The Magpies A Psychological Thriller - By Mark Edwards Page 0,22
was going to be a crappy Sunday, what with Kirsty sick in bed. He looked around the flat. The housework needed doing, but he didn’t want to disturb Kirsty with the vacuum cleaner. That was his excuse, anyway. He decided to go up and see Mary, ask her about the rats. Maybe Lennon had a history of it.
He went up and knocked on the door. No answer. Shit. Maybe he should write her a note, or try again later. He sighed, pissed off that he was stuck indoors on a day like this, when it was so glorious outside and the sky was so blue. Still, if he had to be stuck indoors, he couldn’t think of a better place to be.
He turned to go down the stairs and then heard a noise out in the garden. He looked through the gap. Lucy was standing in the middle of the lawn, facing the house. She was holding Lennon, stroking his head and jiggling him a little, like a mother holding a baby. As Jamie watched, she walked inside with him and closed the door behind her.
Six
Kirsty’s flu dragged on for the rest of the week. She was too ill to go to work so she carried the duvet into the living room and spent four days in front of the TV. Jamie went to work, phoning her a couple of times every day to check how she was feeling. She told him she felt like death, but, truth be told, she was quite enjoying her spell at home. Apart from the throat-shredding cough and the constant nose-blowing, she rather liked being the patient for once, groaning hoarse requests for cups of tea and medicine. During the days, she gorged herself on daytime TV and staggered around in her dressing gown, feeling wonderfully decadent and sluttish.
On Thursday afternoon, there was a knock at the door.
Kirsty, who had been flicking through the channels, trying to decide between a Jeremy Kyle repeat and an ancient episode of Morse, dragged herself to the door and opened it. The woman standing there had an anxious expression on her face.
‘Hello, I’m Mary.’ She offered her hand. ‘You must be Kirsty.’
Kirsty’s first concern was how awful she must look. She always hoped to look her best when meeting someone for the first time. She was a firm believer in the importance of initial impressions, and here she was with a red-raw nose, flaky skin, greasy hair and most probably the sour smell of someone who hasn’t left the house for days. Her second thought was, It’s the witch. Then she thought, She doesn’t look much like a witch – just a hippy, like Jamie said. All this flashed through her head in the second it took her to shake Mary’s hand.
‘Are you ill?’ Mary asked, looking concerned.
‘Oh, just a touch of flu, that’s all.’
Mary nodded. ‘That awful virus that’s going around. Everybody I know has had it. You should try drinking ginger – it kills flu in its tracks, stops it dead. Ginger with a drop of honey in it.’
‘I’m quite happy with paracetamol and codeine, thank you.’
Mary looked appalled. ‘They won’t help. Trust me, ginger’s what you need. I’ve got some upstairs. I’ll fetch it for you in a minute.’
‘But…’
‘And I won’t take no for an answer.’
Kirsty smiled politely. Now she was thinking, What a pushy cow. She sniffed. Suddenly, she felt cold, and she wanted to get back to her quilt on the sofa.
‘The reason I came down was to ask if you’ve seen Lennon, my cat. I haven’t seen him since Sunday and I’m really worried. He does sometimes wander off for a couple of days, but he’s never been gone this long before.’
Kirsty shook her head. ‘No, I’ve been stuck indoors since Sunday morning. I’ve hardly even had the curtains open.’
Mary sighed. ‘Oh well. Just thought I’d ask. Brian and Linda haven’t seen him either.’
‘I’m sure he’ll turn up.’
Mary looked at the front door, listening to the traffic beyond it. She had a sad, worried look in her eye, and Kirsty felt an twinge of sympathy. She understood the agonies of anxiety: she dealt with the worries of parents every day. This was a cat, not a child, but at its root lay the same emotion. Mary lived alone with the cat; she probably treated it like a child.
Mary forced a smile. ‘I’ll get you that ginger.’
Kirsty waited while Mary went up the stairs, her long skirt rippling around her ankles, forcing her