“Ms. Watkins,” she corrected him.
He asked her to confirm her date of birth, saying, when she told him, “Not a problem,” the implication being that it was a problem; the more years lived, the more severe one’s disadvantage in such negotiations, especially threatening when she considered the lender had the right to repossess her house were she to renege on the terms of the loan.
“Your product doesn’t qualify, I’m afraid. It’s not a flexi product. The payments are fixed for the term of the loan.”
“All right, but I’m asking you to allow this on a discretionary basis. Just while I smooth out a few bumps.”
And so on, until finally she was authorized a short “holiday” (as if she planned to spend it in the Seychelles): three months. Her next payment would be due the first of December. That task done, the spreadsheet of expenses remained frighteningly replete: the nonnegotiable utilities of gas, electricity, water; council tax and various insurances; cable and phone. She had to eat, even if luxuries like the hairdresser must be put on hold. Thank God she had no car. A small charitable contribution—that would be the next to go, which broke her heart. She knew of equity release plans but considered that a last resort, if she became very ill, for instance.
Of course, there was no question of complaining about this to anyone. People thought that because you owned a big house you were rich, but in reality you were rich only if you sold the big house. Until then, you were as wealthy as your income allowed, and Sissy’s income allowed very little.
At least she had two bookings for the following night; for Saturdays in August, people would take what they could get.
Meanwhile, across the street, deliveries abounded. She’d watched them from the bedroom window all week: a mountain of bricks and tiles and sacks of what looked like sand was piled on the lower level of the scaffolding, and Booth was rigging up some sort of pulley, presumably to hoist them to the upper level, where he was working on the roof. Renovations were costing him, but—unlike Sissy—he had the money to pay.
* * *
—
She vowed not to raise the subject with Amy. It was one thing to agonize with the neighbors, but she was damned if she was going to let Darren Booth infect her family relationships.
“What beautiful flowers! You didn’t need to give me those, Amy.”
Amy had brought sunflowers, a huge bunch, their stems stiff and muscular, the petals soft and half-closed, as if disturbed in their sleep. As Sissy fixed drinks, Amy arranged the flowers in a tall glass vase and updated Sissy on her latest project at work. Though she spoke cheerfully, it seemed to Sissy the girl was tense with withheld information.
“So . . .” As they met at the table, each taking her seat, Sissy felt her own expression turn stupid, coaxing. “Are you going to tell me your news?”
Amy beamed, her face pink. “Pete really wanted to be here. He’s going to phone later, but he said I could tell you on my own. We’re going to have a baby!”
Sissy felt a wild, leaping elation. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Amy!” Almost immediately, she began weeping, and Amy made pleased and sympathetic noises, saying she felt like crying too, she was so overcome with it all. Then, when Sissy plainly should have stopped, she continued, the sobs growing stronger, not weaker, until she was heaving with a deep, primitive sorrow. Amy began to look worried. She must already have told her own mother, Sissy thought, and Faye would not have reacted like this. Stop crying.
“What is it, Sissy?” Amy cried. “Oh God, you’re not unwell or anything like that?” The poor girl feared a confession of some terminal illness, a life expectancy short of the baby’s due date.
At last Sissy managed to calm herself and speak sensibly. “No, no, I’m really happy for you both. It just seems to have opened the floodgates. It’s been the most stressful time. But tell me more. How many weeks?”
“Ten.” Amy frowned. “But why is it stressful at the moment? Is it to do with the business? The noisy neighbors? It seemed quiet over there when I arrived.”
“They’re out tonight, I think, but my customer rating has gone right down and I had an e-mail from the website, a warning that I’m not getting enough bookings. I checked the terms and conditions and they can remove my listing whenever they like.” She wiped her nose with a tissue. “I honestly don’t know how to deal with it. I don’t see a way.”
“I thought you’d got together with the other neighbors to complain?” Amy said.
“We have, but it’s a lengthy process.” “Twenty-four weeks,” Em had screeched at the meeting, and Sissy had thought her uncontrolled, hysterical. But she hadn’t bargained for the cumulative strain. Where Em had been then, she had reached now. “I’m just having a weak moment,” she told Amy. “Really, let’s forget it.”
“If you’re sure,” Amy said, doubtfully.
At bedtime, the street was still quiet and Sissy put her guest in the master bedroom at the front, an act of faith these days if not downright defiance. In her preferred room at the back, she fell asleep easily. Woke again easily too, aware of Amy moving around downstairs—and, inevitably, the faint pulse of bass from across the road. Booth and Jodie must have come home steaming drunk, put the music on and had one more drink, or however many they liked to consume. She cursed herself for having taken the risk of putting Amy at the front.
“When did it start?” she asked, finding her in the kitchen by the kettle, peppermint tea bag in hand.
“About an hour ago.”
The wall clock said 1:20 a.m. “You’ve got your shoes on?” Sissy noticed.
Amy smoothed her rumpled hair. “Yes, I was going to go over and say something, but I changed my mind.”
“Good, because it’s not worth it. Let’s swap rooms. You won’t be able to hear the music from the back.”
Amy looked unsure, mindful no doubt of Sissy’s earlier distress, but tiredness got the better of her and she followed Sissy up, tea in hand.
At the front, Sissy lay awake for some time, unable to marshal the maelstrom of new emotions. A grandchild—how joyous! But how could she have broken down like that? How dared Booth drive her to such shows of despair?
Inevitably, she found herself at the window without having noticed she’d got up and moved there. She thought briefly of Graham, the sensation of his body against hers, humid breath on her neck. It was dark finally at number 1, but there was still a light on upstairs at the Kendalls’. Another broken night for them. How could they continue like this? Was the poor baby awake too?
After Pete and Amy’s baby was born, the natural thing would be for Sissy to invite the young family to live with her in her huge house, while they saved for a place of their own. But would they consider it, knowing that the child in the house opposite had been equipped with earmuffs and a protective helmet? Would they come even for the night? Avoid Sissy’s house altogether in favor of Amy’s mother’s?
Imagining herself alone, alienated, she sat on the abandoned bed, stirring the covers angrily at the sound of Booth’s voice, as clear as if he held his mouth to her ear:
“An old cunt like you . . .”
At last, knowing she wouldn’t sleep, she dressed for a day that was still hours from dawning.
CHAPTER
13
AMY
August 11, 2018
As she stepped onto the drive of number 1, she felt a shudder of unease, a trace of bile in her throat. She’d never been one to dwell on the vibe of a place, but in recent weeks she’d grown more sensitive to mood—and the mood here was sordid. More like that of a decaying tower block on the nearby Rushmoor Estate than of a house undergoing renovations on tree-lined Lowland Way.
No wonder Sissy was so distressed by the situation.
Part of it was the stink of the scaffolding—as if she could smell the skin shed by the thousands of builders who’d handled the boards and poles over the decades. The dirt th
ey’d sweated, the cigarettes they’d smoked: all of it soaked into the wood and rusted onto the metal. It didn’t help that right by the front door there was a huge smear of dog shit. Urgh.
The man crouching on the upper level, loudly tapping the frame of an open bedroom window with a tool of some sort, was presumably him. The nuisance. Disturber of the peace. Realizing she didn’t know his name, she called up to him with a general air of confidence: “Excuse me? Hello there! Could I have a quick word?”
Given what she’d been told, she expected to be challenged or, more likely, ignored, but instead he replied promptly, “Give me a minute, love, all right?” and there was the thud of his tool dropping onto the boards. She imagined it skidding off the edge and hurtling down toward her—a broken nose or collarbone, her vision spinning—and she moved under the shelter of the lower platform, just in case. Avoiding the dog mess, she waited with her back to the front door, looking out to the street. It was actually a gorgeous day, somehow both rich and fresh, a rarity in the heat wave. She’d enjoy escaping the foul air of this particular spot and spending the rest of the morning on Hampstead Heath, filling her lungs with particles of sunshine.
There was movement overhead; she’d thought he would step through the open window and come down through the house, but instead he was descending the scaffolding via the ladders between platforms. The one between the lower platform and ground level was on her side, so he’d be standing right beside her in a matter of seconds. She still didn’t know what she was going to say to him, not exactly. Since pleas and negotiations were reportedly futile, she would need to make some sort of threat, and the only thing that mattered with a threat—especially one from a woman to a man—was how credible it was.
Let’s just say I know some people you really don’t want to fall out with. . . .
Could she pull it off?
She’d call Pete straight after, let him know she had not left Sissy to suffer alone. If this didn’t work, she’d talk to her senior partner at work, who was married to a housing lawyer. This detail had occurred to her earlier, though she hadn’t said anything about it to Sissy at breakfast, the subject of the neighbor having been best avoided after last night’s upset. She’d discuss that—and what transpired here—with Pete.
There were footsteps on the lower platform above her head. Should she move out into the light, where he could see her? No, she’d stay where she was and take the initiative the moment he hit the ground. Wouldn’t say who she was, just let him know that—
“Hey!”
But his voice—and her answering cry—was lost in a diabolical thunderclap of metal and wood and stone. As flat ground flew up to meet her, the last sound of her life was that of her own skull smacking the concrete.
CHAPTER
14
RALPH
For what it’s worth, I’ve always thought the scaffolding looked completely unsafe. Told my kids not to go anywhere near it. Seemed to me like you only needed a windy day and the whole thing would come crashing down. Looked at the positioning of the sole plates, have you? That can destabilize scaffolding, can’t it?
I know about it because I Googled it! A shame he didn’t, eh?
MR. RALPH MORGAN, 7 LOWLAND WAY, HOUSE-TO-HOUSE INQUIRIES BY THE METROPOLITAN POLICE, AUGUST 11, 2018
The same day
He was on the tennis court when he got the summons to return to Lowland Way. The session was a drop-in singles ladder (Ralph preferred singles, the simplicity of living and dying by your own sword) and between thrashing Richard Masterson from Cranbrook Lane and preparing to dispatch Jamie Something-or-other from Oldfield Road, he took a water break and checked his phone. There were voice mails from Naomi and Finn.
Naomi’s panic poured into his ear: “Ralph, it’s me. You need to come home.” There was, in the background, the most terrible wailing. It sounded female: Libby, who hadn’t been well after the theater? Another trip to Children’s A and E? As if anticipating his terror, Naomi added, in a rush: “Not the kids—don’t worry. It’s bad, though, really bad.”
Finn’s message was starker: “Mate, you at tennis? Come back. Armageddon here.”
Which made Ralph think something might have kicked off again between Naomi and Tess after last night’s row. Jesus, had Tess physically attacked Naomi? He’d always thought her more volatile than she allowed people—or herself—to believe. Then again, the wailing had been in the background while Naomi was speaking, which suggested . . . No, Nay wouldn’t use violence, not ever.
A text popped up from her—At Sissy’s—which left him none the wiser.
He’d walked to the club and now retraced his route at a jog. Reaching the park-side junction of Lowland Way, he paused, his breath tight. At the far end, their end, a crowd had formed, reminding him of two weekends ago, the terrible moment he’d seen past the forest of children’s legs to Charlie lying on the ground. Not known if he was alive or dead. There were two squad cars, the unmistakable blocks of yellow and blue on their sides, their hazards blinking, while lengths of blue and white tape caught the late-morning sun in a series of spangles.
Ralph broke into a sprint, his racket held to his chest, the handle banging against his right hip. As he approached, he saw that number 1 had been cordoned off: DO NOT CROSS.
Booth. Of course Booth. Nothing to do with Naomi or Tess.
Arriving, he saw the issue: the lower level of scaffolding had collapsed on the left side, directly over the front door, which was inaccessible. One of the boards had split clean in half, Ralph assumed under the weight of the bricks and cinder blocks and tiles, now massed below; a huge sack of sand had split open, its contents mixed with fragments of stone.
Access to the house appeared to be via the side passage.
Watching from her doorstep was a visibly distressed Em, her hands, face and clothing white with dust, while Ant stood in the window with a child’s toy in his hands and an appalled look on his face. Unable to reach them through the mob, Ralph turned to a nearby woman, not a face he knew from the street.
“What the hell happened?”
She squinted at him, the sun in her eyes. “The scaffolding came down. There was a girl underneath.”
He inhaled sharply. Not Libby, he reminded himself. Naomi had said it wasn’t the kids. “Who? You mean Jodie?” Could Jodie be described as a girl? “The woman who lives here?”
“No, someone said she wasn’t from around here?”
The squinting woman made a question of this, as if Ralph might know more than she did. Hopeless. Where were Finn and Naomi? At home with the kids? He began retracing his steps to his own gate, before remembering his wife had said she was at Sissy’s, and he dodged the bystanders in the road to cross to number 2.
“Ralph, thank God!” Naomi came out onto the step and, before he could even return the greeting, cried out like it was a confession: “Amy is dead!”
Ralph took her in his arms. He was sweaty from tennis and her body heat was uncomfortable, but she clung tightly. Too terrible to admit he couldn’t think off the top of his head who Amy was. Best to wait for the detail to trickle into place. “Sissy’s son’s girlfriend, right?” he recalled, with decent enough speed.
Naomi drew back, her eyes wet. “Yes, we met her at Christmas, remember? And at Sissy’s sixtieth last year. She was only twenty-nine, Ralph. Oh, it’s just horrific.”
The girl’s face was coming into focus—pretty in a natural way, soft brown hair, freckles. “What a dreadful thing. Why was she over there?”
“Complaining on Sissy’s behalf, I would guess. Unlikely she was buying a car. She must have been at the front door, right under the scaffolding, when it happened. She didn’t stand a chance. They pronounced her dead at the scene.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Oh, Ralph, it’s even more awful: the poor girl was pregnant! I heard Sissy say it to the paramedics when they were
trying to revive her, but there was nothing they could do. Sissy was hysterical. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
Ralph said nothing, just held her as she cried. Her tears were sticky on his neck. It was hard to absorb narratives like this: too brutal, too final, with nothing redemptive, no way to console. At last, he said, “Where is Sissy now? Here, inside?”
“No, she went with the . . . with Amy in the ambulance. To the hospital. I suppose they must have taken her to the morgue?”
“Yes.” Was there any more appalling word than “morgue”? He’d never heard Naomi use it. They’d never had need of it. A shoot of hope pushed itself into his mind. “What about Booth? Have they arrested him?”
“Did I not say? He was on the boards that collapsed. He’s been injured, but not badly. He was conscious, could probably have walked to the ambulance, with support. Oh! I hope Sissy doesn’t have to go anywhere near him at the hospital. He’ll be in A and E or on a ward, won’t he? She won’t bump into him, will she, Ralph?”
“I’m sure she won’t.” Ralph recognized the stream of consciousness that denoted shock. “Come home, Nay. You don’t need to stay here.”
Naomi shook her head, composed herself. Behind the glaze of tears, there was determination in her eyes. Duty. “I do. I said I’d wait for Sissy’s B and B guests. Two couples are checking in this afternoon and there are still jobs that need doing.”
“Can’t they be canceled?”
“I don’t think so. It’s too late and you have to pay a penalty. She was getting really upset about it, said she wouldn’t be able to cover her direct debits, so I said I’d hold the fort. She’ll probably want to stay with Pete tonight, or Amy’s parents. And the police will need to talk to her. To all of us, I imagine.”
As Naomi recovered her organizational vigor, Ralph saw that he had been summoned for moral support as much as for anything practical he could contribute, and he had the momentary self-congratulatory thought that his was an excellent marriage. His wife was the powerhouse others relied on, and yet she needed him. He remembered his first instinct. “So, you and Tess—you’re OK after last night?” Silly question. That was just a petty family squabble, while this was . . . God, this was horrific. What a grotesque way to die, to be crushed. “The kids didn’t see what happened, did they?”
Those People Page 12