Until it's Over

by Nicci French

  ‘Blimey!’ I said, as Owen staggered out, hauling a stained canvas bag. He’d returned from Italy that morning and when I’d got home from work he was entering into the spirit of the sale with a vigour that surprised me. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A tent,’ he said. ‘It leaks. It’s always leaked. It leaks so badly that it’s like sleeping under a gutter.’

  ‘Right. But you can’t throw away Miles’s shoe rack. He uses it. Where are the shoes that go in it?’

  Owen shrugged and tugged his tent past me, scattering bent pegs as he went. But then he stopped and gave me a look that turned my stomach to liquid.

  ‘Hi, Astrid,’ said Pippa, appearing in the doorway. Her hair was piled messily on top of her head and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She glittered with energy. ‘If you want to get rid of stuff you’d better hurry. People are arriving in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Nobody’ll buy any of this.’

  ‘Want to bet?’

  ‘Where’s Miles anyway?’

  ‘I think he and Leah are keeping out of the way.’

  ‘And Davy?’

  ‘He’s gone to get beer for all of us.’

  I leaned my bike against the wall of the house and went over to the table. There were books (cookery books, novels, biographies, dictionaries, atlases, travel books, books about mathematics and economics, music and law, books that belonged to libraries and even schools); there were kitchen utensils, videos and DVDs, beaded cushions, a rug, a lumpy old duvet, ripped sheets, a mop, a hairdryer in the shape of a duck, a shoebox full of wind chimes, empty biscuit tins, and several packs of cards, which I was almost certain were incomplete.

  ‘These are nice.’ I bent over a small box of jewellery. ‘Are these yours, Pippa?’

  ‘I never wear them any more,’ she said airily.

  ‘Some are lovely. You can’t sell these beads.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘I’ll buy them.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be getting rid of things, Astrid!’ said Dario.

  I stopped him and examined his face. He was still bruised and swollen, his speech muffled. ‘How are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You should be taking it easy.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I need to do this.’

  Davy arrived, carrying a bag bulging with cans, which he started handing out. I took mine and went into my bedroom, to see if there was anything I could throw out. But while Pippa’s room is like an Aladdin’s cave, mine is rather minimalist. I sat on my bed and stared around, realizing how little I owned.

  I heard footsteps bounding up the stairs, and then they stopped. There was a knock at my door. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘ Me. Owen.’

  Oh.’ I got up from my bed and ran my fingers through my hair. ‘Come in.’

  The door opened and Owen entered, pushing it shut behind him.

  ‘I brought you something.’ He held out a little box. ‘From Milan.’

  ‘For me? I don’t know what to say. Thank you.’

  ‘You have to open it.’

  ‘Right.’

  I pushed up the lid and there was a pair of small silver earrings, round and with spokes, like two tiny bicycle wheels. ‘You’ll spot a connection.’

  I unhooked the earrings I was wearing and put them on. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘They seem good,’ he said. ‘But what do I know?’ There was a pause. ‘I’d better go. Things to carry.’

  There were already about a dozen people clustering round the tables. I didn’t recognize most of them. It sometimes dismayed me: I’d been living in the house for years but most of the people who lived in the street were still strangers.

  I walked up to the tables and looked at the detritus of our lives together, now being pawed over by our neighbours. Soon it would be scattered and we would scatter with it.

  Pippa and Dario were unpacking some clothes from a box and draping them over one end of the table. I walked over and picked up a long flowery skirt and ran my fingers through the soft fabric. ‘Some of this stuff really isn’t bad,’ I said. ‘Why are you getting rid of it?’

  Pippa gave me a challenging look, which seemed to suggest I didn’t understand the ways of clothes and fashion. ‘I’ve got a rule,’ she said. ‘Every so often I go through my stuff and if I find something I haven’t worn for six months, out it goes, however much I think I like it. Because if I’m not wearing it, there must be something wrong.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen you wear any of this,’ I said. ‘I’m not exactly in the money at the moment but I might pick up a couple of things. How much are they?’

  ‘A fiver each,’ said Dario.

  ‘Really?’ said a voice from behind me. I looked round and saw a flamboyantly dressed woman with long dark curly hair. ‘All of it?’

  ‘Priced to sell,’ said Dario.

  The woman sorted eagerly through the clothes, cramming dresses, skirts and blouses under her arm. Her eagerness was contagious, setting off a frenzy among the other women who were gathered around. I still had the skirt in my hand and I managed to grab a beautiful black Victorian-style top with a lace collar. Everything else was gone in seconds and the women of Maitland Street and beyond were frantically proffering bundles of banknotes at an almost alarmed Dario and Pippa. I handed over my own ten-pound note and took my haul back to my room, squeezing past Mick who was manoeuvring a standard lamp out of the door.

  ‘Are there any lights left?’ I said.

  ‘It’s summer,’ said Mick.

  By the time I re-emerged, word had got round and the crowd of customers had grown quite large. The only item of clothing left was an army greatcoat that had been left by a previous tenant. But there was still plenty to fight for. People were paying money for objects that we would have had trouble persuading the dustmen to take away. Dario had priced the non-functioning toaster at fifteen pence. An old man offered him five and Dario told him he had a deal. I was rather touched by the idea of our crap toaster being lovingly repaired and having a new life making toast for him. It was like a horse finally reaching an animal sanctuary after a lifetime of grinding toil. Only the handleless pasta machine stood untouched, unbought and unloved.

  ‘Are you Astrid Bell?’ a voice said.

  I looked round. The speaker was a man in his early sixties, wearing a grey suit, a tie and black shoes. He was balding and wore glasses.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘You were the last person who saw my wife,’ he said.

  I was going to say, ‘Not the last’ but didn’t, because it sounded like heartless quibbling over words.

  ‘Are you…?’

  ‘I’m Joe Farrell,’ he said. ‘Peggy’s husband.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was so shocked and upset by what happened.’

  ‘You see that lad over there?’ he said, pointing at a teenage boy who was trying on an old Walkman Dario was selling.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t either,’ he said. ‘But I know who he is. He’s one of the gang who robbed my wife after she was dead.’

  ‘The ones who broke into your car?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They called me into the police station and showed me photographs. He was one.’

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. Knowing who he was, I looked at him searchingly. His face was grey with grief, if that wasn’t my imagination. He had missed a patch of stubble along his jawline with his razor, now that there was nobody to notice for him. I dimly remembered that he had been brought in for questioning, not just as a witness. Did the police think he might have murdered his wife?

  ‘They only charged them with theft,’ he said. ‘They’re out on bail now, would you believe it? And now here he is. What do you think about that for a nerve?’

  I couldn’t think what to say. Everything seemed wrong. I could have said that this wa
s where the boy lived and that it wasn’t so surprising, but that might seem unsympathetic. ‘It was terrible what they did,’ I said. ‘There’s no excuse for it. But they weren’t involved with your wife’s death. They didn’t know about it. They were stupid kids breaking into a car.’

  ‘That’s what the police told me,’ said Farrell. ‘How do we know they’re right? They could have mugged her in the street, left her for dead, then come back and broken into the car when it was dark.’

  ‘Did the police consider that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I told them about it and they said they’d investigate but I don’t think they paid much attention. They mainly asked me about how often my wife and I argued and whether I suspected her of being unfaithful. I knew what they meant. They even got me to talk to a bloody psychiatrist. He asked me about my mother.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I met him as well.’

  Farrell paid no attention to what I’d said. It was clear he just needed somebody to talk to. The words gushed out as if they had built up in the weeks since his wife’s murder.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he said, looking at the frenzied scenes in front of us.

  ‘Most of us are moving out,’ I said, ‘so some of the guys in the house decided to have a clear-out.’

  Farrell gave a loud sniff. ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ he said. ‘I’d get out of this area if I could. I’ve lived here for more than thirty years. They say it’s coming up. But scum like that are still here.’

  I didn’t speak. I was a bit worried that the boy he was talking about might hear and there’d be more trouble.

  ‘Peggy was old-fashioned,’ said Farrell. ‘She believed in being a proper neighbour. That’s why you all knew her, isn’t it?’

  I murmured something unintelligible in response. I didn’t want to tell him that I hadn’t known his wife. That the first time I’d heard her full name had been when she was dead.

  ‘She noticed things,’ said Farrell, ‘and she believed in getting involved. Those kids from the flats, they go around late at night kicking bins over and breaking windows and jostling people in the street. Other people ignored it but she used to say things to them and she rang the police about them. Not that they did anything. But those kids knew she wasn’t someone who would just let something go. So they did something about it.’

  ‘I hope the police find who did it,’ I said.

  ‘They’ve given up,’ he said. ‘I keep phoning up and they say the investigation is proceeding. But when did you last see a policeman down here?’

  I didn’t answer because I thought it would only confuse matters.

  ‘Look at that kid,’ said Farrell. ‘He’s pocketing that radio. I’m not going to let him get away with it.’ I clutched at his sleeve to stop him.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘He’ll get it home and then he’ll discover it doesn’t work. That’ll be punishment enough.’

  Farrell looked at me awkwardly. He was clearly about to go. ‘If you ever want to pop round for a cup of tea,’ he said, ‘you know, to talk about things, I’m usually in in the evenings. And at weekends. Before you move away.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I said.

  ‘Biscuits as well,’ he said.

  ‘Great.’

  He moved away. ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he said, and I watched him edge his way through the crowd and walk alone along the pavement.

  Suddenly I wanted to get away from the bustle and the noise, so I went back into the house, where I met Leah in the hallway outside Miles’s bedroom.

  ‘I didn’t know you were here,’ I said.

  ‘I just got in,’ she said. ‘That’s a squalid little scene out there.’

  ‘I think it’s quite fun,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t believe the things people have bought.’

  She frowned. ‘Oh, by the way, Astrid, Miles brought a bag of my clothes over this morning. Have you seen them?’

  Chapter Seventeen

  I contemplated making a dash for it, but Leah was standing in my way and to get past her I would have to knock her over.

  ‘I don’t know anything about a bag,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been here, you see. Hardly at all. Can I come by now?’

  She shrugged and stood aside, and I charged past her. As I got to my room, I heard her clipping across the hall and opening the front door. I sat on my bed and picked up my new blouse, pressing my face into its softness. It had a familiar, expensive smell. I sighed and waited for the hubbub to begin.

  It wasn’t long. First there was a shout, ‘Hey!’ in a voice I didn’t recognize, then a truly ear-splitting shriek of rage.

  I stood up, laying my shirt carefully on the pillow.

  Then lots of voices shouting, I couldn’t make out the words, followed by a crash and more screaming.

  Very slowly I went down the stairs. The front door was wide open and through it I could see a wild scene taking place. Both tables seemed to have been pushed over, and the objects that had been on them were scattered across the front garden and even on the pavement. Youths were rummaging through everything in a kind of frenzy and more people were pouring in through the gate. As I looked, a very large woman, wearing tatty jeans, an old sweater and over it a glorious orange silk shirt that was several sizes too small, rushed past. There was a further yelp. I thought I recognized Pippa’s voice, but she was out of sight. Somebody was laughing and clapping.

  Perhaps, I thought, I could go back into the house without being seen, creep downstairs into the basement, from there get into the garden, then sneak up the alley and be away. But even as I was thinking this, I was stepping outside and gazing at the wreckage that lay before me. The boys from the estate were picking up as much of the debris as they could hold and as I watched two started having a tug of war over the old lampstand. A group of girls were parading around with lacy knickers – Leah’s, I assumed – on their heads, taking photos of each other with their mobile phones. Leah was in the corner, wrestling with the large woman whose orange shirt was now ripped from armpit to hem. Davy was with them, hopping from one foot to the other and occasionally trying to pull them apart, but although he’s fairly strong, their rage was stronger and he didn’t stand a chance. A few residents of the street stood in a bewildered huddle, some clutching bright garments, and stared at the mayhem, while out on the pavement a crowd was gathering. A boy hurtled past me, holding the lampstand, followed by his rival.

  I turned to Leah, who now had the remnants of her shirt in her hands and was striding towards a small group of bewildered middle-aged women standing near the side alley. ‘Hand them over,’ she said.

  They looked at her as though she was mad and backed away. ‘My clothes,’ said Leah.

  ‘We bought them,’ said one, nervously.

  ‘Yes, proper money,’ said another. ‘This cost me five pounds.’ And she held up a military-style jacket with a red lining.

  I felt a nudge as Davy arrived at my side. He was panting and there was a scratch on his cheek. I tucked my arm through his. ‘How did this happen? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Pippa and Dario.’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to say. Let’s try and sort this mess out.’

  I walked over to Leah and the women, stepping over a boy who was scrabbling on the ground for scattered bits of jewellery. I tried to adopt an official tone. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding, and those clothes you have aren’t for sale.’

  ‘We bought them.’

  ‘It was a mistake. You’ll get your money back.’

  ‘I don’t want it back.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Leah made a strangled noise beside me. I could feel the heat rising off her.

  ‘Just return the clothes, we’ll return your money. Simple.’

  ‘What about the others who’ve already left with theirs?’

  ‘I’ll get the money,’ I said. ‘Five pounds for each item, right?’

  Again, Leah gave a whimper
of rage.

  ‘Where’s the money, then? Davy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All the money, where is it?’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘The takings,’ I said, as patiently as I could.

  ‘It was in a box,’ he said, looking around desperately. ‘On the table.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And then… you know.’

  ‘Right.’ The front garden was littered with rubbish and people. There was still an audience on the pavement and among them, Owen was clicking away as if he was in a war zone. His camera was like a talisman, shielding him from any involvement in the disaster. I looked back at the house and saw three faces gazing out of a second-floor window: Dario, Pippa and Mick.

  ‘So we’ve sold off the contents of the house,’ I said, ‘and Leah’s wardrobe. And the money’s gone.’

  ‘It looks like it,’ said Davy.

  ‘Do you think it’s funny?’

  ‘No.’ He gave a little snort and I felt my own lips curl.

  ‘Are you laughing?’ screamed Leah, into my face.

  ‘Of course not,’ I managed.

  I thought she was going to fly at me, the only person she could get her hands on.

  ‘You fucking are! You sell off my clothes and then giggle like a spiteful little schoolgirl! How would you feel if it had happened to you?’

  ‘It has,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ asked Davy.

  ‘My bike. I left it leaning against the house. It’s gone.’