by Peter James
‘The curtains shouldn’t be too long.’
Emily leaned against a packing case and looked at her checklist. ‘Right. I’ve rung the window cleaner we were recommended and he’s going to try to fit us in before Christmas. He asked if we’d mind him coming at the weekend, this once – what do you think?’
‘Be good to get them done, they’re quite grimy.’
‘Probably dust from the construction going on all around us.’ She peered at the list again. ‘I’ve called Sky and that’s sorted. I’ve also gone on the council’s website and found what day the bins go out – recycling is every other Monday, but it’s all going to change after the New Year, so I’ll have to check again then. Oh, and there’s a post office counter in the village shop that’s open to eight p.m.!’
‘That’s better than in town.’
‘I know, brilliant!’
‘And I’ve finally found the stopcock,’ Jason said.
‘You’d better show me.’
‘Tomorrow, when it’s daylight. It’s out down the side of the house behind the bin store.’
‘OK.’
‘Right, time for a celebration, methinks!’
‘You said the curtains shouldn’t be too long – how long did she say?’
‘I spoke to the woman a few days ago – she thought about a month,’ he said, coming back in with two champagne flutes. He set them down on the glass coffee table in front of the two huge sofas they had splashed out on, and which were put together in an L-shape.
‘God, we’re going to have to stare at that awful stuff across the road right through Christmas until they take them down.’
He went back to the kitchen and returned with a cold bottle of champagne that the estate agent had left them in the fridge. ‘That’s a bit snobby, darling – I think we should at least give them a chance!’
‘With Christmas decorations like that? Hmmm. Perhaps we could hang a blackout sheet up in the meantime,’ she said with a grin. ‘Although I guess that wouldn’t exactly be very neighbourly – they might think we were doing it to stop them spying on us.’
‘They are spying on us,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘They are, darling. I saw their blinds move when I got out of the car this morning, and every time I look across, I keep seeing the blinds in the same downstairs window twitching.’
‘Perhaps they’re curious, like we are, to see who their new neighbours are. They must be happy to have another couple on the estate. The agent said we’re only the second owners to move in. It must have felt like living in a ghost town.’
Jason frowned. ‘I think – what’s his name – Paul Jordan must be mistaken; there are people in the house directly opposite us – the one that looks like a small child’s drawing. I saw a couple and two children through one of the windows this morning.’
‘Oh, so my husband is a peeping Tom, is he?’ she said, peering across at it. ‘It’s a funny-looking house – two windows upstairs, two down, either side of the front door, and a pointy roof. You’re right, like something a child would draw.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you sure you saw people there?’
‘Yes, in one of the upstairs rooms.’
‘But there are no lights on, and no car outside.’
‘Perhaps they’re out.’
‘More likely they haven’t moved in yet, and were just there measuring up, or whatever,’ she said.
‘There! Number thirty-six, they’re looking at us again, I saw the blinds move!’
‘Shall I flash at them?’
‘Might be a lechy old perv living there who’d get off on that.’
‘Doesn’t look much like a lechy old perv’s house to me.’
He peered out. ‘No, too naff. It’s actually horrible – I mean, how did the same architect who designed this place ever think that house was a good idea? Or the one opposite. I mean, ours is a really pretty house – it’s like he designed this, got drunk, and came back to his drawing board and did that one and the Grotties.’
‘The Grotties! I like that. I think one of us should go over tomorrow and say hi, put them out of their misery so they can see we’re actually human. And tell them how much we like their Christmas lights.’
‘I’d like to see you do that with a straight face.’ He raised the bottle in the air. ‘Grrrrrrrrrr, we’re your new neighbours, we’re the cousins of the Munsters and we are very, very, very weird!’
Emily giggled.
He set the bottle on top of an unopened packing case the removals men had plonked there and began working on the foil.
‘Maybe he was just having a laugh,’ Emily said, flopping down on one of the sofas. ‘Like food critics every now and then describing something utterly disgusting as the most wonderful thing they’ve ever put in their mouth. Like, what is the most horrible house he could design that someone would buy. Or that portrait you painted of that politician whom you didn’t like, deliberately making him look about two hundred years old.’
‘I was just trying to show the wisdom of his years etched into his face.’ He held the bottle facing safely away from her as he untwisted the wire.
‘Of course you were.’ She lay back and kicked her legs in the air. ‘Woweeee, this sofa is sooooo comfy!’
There was a massive pop and the cork flew out, ricocheting off the ceiling, the champagne squirting and foaming out as if the bottle had been vigorously shaken. He stared at it, startled. Over half the contents had gone by the time it settled.
‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘This is a lively one.’
Looking up, she said, ‘It’s made a mark on the ceiling!’
‘We should leave it there – our house-christening mark! Our forever home.’
‘I like that!’
He filled their glasses and handed her one. Then he picked up his and, staring her in the eye said, ‘Cheers, to our forever home.’
‘It’s going to be a very happy home.’
‘It is, my darling.’
‘No it isn’t,’ said a sharp female voice.
5
Friday 14 December
Both of them froze.
The voice sounded like it had come from the kitchen.
Emily stared at her husband, wide-eyed.
Jason strode through into the kitchen, where the command box he had set up earlier sat on the refectory table, the green light glowing, showing it was operative. The wall-mounted television was on, with some soap playing. A middle-aged man and a woman were arguing furiously.
He stared at the screen. Quietly attempting to pacify the woman, the man insisted, ‘I’m telling you, it is!’
‘No, it isn’t!’ she yelled back, at full volume.
‘Command!’ Jason said. ‘Mute television!’
Instantly, the couple continued their argument in silence.
‘Command! Television off!’
The screen went dark.
He went back to the living room, smiling with relief. Emily was standing near the front window, peering up at the command box speaker grille set into the wall, high up.
‘The wonders of technology,’ he said, looking up, too. ‘Our home command box with a mind of its own – it must have switched the television on. I’ll have a proper fiddle with it tomorrow – I think I tried to set it up too quickly.’ He picked up his glass and nodded at the ceiling. ‘That christening mark – right?’
‘Right?’ she said, quizzically.
He poured some champagne into his mouth, set his glass down on the glass coffee table, put his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers, gently releasing the bubbly into her mouth. Then he murmured, ‘Talking of christening the house, we’ve been here for ten hours now and we haven’t yet bonked.’ He ran his hands down her midriff, levered his fingers inside her jeans and popped the buttons.
‘Mr Danes,’ she murmured back, pleasurably. ‘Are you trying to seduce me?’
‘No, I’m not trying,’ he said as his fingers explored deeper. ‘I am seducing you.’
<
br /> ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
‘No, here!’
She jerked her head at the window. ‘They can see us!’
‘Great – let’s give them a real show then!’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’ He tugged her jeans down over her buttocks.
‘Jason, no, upstairs! You’re wicked! Our neighbours can bloody see!’
‘So what?’ He pulled her, gently, down onto the large, white sofa, kissing her and probing away her objections with his fingers. She tugged hard at his T-shirt, pulling it over his head, then began to work on his flies.
6
Friday 14 December
‘Maurice, I just cannot believe it. They’re behaving like animals.’
Her husband was beaming. ‘Just like you and I used to.’
‘Hmmph.’
He looked at her with a gleam in his eyes. ‘Why don’t we – you know – pop upstairs?’
‘What? It’s only six o’clock in the evening.’
‘So, my love? The time of day never bothered you, once.’ He put his arms, clumsily, around her and tried to nuzzle her ear, but all he got was a faceful of stiff, lacquered hair, before she shoved him away.
‘Stop it! I have to watch Strictly Come Dancing on catch-up. What’s got into you?’
‘You can watch it later, or another time.’
‘Why would I want to do that? Just so you can have your wicked way?’
‘I . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought it might be nice,’ he said, meekly.
‘Did you? Well, I think Strictly would be a lot nicer.’ She waddled into the kitchen in her pink pom-pom slippers, opened a cupboard and removed an extra-large Christmas-special tub of Quality Street chocolates. She carried it into the lounge, settled into the massive sofa, put her feet up on a pouffe, and called out, ‘Television, BBC iPlayer!’ then she added, ‘Please.’
Even after weeks of living here, she hadn’t fully got her head around giving voice commands to operate just about everything in the house, from the bedroom curtains to all the kitchen appliances.
The wall-mounted television was disguised as a mirror in a gilded frame, either side of which were two marble columns topped with busts of gold angels. She repeated the instruction, starting with the word ‘command’. As the show appeared, she popped off the lid of the tub and rustled through the contents until, with a happy smile, she found a red and black Strawberry Delight. Her favourite! She unwrapped it, popped it in her mouth and chewed happily as the show started. So happily, that a minute later she was foraging for another. A shadow passed the door to the hall.
‘Maurice!’ she called out, sharply.
‘Yes, dear?’ he peered in, dressed in an overcoat and woolly hat.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Just popping out for my constitutional.’
‘I hope you’re not going to have a sneaky cigarette?’
‘Of course not. Just some fresh air.’ His voice rose a few octaves and he avoided eye contact. She had learned many years ago these were both signs that he was fibbing.
‘I won’t kiss you if you’ve got smoky breath,’ she said sternly, through a chocolatey mouthful.
‘I’ll be back in a while.’
‘That’s what Scott said.’
‘Scott?’
‘Scott of the Antarctic, who do you think I meant?’
There was a burst of applause and music from the television as a couple in tight sequined clothes pirouetted across the dance floor. The dark background was dazzlingly illuminated by darting blue laser searchlights.
‘My dear, that wasn’t Scott – it was one of his team, Oates, and I think what he actually said was, “I am just going outside and may be some time.”’
‘Yes, well, don’t be as long as him.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Have you wrapped up warm enough?’
‘It’s not that cold.’
‘Have you got your gloves?’
‘In my pocket.’
‘Make sure Elizabeth doesn’t follow you out.’
Checking the cat wasn’t behind him, Maurice let himself out of the front door, closing it with a sense of relief that he had a few minutes of escape and freedom. He walked a short distance in the dry, early evening air, careful to keep well out of sight of the lounge window, and lurked in the shadows of Santa’s grotto as he pulled out his cigarettes. Then he lit one, inhaling deeply and gratefully. One of his few little pleasures these days, he rued.
As he smoked, he stared at the lights behind the curtain-less windows of the house of the new arrivals. And in particular at the window below which the couple, frantically undressing each other, had sunk. He was feeling both intensely curious and a stirring in his trousers.
And finally, reluctant but unable to stop himself, as if propelled by an unseen hand, he stepped forward, across the lawn, towards number forty-seven, just getting a little closer. Then a little closer still.
7
Friday 14 December
Elizabeth jumped onto the sofa beside Claudette Penze-Weedell. She steadied the Quality Street tub before stroking the cat, absently, staring at the television. Elizabeth purred. On the screen, a man in a red sequined waistcoat, open at the front revealing his toned pecs, danced wildly with a woman with big hair, in a matching dress. Claudette lowered her eyes for a second to peer in the plastic tub, searching for another Strawberry Delight. As her pudgy fingers closed around her prize she realized, disappointed, it was the last one. She eyed several shiny purple wrappers. Her second favourites – she would work her way through those next, she decided.
Glancing back at the screen, a movement in the doorway caught her eye.
A shadowy figure crossed it.
‘Maurice!’ she called out, crossly. ‘Are you back already? You know what the doctor said about walking for thirty minutes every day.’
There was no response.
‘Maurice!’ she called out, louder.
At that moment on the screen the two dancers tumbled, catastrophically, onto the floor.
‘No!’ she gasped, as they struggled to their feet and tried to recover the situation, as if nothing had happened. Filled with anxiety for the couple, she plucked a purple chocolate from the tub, unwrapped it, and crammed it into her mouth, her eyes on stalks, riveted by the disaster as she chewed the hazelnut in soft caramel.
Outside, Maurice, reeled in by his urges, continued across the road, keeping clear of the glow from the ersatz Victorian street light directly opposite. He took a final drag of his cigarette, dropped it on the ground and took out a mint from the tin he always carried in his pocket to mask the smell of smoke from his wife.
Sucking on it, and with erotic butterflies fluttering in his stomach, unseen strings pulled him closer to number forty-seven, eyes glued to that window. He was feeling increasingly aroused. Mrs P-W had better be in the mood tonight.
He reached the railings and the open front gate, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at his house, at Santa’s grotto and the closed blinds behind which his wife would be absorbed with the show and her chocolates.
He wanted so much to turn back. But his feet seemed disconnected from his mind and he kept going forward. Tiptoeing now. Forward. Invisible in the darkness, inching his reluctant way towards that window.
Definitely invisible.
He was panting. His heart drumming. His face burning with embarrassment.
Must stop. Turn away. Go. Go!
Closer.
Closer.
Something moved behind that window. Pale, naked buttocks rising. Falling. Rising. Falling.
Enough, he must leave right away.
Instead, helplessly, he continued tiptoeing forward.
Could see more of the buttocks.
Just yards away now.
Another step.
Then a face pressed against the window, staring at him venomously.
<
br /> The thin, wrinkled face of an old woman, her flesh a hideous grey, her eyes filled with hatred.
Almost simultaneously, security lights flooded down on him, spotlighting him like an actor on stage.
Maurice took a startled step back and stumbled, almost falling. Then, shaking in shock and terror, he turned and fled. He did not dare run over to his house in case she was still looking out of the window and would see him. The shame of it. Maurice Penze-Weedell – a pervy voyeur.
He ran along the pavement, curving past two completed but empty houses that were still for sale. Then a dinky one with white clapboarding, with a ‘SOLD’ sign and a spindly sapling in the front garden. Where the road curved left, there were two partially completed houses on the right, the gardens just mounds of earthworks secured behind steel fencing. A sign outside on a blue square board read, FOREST MILLS DEVELOPMENTS – PLOTS 28 & 29.
He reached a junction, perspiring heavily now, and stopped, panting, badly in need of another cigarette to calm his nerves, hardly daring to look over his shoulder. Finally, he plucked up courage and turned, looking back at number forty-seven. To his relief the security lights had gone off and Lakeview Drive was dark and silent again. The downstairs light in the house where he had seen the couple having sex was still on.
God, who was that hideous-looking woman? That hag?
Directly opposite him was a row of silent, dark, finished houses, all with blue signs on their walls. All as yet unsold. With shaking hands, he fumbled out a cigarette and was about to light it when he smelled a strong whiff of cigar smoke. Where was it coming from? There wasn’t a soul around this end of the estate.
Then, with a start, he saw him.
A man standing right across the road, beneath a street light, with a fat cigar glowing in his mouth, giving him a knowing smile. He was in his thirties and looked like he was dressed for a 1970s-themed fancy-dress party – he wore a busy high-collared shirt opened halfway to his navel, flared jeans, Chelsea boots and a leather jacket. A gold medallion glinted on his chest.
‘Hi, good evening!’ Maurice hailed him. ‘Good to see a fellow smoker!’