – who spoke in a whisper – was upset with her neighbour because he had been involved in an accident with her best friend, and she blamed him. It was an easy conclusion to reach.
Jamie paused. Why were the police so useless? When he had complained about the Newtons, shouldn’t the police have looked them up in their records and seen that other people had complained before? Dodds had seemed sympathetic, but he hadn’t done his work properly, had he? It was a joke.
He read on.
Eventually, after months of torment, I couldn’t bear it any more. I was having violent dreams in which I attempted to kill Lucy and Chris and always failed. My psychiatrist told me I should move. I think one of the worst things was knowing that Chris was free, even though I was sure he was a murderer. I saw him nearly every day. He was a constant reminder of my loss.
I guess I have gone on at length, after all. I suppose I should be feeling some sort of catharsis now, but I don’t. In fact, I feel worse.
I really wish I could help you in some way, but I’m simply not strong enough to come down there. You could show this letter to the police to back up your story, but I don’t want to talk to them again about it. All I want is to forget.
In answer to your question – no, we didn’t ever give a key to the flat to Lucy and Chris. I thank God we didn’t.
Please don’t write back to me. Like I said, I want to forget. It’s going to take a long time, but I hope I might get there in the end. We both, however, wish you luck. My advice is to get out, go far away. But if you find a way of making Lucy and Chris pay for what they’ve done, I’ll be cheering you all the way – even if I do have to remain invisible in the background.
With very best wishes
Letitia and David
Jamie put the letter down. Thoughts refused to knit together properly in his head. Somehow, though, he knew, all this could have been avoided. If only.
It was too late for if only.
Suddenly, he had to get out of the flat. The rooms felt haunted. He put his coat on and ran out into the hallway. He collided with Mary and knocked her backwards, almost forcing her to lose her balance.
‘Jamie, mind where you’re… Hey, are you alright?’
He couldn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at her, mute.
‘Jamie, what’s happened? What’s wrong?’
He still couldn’t speak or move. He seemed to have gone into some sort of catatonic state.
‘Jamie? Wake up?’
He blinked at her, and she slowly came into focus. ‘Mary,’ he whispered.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s get you back in your flat.’
‘No! I don’t want to.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
He shook his head.
‘OK, come on. Let’s get you upstairs.’
She led him up the stairs. He was in a trance, and the next thing he knew he was sitting on Mary’s sofa, beside Lennon, who was purring steadily. Mary bent over him and offered him a mug of hot, steaming liquid. Jamie sniffed it. Some kind of herbal tea. Ugh.