The Downstairs Neighbor

by Helen Cooper

  “What about her parents?”

  Emma blinked. “What about them?”

  “Any observations about Mr. or Mrs. Harlow?”

  She seemed to have been cast in the role of observer. But even before Freya’s disappearance, hadn’t her impressions of her neighbors often changed with her moods? Mostly their family life had appeared golden, but on her more bitter days, which she was ashamed to think of now, she’d been able to persuade herself it was all a front.

  “They’re going through something unimaginable,” she said. “I’ve never even heard them argue before.”

  The woman looked at her keenly. “Does that mean you have since?”

  “A-a few raised voices. Understandable in the circumstances.”

  The man made a note and Emma felt uneasy again. Had she said too much, too little? Would any of this help Freya? Sometimes lately, she feared she’d lost the ability to make the right judgments. She’d begun to question her own instincts, on everything from the decision to sell her shop to the wording of her texts to Zeb.

  And the silent calls to her landline. She couldn’t even trust her instincts on those. The first had come a few days ago, then another while Steph had been there last night and a third a few hours later, around one a.m. She’d been able to hear whispery breathing each time, painting her skin with goose bumps. But that didn’t mean they were a genuine concern, worth dwelling on amid everything else. Did it?

  “One last thing,” said the male officer. “Your other neighbor, Chris Watson.” He gestured downward. “Did you happen to notice whether he was at home on Thursday afternoon? Whether his car was here?”

  Emma frowned at the change in focus. She conjured a mental picture of Chris, whom she’d had only a little interaction with since moving into the building. Approximately early forties . . . wife was a nurse . . . That was all she could muster. He and Vicky seemed to keep a low profile on the street, aside from Chris’s branded car and the self-printed fliers he sometimes posted through letterboxes.

  Or maybe she’d just never paid much attention to them, even though they lived beneath her. Evidently it was only the Harlows she’d developed a fascination with as her own life had deflated.

  The police were waiting, pens poised.

  “I can’t remember,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice if he was home or not. Is he . . . involved?”

  “We’re just asking about people who know Freya.”

  Emma had so many more questions, but the PCs were preparing to go. They cast a final swift glance around, then subtly wiped their feet on her mat, perhaps to dislodge the hamster food wedged in their soles.

  * * *

  —

  After they’d gone, she rescued her phone from the swamp of brooches, even more anxious than before for a reply from Zeb. There was nothing on the screen except a vicious-looking scratch. Emma slid her finger up and down it, her thoughts tumbling with Freya and Steph and Paul and Chris Watson and Zeb. As her temples began to throb, she decided to take a walk instead of a run, still craving the outdoors but feeling slower, heavier, as if the police’s questions had added extra weight to her small frame.

  As soon as she left the house she was confronted by Freya’s face, enlarged and replicated in high-gloss, high-res, full color. Her eyes were unnaturally blue, the medal round her neck the brightest gold, the flush to her cheeks the shade of strawberries. The effect was overwhelming, unavoidably reminiscent of the shiny, sporty girls Emma had half idolized and half hated at school. And the words shouting below that smile: have you seen freya?

  Emma suspected the police wouldn’t have stretched their resources to these ultra-quality posters. She imagined Steph laboring all night after leaving Emma’s flat, her printer in overdrive. I could’ve done that, she thought. That’s one thing I could’ve done.

  Her gaze flickered to Chris Watson’s car. Its monochrome driving-school logo was like the antithesis of the vibrant posters. Emma dipped her head and hurried on.

  Freya’s image turned the corner with her, continued to punctuate her route until she smelled the river and felt guiltily glad to escape the teenager’s dazzling gaze. The river path was one of the things Emma loved about living here. The rainbow of moored, swaying narrowboats; the pub gardens with fairy lights threaded into their fences; the German restaurant with outdoor benches and strong beer, where she’d been for lunch with Zeb and her parents a few times. But today the gloom of the sky was reflected in the water, the whole scene a rolling wash of gray.

  She walked as far as Kingston Bridge, where she’d once seen a mo will you marry me? banner hanging from the railings. She remembered how she’d grinned, imagining the story behind it, the unknown Mo’s reaction . . . but as she approached the bridge today, she stopped dead.

  Paul Harlow was in the middle of it, talking to a woman in a red coat. The pair stood a small distance apart, their backs to Emma, staring downriver. They could have been mistaken for strangers who happened to have stopped in the same spot, but she could tell by the angle of their heads and the movement of their bodies that they were talking. As Emma watched, their conversation grew more animated. The woman reached for Paul’s arm but he yanked it away and stormed off toward the opposite bank.

  The woman stayed on the bridge. She leaned both palms on the pale stone barrier, watching Paul go. Then her head turned to stare down at the water and her shoulders shook as if she was crying.

  * * *

  —

  All the way home, Emma pondered what she’d seen. Was the woman connected to Freya? Did Steph know about the meeting, which had seemed so emotionally charged? Emma thought of the shouting from last night, the smashing glass. And the evening before that: Steph at the bottom of the stairs and Paul’s shadow stretching down toward her.

  She didn’t know what to make of any of it.

  As she let herself into the house, she peered up at the Harlows’ windows, then down at Chris’s, seeing no movement in either. Her pulse hopped when she pushed the main door and it hit something on the other side . . . someone, in fact. Steph was standing behind it, reaching into the mail basket attached to the reverse of their letterbox. She drew back, holding a small white parcel.

  “Steph,” Emma said.

  Her neighbor’s face was ashen, emerging out of the loop of a green scarf. Emma tried to compose herself to ask, Are you okay, any news, what did the school say? but stalled as her neighbor dug her hand into the envelope she was clutching, and pulled out a hardback book.

  “Did you order this?” Steph asked.

  Emma was taken aback by her urgent tone. “Erm . . . no.”

  “It isn’t yours?”

  Emma squinted at the title. Confusion made the words blur a little. How to Be a Better Parent. The cover showed a woman in a yellow dress and a boy in his early teens, facing each other in opposite armchairs, the woman leaning toward the boy, as if listening earnestly.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “It came through the door, but it isn’t addressed to anybody . . .” Steph’s eyes glazed as though her thoughts were galloping. Emma glanced at the book again, a flame of anxiety igniting in the back of her mind.

  She hadn’t ordered it. That much was true. So why was it making her feel so strange?

  Steph opened it, and gasped as orange liquid dripped out of its middle. Emma jerked back, clapping a hand over her mouth. The rest of a crushed raw egg slopped out of the book’s pages and spread in a sticky puddle at Steph’s feet.

  “What the hell?” Emma said into her palm.

  The sight of the egg sliming their hall floor, some still leaking from the book in Steph’s hands, brought back a sickening memory from years before. Steph was like a statue, holding the book open, staring at the blobs of yolk and fragments of shell clinging to its pages.

  “I don’t . . .” Steph’s voice was soft and hoarse
. “What does this mean?”

  “I have no idea.” Emma wondered whether her neighbor could tell her heart was booming, paranoia creeping up around her neck. There’s no reason this would be aimed at you, she told herself. The Harlows are the victims here.

  “Our doorstep was egged two weeks ago,” Steph said.

  Emma snapped to attention. “Really? I never saw that.”

  “I didn’t think anything of it at the time.” Steph’s voice was shaking now. “I assumed it was a random prank so I cleaned it straight up and forgot about it. But now . . . This can’t be a coincidence, surely. And this book . . .” She slapped it shut and stared at the title. “Maybe it’s trying to tell us something. That this is our fault.” She closed her eyes, dropping her chin as if something had landed on her shoulders. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  “Maybe it’s just some nasty stranger stirring up trouble.”

  Steph opened her eyes. Her pupils were huge. “I have to call Paul. And our family liaison officer.”

  Emma nodded. She wasn’t sorry that Steph now seemed eager to wrap up the conversation: Her insides were still churning. Neither was she sorry when her neighbor suggested they didn’t disturb the egg in case the police needed to examine it.

  She was light-headed as she watched Steph run up the stairs clutching the soiled parenting book. The door to the upper flat slammed. Emma found herself checking her hair and clothes, even though the egg hadn’t touched her. She hurried into her flat and washed her hands until they were scarlet.

  14.

  KATE

  Twenty-five years earlier

  The tower block seems to sway toward me. Clouds scud overhead and I gaze at the aerial on its very top, pointing into the sky, until I’m too close and it vanishes. As I drop my eyes they home in on a familiar denim jacket. Nick is pacing back and forth on the litter-strewn grass verge outside the main entrance. He’s started appearing at ours earlier and earlier, so I’ve been pushing myself to get home sooner, but it’s never enough.

  Why’s he smoking out here instead of on our balcony, or his own? He’s stomping over the brown grass, flattening the weeds, tapping his cigarette so ash flies away on the wind. I’m sure he sees me but he acts like he doesn’t, staring toward the road as if watching or waiting for something.

  I wish I could lock the main door behind me, keep him out of the entire block. By the time I’ve dashed up the stairs, sweat is leaking in tentacles down my back. I dump my rucksack and shout for Mum.

  She doesn’t answer. She’s not in the kitchen. There are two un-drunk mugs of tea on the table. I burst into her room and find her lying on her side on her bed, scrunched up like one of the pale blind puppies Auntie Rach’s dog gave birth to.

  “Mum?” I’m out of breath. “Are you okay?”

  Her eyes are red-rimmed, face white as flour, dark hair spread across the pillow. “Hello, love.”

  “What’s wrong?” I perch on the edge of her bed, wanting to yank up her work shirt to check for more bruises.

  She eases herself into a sitting position, cautiously, as if everything aches. “I’m just knackered. Long day.”

  “Why’s Nick outside?”

  “He’s on his way to the shop. We’re out of milk, toilet paper . . . basically everything. I’ve been a bit useless. Thank God for Nick, eh?”

  I can’t bring myself to agree. Thank God for Nick. “Have you two argued?”

  “’Course not. I just needed a lie-down and he offered to pop out. Now, are you going to make some tea?”

  “You haven’t drunk the ones out there.”

  She adjusts her position and there it is again, the wince of pain, but she forces chirpiness into her voice. “I’d forgotten about those. Better make some fresh, eh?”

  Reluctantly I go back to the kitchen. As the kettle boils I hear next door’s kids squealing, and Mrs. Begum watching a game show on the other side, the volume so high her speakers become a death rattle. Outside the window a plane draws its frothy trail across the sky and I wonder about the people on board, who they are and where they’re escaping to.

  I can’t find the mug that Mum likes her tea in, the purple one with the daffodils on it that I bought her for Mother’s Day. It makes me cross, frustrated. Nothing’s going right, nothing’s as it should be. I give up and use her second favorite, but when I chuck away the tea bags I catch sight of a glinting purple shard inside the bin. I reach my hand in deep. Carefully I dig out smashed pieces of crockery, painted yellow petals: Mum’s favorite mug, broken.

  The kettle peaks and falls silent. Still staring at the rubbish, I tune back in to the noises in our own flat. Mum moving around her room, opening her wardrobe, the rustle of clothes. She’s getting changed. This is my chance. I drop the shards back into the bin and tiptoe to the slightly open door of her bedroom. And though I feel weird about spying, I put my eye to the gap.

  Ever since I saw that bruise I’ve been frantic. Watching her. Watching him. The way she sometimes flinches when he touches her, the way he pulls back and they both look at me. At school, as it gets to the time he usually finishes work in the big British Telecom office on the industrial estate, I can’t concentrate for thinking about what might be happening at home. Even in English class, which I usually don’t ever want to end, all I’m doing is waiting for the bell, trying not to feel sad that I’m disappointing my favorite teacher with my distraction.

  I do my best to minimize the time they have alone together. It’s hard to stop them going out to the pub or spending the night at his flat, though. I feel out of control if they disappear off there, even though it’s just downstairs, and when Mum comes back her movements seem even more slow-motion. I’ve tried pretending to be ill so she’ll stay, and sometimes she looks like she might, but then he appears, asking if she’s ready, drawing her away.

  We need a bit of time to ourselves, Kate, she’ll say, tucking my hair behind my ear. You’ll be okay for a few hours, won’t you? Put a film on? I’m just downstairs, love.

  I sit there watching reruns of cheesy old sitcoms, wishing he’d picked somebody else’s mum in this block of flats to ask out. Why mine? Why us? And why did she say yes to that first drink, then to another, when we were happy as we were? Before long it was dinners at our place, his bare feet in the mornings and his razor next to the sink.

  Two nights ago, when Becca rang, all my fears about him came pouring out. For a while there was silence at the other end of the line. Then an uncertain little snort: “Your mum wouldn’t stand for that!” But she hasn’t seen Mum lately, doesn’t know how she’s changed. I told her it could happen to anyone, and if she could feel the atmosphere . . . When I started crying I think it shocked her into taking me seriously. “I’m sorry, Kay-Kay,” she said. “How ’bout I come stay with you next week? I need a break from this bloody job-hunting, anyway . . . It’s all right, Kate, everything will be all right.” I felt better then. Becca’s eighteen, older than me. Those two years somehow give her more power to fight this with.

  Mum is standing in her underwear, leaning against her wardrobe in a moment of private stillness. And I can see that nothing I’ve tried to do over the last fortnight has been enough. There are bruises on her stomach, her legs, her arms. Some are yellow-green, like islands of mold, others fresh and dark, like stains of red wine. I clap a hand to my mouth and stumble back. Behind me the front door opens, and I turn to watch Nick’s tall silhouette eclipsing our hall.

  15.

  CHRIS

  How well do you know Freya Harlow?

  Are you friendly? The two of you?

  Since nobody can confirm she made it back from her lesson with you . . .

  Chris stood in his hall, staring blankly at the hideous floral wallpaper they hadn’t got round to stripping and repainting in some acceptable neutral shade. His eyes traced peach petals and lime-green leaves as he replayed his interview with the polic
e from a few hours before. He began to feel woozy. The peeled-off edges of the wallpaper revealed crumbling plaster beneath.

  He jumped out of his skin when his phone rang.

  But it wasn’t the police calling back. It was Tamsin Spence, who lived at number 82 on the street and whose daughter Chris also taught. He cleared his throat and tried to switch into business mode, stuttering out his name as he answered.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel Lily’s session with you on Tuesday,” Tamsin said shrilly.

  Chris swallowed. “Oh . . .” He did his best to keep a grip on his professionalism. “Do you want to reschedule?”

  Tamsin muttered something about getting back to him and the line went dead. Chris blinked at his phone, reeling from her abruptness, unease curling in his gut. Had word already got around that he’d been whisked away by a police car earlier?

  Vicky’s voice startled him again: “Who was that?”

  He turned to see her standing behind him in her work tunic and a baggy cardigan. Her short hair was styled differently from earlier. It looked nice, but at some point in recent years he’d lost the knack of telling her so. She was clutching a half-knitted scarf. What was with the knitting lately? Who was going to wear all these scratchy-looking scarves?

  “A student,” he said. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “I forgot my ID card. Had to pop back in my break.”

  Had she heard anything about Freya? Surely she’d noticed the posters that Chris hadn’t been able to look at as he’d arrived home from the police station in a taxi. Vicky’s face was so expressionless these days. Sometimes when she was lying on the sofa watching TV he’d become genuinely afraid she wasn’t breathing. He found himself thinking often about the Vicky he’d first met. Fun-loving, witty, acerbic. She could open beer bottles with her teeth; at parties people used to hand their San Miguels straight to her. He’d been flattered when, after a few encounters at the parties of mutual friends, she’d made it obvious she liked him. And it had been gratifying to discover her more vulnerable side: the idea that someone like her might want or even need someone like him.