The Magpies A Psychological Thriller - By Mark Edwards Page 0,97

wallet away and drove home.

He spent the afternoon sitting outside a small cafe on the high street. Driving away from the office, he had been overcome by an overwhelming urge for a cigarette. He hadn’t had one since he was at college. He hated smoking. The smell and the taste of it made him feel sick. But here, now, he felt the most awful craving: his bloodstream calling out for nicotine. His fingers and lips needed something to keep themselves occupied, and nothing else would do.

He watched himself unwrap the white and gold cigarette packet he’d just bought in a newsagents with a sense of horrified, guilty wonder.

He sucked smoke into his lungs. He coughed. The old woman at the next table smiled. He took another deep drag and a moment later felt the rush of nicotine, making him dizzy. He drank his coffee and smoked the cigarette, then another. He felt sick, but he also felt calmer.

The afternoon went by quickly. He went inside, ate lunch, drank three more cups of coffee, ate a Danish pastry, then came outside and smoked more cigarettes. He watched people go into the cafe then come out again. He was aware that the waitresses were talking about him, wondering what he was doing, but they were happy enough to take his money. Eventually, at half-four, he paid, leaving a £10 tip on the table and walked off into the late afternoon light. He drove to St Thomas’s to pick Kirsty up.

‘Have you been smoking?’ Kirsty asked, sniffing the air as she got into the car beside him.

‘No. I was talking to Mike at work, outside the office, and he was smoking.’ He sniffed his own sleeve. ‘I didn’t realise how badly it would cling to my clothes.’

‘You stink. I’ll have to wash everything you’re wearing when we get home.’

‘Sorry.’

The rest of the journey passed in silence. When they got home, Jamie undressed and put his clothes in the washing machine. It was so cold in the flat. He wrapped up in a thick jumper with two T-shirts underneath.

‘Cup of tea?’

‘Hmm.’ Kirsty was sorting through the desk, examining paperwork. She wore a puzzled expression. ‘Jamie, which estate agent did you register us with?’

He felt his blood go chilly. ‘The same one we bought it from. Anderson and Son.’

She stood up and waved a letter at him. It bore Anderson and Son’s letterhead. It was the letter the estate agent had sent them to confirm the acceptance of their offer on the flat. Jamie had once suggested framing it, but they never got round to it.

‘So how come when I called them today to ask them if they could hurry up the valuation, they didn’t know what I was talking about?’

He swallowed. ‘Did you call the right branch?’

‘I called the branch that we bought it from. And they called both their other offices. They had no record that you’d been in to put the flat on the market.’

‘They’re so incompetent.’

‘Don’t lie to me!’ She threw the letter to the floor. ‘I know you haven’t put the flat on the market. So don’t make things worse for yourself by trying to lie.’

‘Kirsty, I’m–’

She folded her arms. ‘You’re an idiot, Jamie. A fucking idiot.’

She marched out of the room into the bedroom. Jamie followed her, feeling as if all the blood had drained out of him. I’m bloodless, he thought. A husk. Kirsty stood on a chair and took the suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe. She threw it on the bed and unzipped it.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going, Jamie.’ She opened the top drawer of her chest of drawers and pulled out a handful of knickers and socks, tights and lacy things that she rarely wore. Jamie stood helplessly by the bed, watching her.

She turned to him. ‘I can’t live here anymore, Jamie. I know you think it’s giving in. I’m not stupid. I know you haven’t put the flat up for sale because you see it as quitting. And – I don’t know – maybe it is. Maybe I’m a coward. But you have to understand, if I stay here one more day I’m going to go mad. I keep bursting into tears at work – and not just because of the baby. I dread coming home. I actually feel afraid to come into my own flat – and shouldn’t your home be your sanctuary? We’ve lost that.’

She opened the wardrobe and removed shirts and dresses, putting some back but placing the others