The Perfect Neighbours

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The Perfect Neighbours Page 11

by Rachel Sargeant


  “Shall we do this in the lounge,” Sabine said, eying the debris.

  Louisa let out a small “oh” when she saw the sofa cushions dumped on the lounge floor but tidied them up without another word. Damian righted the overturned coffee table. The police officer said her name was Wolters.

  The Howards’ kitchen was in its usual pristine order. Helen found Polish pottery mugs and a matching teapot in a cupboard, and was relieved to see a box of PG Tips next to the kettle; she didn’t fancy messing about with Louisa’s posh tea leaves. She winced, ashamed of herself for criticizing Louisa when her son was missing.

  When she brought the tea tray in, Wolters was questioning Louisa and Damian about Murdo’s routines, and Sabine was translating.

  “Do you have a recent photograph?”

  Helen shivered; it had got as far as the photograph. You saw photos of children in newspapers – happy, smiling faces – when they’d been … when … But they were distant, unknown children. Murdo was real to her. He was the boy on the tambourine who had charmed her by saying “Noh Noh”.

  “His school photograph is in the dining room,” Louisa said. “He’s got baked-bean stains on his chin. I told the school they should have organized the photographer for before lunch.” Her back stiffened and she started to rock. “So much evil. But, not on my wee man, it cannae happen to him.”

  She leaned towards Wolters, invading her space. “You find him, you hear me. There are bad people who’d …” Damian took her hand and her voice tailed off.

  “I’ll get the photo,” Helen said, hoping to avoid seeing Louisa cry.

  When she opened the sliding doors to the dining room, she found chairs tossed on their sides. Something crunched under her feet. The glass-fronted dresser had been smashed, and a shard of glass used to etch scratches into the table. Random gashes, not words. But the message was clear: someone had trashed the room.

  She gasped, and Louisa came over to her.

  “Oh God,” she said and clutched her chest. It was obvious she was seeing the chaos for the first time and it wasn’t the result of her frantic search. This was a calculated attack.

  Helen balled her fists. “Bastards.”

  Louisa fell against Damian, her body quivering. Neither of them spoke.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll go. Don’t touch anything,” Sabine said, suddenly sounding on firmer ground translating a burglary rather than a missing person’s enquiry.

  Helen heard Manfred’s voice. “Good evening. I have here the son of Mr and Mrs—” They all flew into the hall. Louisa pushed Sabine and Wolters aside to scoop up Murdo. Her sobs rocked her body and his. Murdo wiped her snot and tears from his face.

  Wolters led Manfred and Damian into the lounge. She left Louisa at the foot of the stairs with Murdo on her lap, arms clamped tight around him, still rocking and sobbing.

  Manfred explained: “I came home and I saw him over my fence in the next garden. It was a game, I think.”

  Damian offered him his hand. The old man took it and waited until Damian, tears streaming down his face, was ready to release it.

  Wolters cleared her throat and spoke to Sabine. She translated. “She says she’ll have to talk to Murdo, but it looks as if he was playing the whole time.”

  Helen went to the door when the bell rang again. A white-faced Polly Stephens stood on the doorstep. She saw Louisa with Murdo on the stairs. “You’ve found him. Thank God. I came home to check in case he was hiding there, but … Our house has been broken into. There’s mess everywhere.”

  24

  Friday, 2 July

  The pool was packed with occasional swimmers attracted by the warm weather but no Sascha. The shallow end was standing room only so Helen confined herself to the deeper water. But it was like swimming in glue; too cloying to allow her limbs to move. And her mind stayed on the burglary. How could she swim with that violation pressing on her?

  The forensic team had caused as much chaos as the thieves. They hadn’t let them tidy their ransacked belongings until they’d dusted every surface with their sticky powder. There were distressed heaps of socks, pants, and tights in the bedroom. Helen nudged the clothing apart with her foot and pincered each piece into a bin bag with the tip of her thumb and forefinger. She wanted to chuck the whole lot out; it all felt tainted to her. But Gary persuaded her to run it through the washing machine. Thank God for Gary; she would have caved in without him. She found one of her earrings on the floor but couldn’t find the matching one. She didn’t mention it to Wolters as she thought the woman would never leave. And it hardly seemed important.

  The forensics team had taken longer at their house than the others because they found a partial print and a speck of blood on the back doorframe. The burglars had got into each house the same way: by smashing the glass in the back door and turning the key that was in the lock inside. People thought that it was safe to leave keys like that in this neighbourhood. As well as Helen’s home, the intruders had trashed the Howards’, the Stephens’s, and the Mowars’. But nothing had been stolen. Helen couldn’t help feeling that simple theft would have been preferable to the wanton destruction they’d suffered.

  She cut short her swim and drove home. When she parked, Chris Mowar marched out of his house and asked if she’d seen his DVDs. She composed her face, banishing every trace of glee. “Did they steal your documentary project?”

  “Just some background recordings. They’re meaningless to anyone but the producer,” he said, a vein pulsing in his neck.

  “What did the police say?”

  “They’ll hardly be interested.”

  Helen stared at him. “You haven’t told them?” So even he must have realized how worthless his Mr Big-I-Am films were. They would inevitably get dumped by the thieves. They wouldn’t give a monkey’s, any more than she did. “How is Mel taking the burglary?”

  “She’s in bed. It’s shaken her up. Louisa is with her now.”

  “I’m sure that’s a comfort to her.”

  Chris missed her sarcasm and went back to his important topic. “Can you check your garden in case the burglar lobbed them over the fence?”

  “The police were pretty thorough so I don’t think—”

  “Just check, will you?”

  She went indoors, unsure whether she acknowledged his order. It didn’t matter; she’d no intention of looking, no intention of doing anything neighbourly ever again.

  25

  Monday, 5 July

  Louisa was knocking at number 2, with Napoleon beside her on a lead, when Helen tried to hurry past.

  “You haven’t seen Manfred, have you?”

  “Perhaps he’s gone out,” Helen said, squatting down to pat the dog.

  “Manfred, can you hear me?” Louisa called through his letterbox. She turned to Helen, an anxious look in her eyes. “You read about the elderly collapsing in their own home and not being found for days.”

  “You don’t know he’s in there.”

  Napoleon placed his paw on her shin when she stopped stroking him. She took the hint and rubbed his chest. He was a soppy old thing. She was glad he’d been shut in the garden when the burglar broke into Number Ten. There was no telling what might have happened. He was no guard dog.

  “I’ll set up a rota,” Louisa carried on. “We can take it in turns to look in on Manfred, discreetly of course. He’s bound to have his pride.”

  “Bound to,” Helen said and wondered if she could walk on without appearing impolite.

  “Bad luck is supposed to come in threes. First Murdo, then the burglaries. Surely number three can’t be Manfred?”

  Helen looked at the dog and rolled her eyes. Was he saner than his mistress? She decided she preferred Louisa’s hysteria when it was delivered in dialect. In hindsight it was almost amusing to think how her middle-class veneer had crumbed in front of the policewoman. Almost. Her precious Murdo had been lost. That kind of trauma would make anyone regress. But Helen couldn’t help wondering w
hat else she was hiding under her top-wife façade.

  “I’m being silly,” Louisa said in her fully restored and modulated voice. “Things like that don’t happen in this neighbourhood.”

  As if to confirm her optimism, Manfred opened the door. The old man’s face was drawn and his eyes were rheumy.

  “Thank heavens,” Louisa said, adopting a slower way of speaking. “Damian and I would like you to join us for dinner tonight. To thank you properly for finding Murdo. Shall we say seven thirty?” Invitation delivered, she stepped down from his doorstep.

  “Danke, nein. I don’t need to have food. That I know the boy is safe is a thank you.”

  “But you must, we insist.”

  “No.”

  Louisa’s face was a picture, clearly unused to such a blunt refusal. “Well, come so that we can ask you how you found Murdo. We knew the geography chap at number 4 was off on a field trip, but we looked over into his garden. The gate was swinging open. I’m sure Murdo wasn’t in that garden then.”

  “But that is where I found him,” Manfred said. “It stays a mystery, I think.”

  Polly Stephens came towards them from number 8.

  “I’m telling Manfred about the supper tonight. You and Jerome will be there, won’t you?” Louisa called. “And you, Helen, of course.”

  Was it Helen’s imagination or had Louisa lowered the pitch of her voice when extending the invitation to her?

  “That’s sweet of you,” Polly said, coming over, “but don’t you have enough on? Our place is still a mess, isn’t yours?”

  “You’ll have to put up with glass missing from the dresser and a cloth to cover the scratches on the table, but we’ll cope. It’s nothing compared to what we could have lost.” She sighed.

  Helen sighed too. Despite what she thought of her, Louisa loved Murdo fiercely. His safe return was all that mattered about that awful evening.

  “It’s the nerve of a complete stranger I can’t get over. In broad daylight breaking into four houses on one street,” Polly said.

  “If it was a stranger,” Louisa said.

  Helen had been aware of Manfred retreating into his house, but now he stared at them.

  “You don’t think it was a stranger?” Polly asked.

  “Do you remember that man who vandalized my garden?”

  “Surely you don’t think it was him?”

  “Why not? He’s been stalking us for months; he even followed us to Austria.”

  Helen felt an angry cough in her throat. “But how could he have known that Murdo would go missing and that we’d all go off to look for him? Isn’t that too much of a coincidence?”

  They stared at her. Had she raised her voice in defence of a man who’d stalked them?

  “There, Helen, is the damning evidence. He must have taken Murdo to get us out of the street. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I want to tell the police but Damian says we have no proof.”

  Helen suppressed another cough. At least one Howard was talking sense.

  “I think your husband is right,” Manfred said. “It is not my affair, but you cannot accuse a man without Beweis … proof.”

  “Do you know him?” Louisa asked. Helen heard the allegation in her voice.

  He shook his head. “But your husband has a good advice.” He retreated inside.

  Louisa stared at the closing door. Her face had grown a shade pinker.

  Polly looked from Helen to Louisa. “How are you both coping after the break-ins?” she asked. “Chris Mowar is going around like a bear with a sore head, and I haven’t seen Mel, have you?”

  “You know what Mel’s like. She’s taken it badly,” Louisa said, recovering quickly from Manfred’s snub. “Chris is at his wits’ end. He’s managed to get some medication from the doctor but she’s scarcely been out of bed.”

  “Our girls keep checking their toys in case he stole something. We don’t think he did, but downstairs was ransacked. I hope they forget about it soon,” Polly said.

  “That stalker has a lot to answer for.” Louisa glared at Helen, leaving her in no doubt she held her responsible for the stalker’s reappearance in their street.

  26

  Friday, 16 July

  “Bloody typical,” Helen mouthed as she climbed down the metal steps she was forced to use. The pool was too packed to slip in off the side, let alone dive.

  She set off doggy paddle and stop-started around bombing kids, petting couples, and the elderly regulars. After the stifling heat of the car she should have found it refreshing, but the usual bite of cold water was more like a lethargic slap. The weather beamed summer heat over the Freibad, but for Helen the day had begun as lukewarm sludge and descended into stolid fug.

  She’d swallowed her pride and joined the school library on her way to the pool. She wanted to pick up a couple of textbooks for her lessons with Maria. They were both finding grammar a bit of a trial.

  “I see English isn’t as straightforward as you thought, Helen,” a voice behind her said as she’d waited for the library assistant to stamp her books. It was Louisa, smug and spouting the grain of truth that made Helen dig her nails into her palms.

  And she was there. Again. In the same square metre of space as Helen. If Helen went to the school shop, it would be Louisa’s day behind the counter. If she went to the swim club, Louisa would lord it over her as the chairwoman. They couldn’t even go for a meal without Louisa and half the street piling in. And now, on the day Helen had picked to visit the library, Louisa was stocking up on Shakespeare for her gifted children.

  Helen reached the far end of the pool and stopped to look around. Whatever course she’d managed to plough was obliterated by more splashing bodies. Could she be bothered to swim back? She might as well pack it in and go home. She was about to climb out when a swim float appeared in front of her face.

  “I’ve asked the Bademeister to put in a rope for us.” Sascha squatted on the poolside.

  The smog in her head lifted and she grabbed the float. The day finally smiled as the pool attendant ushered the leisure swimmers to the side, put in a lane rope and added a Training sign at both ends. The pool was her escape – away from the fakery and arrogance of Dickensweg. Was Sascha dangerous? Not to her.

  Helen and Sascha, the only serious swimmers, had the lane to themselves. They set off side by side at speed, but not racing, their bodies flat and streamlined to the water. Helen breathed on alternate sides, so did Sascha. At every sixth arm-pull their heads turned towards each other as they inhaled.

  At first she balanced her energy throughout her body and pictured him next to her doing the same. Eyes forward and down, spines relaxed and tilting to the hips, stomachs taut to support their lower backs. But after two lengths, her only thought was for the synchronicity of their sixth arm-pull. Her right elbow, then her shoulder came out of the water in time with his left. Her neck was smooth to the turn of her head and she stretched her mouth up to take it above the water. Through the mist in her goggles she saw his mouth do the same. She wanted to raise her head for a clearer view of him but knew her feet would sink and break the spell.

  Almost touching, their palms turned to each other so that their thumbs could re-enter the water first. They swept their arms – her right, his left – through the water towards the centre of their torsos and out to their thighs, charting a perfect hour-glass shape between them.

  Their wrists clashed, sending searing pain up her forearm, but she didn’t lose the rhythm or pull apart. Neither did he. Instinctively they slowed their pace and the touching increased. Elbows, wrists, ankles, hips. Sometimes hurting, sometimes not. That sixth beat was everything.

  They reached the end and made a turn. She curled into a tuck, bending her knees. As she threw her legs over her pelvis and planted her feet on the wall, she was aware of him doing the same. She power-pushed away and stretched out her body, baring it to the water below her. She kicked harder and pulled faster. Swimming back up the length, her left arm
matched his right. The waves from her movements rippled into his and rocked the lane. Was it a race now? Not with each other, not exactly. And yet more was at stake than in any competitive swim. She no longer imagined his movements beside her; she knew they were part of hers: every kick, every sweep, every explosive exhalation into the water.

  Eventually they stopped. They stood in the shallow end, mouths wide and panting for air. They took off their goggles but looked at their hands on the rail, not daring to catch each other’s eye.

  Sascha pushed against the wall and sprang catlike from the water. Helen hauled herself out on her belly and twisted into a sitting position, feeling spent, sated. She pulled off her swimming hat. He drew her to her feet. She was aware of the beating sun on her hair and neck but the heat didn’t start there, it radiated out of the hand he was holding.

  “Let’s stay for a while,” he said and walked across the grass. She followed, still gripping his hand.

  Without speaking, they lay on their backs, eyes closed against the sun’s glare. Blades of grass pricked her naked arms and thighs. This was the freedom she’d been denied for months. He’d let go of her hand but now stretched his fingertips to hers. He pressed their palms together and she felt the muscle memory of their previous palm to palm encounter, the one she’d relived every day since.

  Sascha leant towards her. “Shall we take your car? I know a place.”

  Mute, Helen sat up and nodded. Obedience and freewill were one. There wasn’t a choice to make. This decision had been made months ago.

  But as they headed towards the changing rooms, Sascha said: “Later you can drop me in Dickensweg.”

  She stopped walking. Dickensweg. He’d screamed a safe word – a hated word – that shattered her stupid fantasy. The coercive stalker didn’t want her; he wanted the information she had on her neighbours.

  She bolted to the changing room, feeling every speck of grass and soil and grit that stuck to her back and legs. Her badge of shame. Without brushing off the dirt, she threw her shorts and T-shirt over her damp swimsuit, chased her trembling feet into her sandals and dashed to her car.

 

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