***
She drove through the village and headed south onto the A61. At the first service station, she pulled into the car park and burst into tears. What had she been thinking? How could she do that to Gary? She’d never go to the Freibad again. Thursday couldn’t come soon enough. It was the end of term, and she and Gary were spending the whole summer in Shrewsbury. That was what she needed, to get back to the real world, away from this stifling expat enclave that turned her crazy.
With the windows wide open she headed home, letting the wind buffet the cabin fever out of her.
When she turned into Dickensweg, Chris was polishing his car as Damian walked out of Number Ten with his mobile in his hand. Chris turned towards the engine noise to wave at her. She groaned. He carried on watching her car so she pulled up short, in front of Manfred’s house. She pretended to get a text message and made a theatrical display of taking her phone out of her bag. It was a delaying tactic until she’d psyched herself up to run the gauntlet of Chris’s sarky comments and Damian’s letching. They’d see she’d been crying and offer two unwelcome brands of comfort.
“Escaped again, have you?” Chris called.
For a second Helen thought he was talking to her, but he was aiming his sarcasm at Damian.
Damian dropped his phone. He picked it up and walked out of his drive, his eyes on Chris. That was all Helen needed: both men standing by Chris’s car as she went to her front door. But Damian turned left along the path into the copse. She felt a pang of guilt for calling him a letch. He’d been more attentive to Louisa since they nearly lost Murdo. He’d washed Louisa’s Landcruiser yesterday and he’d taken to watering their lawn most evenings.
She was about to get out of the car – at least, with Damian gone, Chris wouldn’t have an audience to show off to – but she heard shouting from the copse. Sascha strolled out, smoking a cigarette. Of course, he’d found his way here ahead of her; he didn’t need a lift from her despite what he’d said.
Helen’s insides lurched. Had he come for her? Or Gary? Was he going to tell him what she’d done?
Damian rushed out of the copse behind him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Sascha took a drag of his cigarette. Helen couldn’t hear what he said. Please God, don’t let him mention me, she prayed.
“Don’t lie,” Damian said.
Sascha blew a smoke ring and said something else that Helen couldn’t hear.
“I’m calling the police.” Damian marched towards his house.
But Sascha followed, shouting: “We both know you won’t do that, don’t we?” He sounded calculating. Helen trembled; he’d manipulated her too. Thank God she’d bolted when she did.
Damian stopped walking. Clearly there was something in Sascha’s veiled threat.
Chris Mowar leant against his car and folded his arms. “Aren’t you going to answer him?” he said.
“He stole from you, too,” Damian shouted. “Don’t you care?”
“Did you steal my DVDs?” Chris said, suddenly angry, striding over.
Sascha didn’t reply.
Damian shouted: “If I catch you near my family, I’ll kill you.”
Helen could hear her heartbeat. Would Gary threaten the same thing when he found out how close Sascha had come to her?
Sascha leapt towards the men. “I told you I would never harm a child.”
Chris let out a laugh. “Just ignore him, Damian. I doubt he knows what family means.”
Even before Chris had finished speaking, Sascha’s fist connected with his jaw and Chris stumbled to the ground.
“I know family,” Sascha snarled and stalked into the copse.
Helen let out a gasp. Now what was she supposed to do?
For once she was grateful to her nemesis. Louisa rushed out of her house.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” She examined Chris’s bloodied lip and led both men indoors.
Helen got out of the car and scurried indoors. Was Sascha still watching? She had a knot in her belly that said he was.
27
Friday, 27 August
They laid the blanket by the drystone wall, out of the breeze. Helen’s calves still prickled from the gorse on the climb up Lyth Hill and her arms and face were now absorbing the burn of the sun. She knelt forward and kissed Gary.
They released each other when two teenage boys came into view.
“Lovely day,” Gary said.
The boys sniggered and ran on.
Helen fetched the champagne out of the rucksack. Gary opened it, bursting the cork into the air. The boys, who’d stopped in the next field to unfurl a kite, cheered.
Helen held out her glass. Gary filled it to overflowing. He brought her hand to his mouth and licked the froth off her fingers.
There was another cheer when the boys’ kite took off, some kind of superhero, an upstart against the sky. In the distance behind it, miles away, was the grey-green crag of the Long Mynd.
Helen scanned left to the Wrekin, its pointed summit obscured by wispy white clouds. It looked like Mount Fuji. It was hard to believe they were only three miles from Shrewsbury.
She squeezed Gary’s arm. “I can see the whole world from here.”
Gary tilted his head, his eyes on the bodice of her summer dress. “It’s a great view.”
She play-slapped him and chimed her glass with his. “Here’s to the best teacher,” she said and pulled him towards her for another kiss. They’d phoned Damian the previous day to get the international GCSE German results. This was their celebration. She took a sip. It danced into her head, tickling the roof of her mouth.
There was another whoop from the boys as the kite ducked and weaved in the wind.
Birdsong carried from the trees behind the wall.
“A wood warbler,” Gary said.
She laughed. “Since when did you become an expert?”
“I’ve always appreciated nature.” His gaze was lopsided again.
A thought she’d forgotten came back to her. “What do you know about Silesia?”
“What?”
“Something Manfred Scholz said. He mentioned cranes in Silesia.”
Gary sat up, resting his arms on his bent knees. “Millions of German Silesians lost their homeland at the end of the war. I expect he was a refugee. Next term I’ll ask him to talk to the students about it.” He dropped down onto his elbow and caressed her thigh through her dress.
Helen stayed sitting up. Next term – one more weekend before they had to catch the ferry back to Germany. Back to Louisa Howard, Chris Mowar, and Sascha Jakobsen. Her body tensed under Gary’s caress. No, not Sascha, not back to him. The pool would be closed by the time they returned. No access to dangerous waters. She looked at her husband. There wouldn’t be another swim.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She calculated the days until the school Christmas holidays and their next escape to Shropshire. She’d never longed for winter so much in her life.
A wispy seed ball floated close to her and got caught in her hair. She brushed at it, but Gary picked it off and blew it back into the air. His large, gentle palm stayed upwards for a moment. She admired the deep lifeline across it. She smoothed out the blanket and lay down on her elbow, mirroring him. She felt his eyes all over her.
“That colour suits you,” he said. He leant towards her. “There’s a bird hide across there, secluded. How about it?”
She scanned the horizon. The boys had gone beyond the brow of the hill, their bobbing kite still visible. She could no longer hear their excited commentary.
“But …”
He breathed kisses on her collarbone.
She scooped up the blanket and took his hand.
28
Saturday, 27 November
Helen gripped Gary’s hand as they headed towards the wooden huts that glowed with Christmas lights. She could see their painted stall signs, although she didn’t have a clue what they meant.
&n
bsp; “I hardly recognize it as Dortmannhausen,” she said, feeling disoriented.
“That’s why we waited until it got dark – to get the atmosphere,” Gary said. He led her past a crêpe stall that smelled of cinnamon and Nutella.
The mention of the darkness unsettled her. She hadn’t felt right since they returned from their summer break. The sense that someone might be watching crept up on her. She scanned the market, but saw no one looking in her direction, just people enjoying themselves. Nearby a small boy was playing a violin. Gary tossed a euro coin into his open music case. Further on a jazz band supplanted the child’s hesitant strains. Helen felt a hot blast from the two big heaters on the musicians’ stage. She and Gary watched for a few minutes, absorbing the welcome warmth, as well as their high-tempo rendition of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”.
Her stomach rumbled when they came to a man spit-roasting knuckles of pork that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a cave painting. Ahead, people of all ages were gliding across a temporary ice rink.
Helen spotted Chris Mowar with Louisa Howard at a Glühwein kiosk. They had their backs to her but she recognized Chris by the huge Cossack-style hat that he’d taken to wearing. It made his head look even bigger than usual. Louisa was hiding her trim figure in a shabby ski suit that was several sizes too big. Helen remembered the conversation she’d overheard in the restaurant months ago and guessed Louisa was doing her best to economize.
She took Gary’s hand and tugged him in the opposite direction but, too late, he saw them. She put on her bravest smile and suppressed the expletive that came to her lips as he led her over to say hello.
But when the woman turned round, it wasn’t Louisa; it was Mel. According to the occasional public announcements that Louisa made, Mel was bedridden and not eating. Well, she got the not eating bit right – although Mel was cocooned in the shapeless ski suit, she must have lost two stone. She had her grubby white bobble hat pulled low over her head, but there was no disguising her serious cheekbones.
Chris made a show of buying them all mugs of Glühwein. “I asked for a shot of amaretto in yours, Helen, because you like a kick in everything.”
Gary squeezed her hand: don’t rise to the bait. She squeezed back: I won’t. But Chris stopped teasing to read a text message. He looked up from his phone. “Damian says they’ll meet us after the boys have been on the big wheel.”
“They must love it here,” Helen said. “I expect Louisa can’t get them off the rink.”
Mel shook her head. “She won’t let the boys go skating in case they slice off a finger. They’re all promising musicians, she says.”
Was there a smirk in her voice? Her extended stay in bed had done her good.
Eventually Gary released Helen from Chris’s anecdotes and said they’d catch them later. They swept into the throng of the market. Helen stayed clamped to Gary’s arm. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that someone in the crowd was watching.
Later they bumped into Mel again, this time without Chris. “Shall we get something to eat?” she asked. Whatever had caused the dramatic weight loss hadn’t killed her appetite.
Gary led them through the stalls and ordered chips at a catering trailer. He also bought Backfisch, oblongs of battered fish with chunks of white bread. As they ate at a customer table, two teenage saxophonists serenaded them with a decipherable attempt at “Silent Night”.
After he tipped the musicians, he and Mel went to look for drinks. Helen wandered about on her own, unnerved and feeling heady with the scents of two huts selling perfumed candles.
***
The lights from inside the church illuminated its one stained glass window – of Saint Boniface, wearing what looked like Marigold gloves – but failed to throw much light beyond the nearest stalls. Helen headed towards the flaming torchlight further on and came to a makeshift stable housing two sheep and a donkey. Life-size models of Mary and Joseph knelt over an empty manger, awaiting the arrival of the Christkind on Christmas Day. Recorded organ music from a loudspeaker completed the effect. She’d never seen a living nativity before and couldn’t imagine UK councils allowing beacons of naked flame outside a stable.
Sascha Jakobsen appeared next to her. The sounds of the market blurred into the background behind the noise of alarm in her head. She hadn’t seen him since that stupid day in July, but the same feelings of fear and anger and craving thundered through her. She wanted to flee, but stood her ground, gripping the top of the stable gate. Why run when he knew where she lived? He could catch her any time he wanted.
“Was it cold by the river this morning?” he asked.
“You were there, in the copse; you followed me?” A tremor went through her.
Sascha shook his head. “I’ve seen you often enough to know where you go. Sometimes you run, but not when there is ice on the ground.”
“You’re stalking me?” Oh God, he’d seen all her comings and goings. Her walks to the school library, her jogs around the neighbourhood, her visits to Maria for English lessons. She’d dismissed Louisa’s paranoia, but she was right. None of them were safe. She’d have to tell Gary everything despite what it would do to their marriage. She blinked away tears.
Sascha’s jaw tightened. “It’s not all about you, Helen,” he said. “I wait and I watch, but it’s not about you.”
Helen’s eyes pricked with more tears. Why did she care about the coldness in his voice? There was nothing between them, never had been.
He placed his hands next to hers on the gate. They’d been side by side on the pool rail at the end of their last swim. She flushed at the memory of how her body had kicked and pulled and pulsed in time with his. She looked around to see if anyone was watching them.
“Your husband is listening to the jazz band with the fat woman who is no longer fat.”
Sascha was stalking them all.
“Stay away from us or I’ll call the police.”
“Gratuliere!” Sascha clapped his hands. “Finally you sound like Howard’s wife.”
“Get lost, Sascha,” she shouted. “I’m nothing like Louisa.” A woman looking at the nativity scene turned to stare. Helen lowered her voice. “Leave me alone, I don’t want you near me.”
Sascha’s eyes narrowed and he snarled: “Are you sure about that?” He stole away into the crowd.
Helen stood for several minutes, listening to the munching of the animals at their hay nets. She tried to let the gentle sound relax her, but her whole body was shaking.
The organ CD finished.
“You can’t cherry-pick the easy parts.” A loud English voice filled the gap left by the music. Chris Bloody Mowar again. Idiot. Just because he was speaking English, it didn’t mean the locals couldn’t hear him. Gary said all Brits were guilty of it; they never learnt to keep their voices down when they went out. She flushed, praying Chris hadn’t heard her with Sascha.
“It ends now,” another strident voice said. Louisa. They must be on the other side of the stable.
“I’ll try to protect you, but I can’t guarantee …” Chris’s voice trailed off.
“Are you threatening me?” Louisa sounded nervous. “The whole thing is laughable.”
“You should know where your loyalties lie.”
“This has to stop. I should have stopped it long ago. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Helen pulled into the shadows of the church as Louisa emerged from behind the stable and hurried away. When she was sure Chris wouldn’t follow, Helen moved back into the main market. She found Gary and Mel listening to the jazz band as Sascha said she would. She couldn’t look either of them in the eye.
They browsed the stalls for another hour but the magic had gone. Sascha had killed it. And Louisa, Mrs Perfect Wife and Mother, the Relate counsellor who poked her nose into Helen’s marriage, was the one having an affair. She was a fake with her homebaking and piano soirees, and aromatherapy balls.
When they bumped into the Howards, Louisa was hanging onto Damian’
s arm like a love-struck teenager. Even he looked suspicious when she laughed hysterically at one of his jokes. The guilty madam had the brass neck to offer Mel a lift home when Chris texted to say he wanted to stay on.
Helen suggested Toby ride back with them so there’d be more space in the Howards’ car for Mel.
“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” she asked him when they set off.
“Yeah.”
“Do you think your mum enjoyed it?”
“’Spose.” He yawned and closed his eyes.
Helen stopped digging. Louisa and Chris deserved each other. She looked at Gary. And she deserved her husband, not Sascha. Never.
Fiona
My stomach lurched every time I moved up the queue. I wanted to get it over with, get the hell out, but I had to wait for the only payphone on campus to become free. Shep had taken my mobile to get me an untraceable SIM card and hadn’t brought it back yet.
The man in front of me was in his early twenties, a couple of years older than me. He had black curly hair and a couple of flecks of skin on the shoulders of his heavy coat. He stepped forward and picked up the phone. My heart dropped down my insides. My turn next. Too soon. I wasn’t ready. I turned to let the girl behind me go first, but she stepped out of the queue to talk with a friend walking past. No one else was waiting.
The man raised his voice and laughed. He didn’t sound English. God, no, was he with the Syndicate? Should I run? Scream? My heart banged against my ribcage but I made myself stand still. Stay calm, don’t draw attention. One more day and I’d be away and safe. My best chance of keeping alive until then meant waiting behind a man who could kill me. As long as he didn’t turn round, as long as he didn’t catch my eye. After tomorrow I’d have control. One more day.
As I stood there hiding in plain sight, the unfamiliar lilt and jolt of his voice became reassuring. He sounded Eastern European. From Poland or Hungary. A postgraduate, not a killer. But when he hung up and walked away, my heart raced again. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Lives were at stake. I dialled.
The Perfect Neighbours Page 12