The Magpies A Psychological Thriller - By Mark Edwards Page 0,89

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