The Neighbour

by Fiona Cummins

  She slammed the door behind her on the way out.

  49

  Tuesday, 31 July 2018

  25 The Avenue – 11.29 a.m.

  Evan was sitting on the treehouse roof.

  He liked it up there. Hidden away from his sister and the rest of the world, his face obscured by branches and leaves, the sun on his skin.

  He was bored. B-o-r-e-d.

  His mother was somewhere, but he didn’t know where.

  His father was still in London, but had promised to get home as soon as he could.

  His dumb idiot of a sister was supposed to be looking after him, but she was pretending to walk up to the shop to buy a magazine so she could hang about and meet boys.

  He flicked a nervous glance at the house. The smoke had finally dispersed after Aster, dragged from bed by the noise, had panicked and called their father mid-interview. He’d told her to turn off the grill and open all the windows and doors. He’d also shouted the F-word down the phone, Aster said. Now he was getting the train home early from his Very Important Interview. Evan had a bad feeling about this.

  His stomach rumbled. He pulled a plum from the tree, but as he lifted it to his mouth, a wasp crawled from a hole in its flesh and Evan dropped it. The sound of it hitting the grass was thick and wet.

  In a flash of inspiration, he remembered a half-eaten packet of Jammie Dodgers in the treehouse. As he prepared to climb down, a movement from next door caught his eye.

  An old lady was hurrying down the garden.

  ‘Cooper,’ she called. ‘Cooper.’

  An old man appeared in the greenhouse door, secateurs in one hand, plant cuttings in another.

  ‘What is it, my love?’

  ‘I’ve been checking over those drawings again.’ Her voice was loud. Animated. ‘Not only are those people next door planning to dig up the foundations for a basement kitchen, they want to build a two-storey extension and a garden room—’

  ‘Hush, hush, my love.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘He’s gone out. I saw the taxi this morning.’

  ‘Well, now,’ he said mildly, scratching his head and pulling out his pipe. ‘There’s not much we can do about it.’

  Evan inched forward, half on the metal roof and half on the branch of the tree, trying to catch her reply, but it was muffled and indistinct.

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, my love.’ That was the old man. ‘These things take time.’

  Her voice rose again. ‘He’s an out-of-work architect. He has time.’

  The old man chuckled. ‘Why don’t we go and discuss it with them? Talk it over. They’re new. They won’t want to make trouble.’

  The old lady was pacing up and down the garden. ‘Imagine the noise and disruption. Loud radios. Diggers.’ She plucked a dead leaf from the laurel bush and let her complaint hang in the air.

  At any other time, when the sun was so bright it was difficult to see and the birds were full of song, Evan’s eavesdropping might have passed unnoticed.

  But at half past eleven on that late July morning, after days and days of unremitting heat, the branch of the tree the boy was leaning on snapped and tumbled to the grass, taking Evan with it.

  He let out a yell before hitting the ground, landing on his arm.

  He began to cry.

  The old man from next door called over the fence.

  ‘Young man, are you hurt?’

  Evan cried louder.

  ‘Is your mother there?’

  ‘No.’ The boy breathed out his reply in the gaps between sobs. ‘She’s out.’

  The fence panel that separated their gardens began to lift upwards, and before Evan realized what was happening, the old man was kneeling beside him, examining his wrist.

  ‘Looks swollen. Why don’t you come and sit with us until your mother gets back? Or at least let me put some ice on it.’

  Evan did not want to go with the old man, whose face reminded him of a well-worn football. Not when he had never met him before. But he’d only be a minute, and his arm was hurting, and his natural instinct was to let an adult take charge.

  He stepped awkwardly across the gardens, leaning on the concrete fence post with his good arm. Their garden was much neater than the Lockwoods’. An ornamental pond with its own fountain commanded the centre of the lawn. Several tall plants with blousy purple hoods stood by a wall. Inside the greenhouse, Evan saw plump tomatoes, ripe strawberries and a giant marrow. A row of seedlings in pots. He followed the man through the back door.

  Their kitchen smelled like his granny’s house, of air freshener and leftover roast beef.

  The old lady ran him a glass of water. She was wearing an apron. There were lines on her face, like cracks in old soap. Her hair was permed, but the curls were loose waves. Her face was set into neutral.

  As she put the glass on the table, it made a hard, heavy sound and Evan guessed that she was still annoyed with his parents.

  But then she smiled at him and her face broke open, a shaft of sunlight through the clouds, and her eyes softened.

  ‘I’m Audrina,’ she said. ‘And this is Cooper. What’s your name?’

  ‘Evan.’

  ‘Welcome to the neighbourhood,’ she said.

  ‘Right, Evan,’ said Cooper. ‘Let’s have a closer look. Love, I think we need some ice.’

  Evan winced as his elderly neighbour manipulated his wrist, but the pain had begun to wear off. The old lady appeared with a bag of frozen fish fillets which she wrapped in a tea towel.

  ‘I don’t think it’s broken,’ said Cooper.

  They sat for a while, the rough fabric pressed against Evan’s wrist, dampening in the heat. The boy couldn’t think of anything to say and, after a while, began to fidget.

  ‘I better go home now,’ he said.

  Cooper adjusted the ice pack, pressed his palms on his knees and leaned forward. A bluebottle buzzed lazily around the kitchen. ‘How old are you, Evan?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘And do you often stay at home on your own?’

  ‘Um, sometimes.’

  ‘Shall I tell you something?’ It was the kind of question that did not allow for an answer. ‘I’ve been many things in my life. Mostly a gardener on those big country estates you might have visited with your mum and dad, but, in my younger days, I used to be a school governor. And I think nine’s a bit young to be left on your own.’

  ‘My sister’s looking after me today.’

  ‘Is she now? Doesn’t seem to be doing a very good job of it, if you ask me.’ He laughed. ‘You fell out of a tree.’

  ‘She’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Well, I’d feel happier if we can keep an eye on you until she gets back. Did you bump your head?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Looky here,’ said the old man. ‘I appreciate this isn’t the way you wanted to spend your morning. Come on upstairs. There’s a few things up there that might interest you.’

  The door creaked as it opened. Evan’s eyes widened. A single bed neatly made with a blue and white patchwork quilt was tucked in the corner of the room, a well-worn teddy leaning against the pillow.

  Mr Men books filled shelves that ran the length of the room. Evan recognized The Complete Tales of Beatrix Potter nestled beside Enid Blyton’s The Castle of Adventure and half a dozen Shoot football annuals.

  An AT-AT walker – he recognized it from the Star Wars films his father made him watch – stood proudly on the windowsill next to boxed figures of Luke Skywalker and Jabba the Hutt. A flat, red computer with a handle and a yellow and blue keyboard caught his eye on the bedside table. Speak & Spell. He could see action figures and boxes of Lego and a whole selection of Matchbox cars.

  ‘Go in,’ said Cooper. The old lady was pegging out the washing and for that Evan was grateful. He couldn’t put it into words, but the room seemed faded, like an old photograph brought to life.

  ‘This was my son Joby’s room.’ Cooper’s smile was sad. He mad
e a sweeping gesture. ‘Please, have a look around. But be careful. His things are very precious to us.’

  Evan moved hesitantly into the room. He felt uncomfortable, like he shouldn’t be there. It was stuffy and sort of unhappy. Cooper opened a window and waved to his wife. He was wearing a pullover, despite the heat, and reminded Evan of his own grandpa.

  Evan picked up the AT-AT walker and put it down again. Pressed a finger against a cyclist on a stainless steel bicycle sculpture. It began to move rhythmically, insistently, the rider swinging back and forth.

  ‘Perpetual motion,’ murmured Cooper. ‘A little bit like life, eh?’

  Evan had no idea what he meant so he opened the bedside drawer to find pens, pencils and a Tupperware box full of rubbers. Evan opened the tub and a faint fruity smell filled the room.

  A Rubik’s Cube. A small maze filled with liquid mercury. An ancient box of candy cigarettes.

  And a set of headphones plugged into a yellow box emblazoned with seven letters. WALKMAN.

  ‘What’s this?’ He held it up for Cooper to see.

  ‘It’s a cassette player. Plays music and stories. You know, tapes.’ He pointed to the drawer under the bed. ‘There’s a heap of them in there.’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Back in a tick,’ said Cooper and hurried from the room.

  Evan turned over the Walkman in his hand. He should put it back. It didn’t belong to him. But he didn’t move. Instead he chewed on his thumbnail. Borrowing wasn’t stealing, was it? Before he could change his mind, he undid the hoodie that was tied around his waist and wrapped it around the Walkman.

  A voice he recognized drifted upwards. Evan heard his name being mentioned.

  ‘I’m Aster from next door. We’ve just moved in. I don’t suppose you’ve seen my younger brother. I saw the fence had been—’

  He tucked his prize into the crook of one arm and barrelled down the stairs. ‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘I’m here.’

  He wasn’t often pleased to see his sister but the sight of her warmed him. Evan didn’t wait for Cooper to speak, but grabbed hold of his sister’s hand and tugged her down the path, calling out a goodbye.

  Even the soft tread of Audrina’s footsteps on the carpet was not enough to drag Cooper’s gaze from the window and he felt rather than saw his wife’s presence.

  The old couple stood side by side at the window, not touching, looking down on the garden next door, watching the boy who vibrated with life and youth and reminded them of the son they had lost.

  All those memories, all those choices, buried deep in the earth of their lives. Both of them carrying the scars, not on their skins but beneath the neighbourly smiles and the warmth of their welcome, Audrina and Cooper from number twenty-seven.

  Audrina dragged a finger along the sill, searching for non-existent dust.

  ‘I better get back to the greenhouse,’ Cooper said, dabbing at his watery eyes with a tissue.

  She didn’t try to stop him.

  But as soon as she heard the back door click, Audrina lay down on her son’s bed and closed her eyes. If she listened carefully, she could hear the low thrum of the Matchbox car engines, the march of a thousand tin soldiers, the clink of marbles on the drain covers.

  The shouts of her son and his best friend playing in her garden all those years ago.

  50

  Tuesday, 31 July 2018

  The Avenue – 12.11 p.m.

  ‘You look like you could do with a drink.’

  Nine words that would change both their lives. He had passed a weary hand across his eyes and rested his elbows on the bar. The woman with the long dark hair had poured him a whisky and when he’d downed it, she’d poured him another. The music was loud. The club throbbed with it.

  He had held out his hand, ready to shake. ‘I’m—’

  ‘I know exactly who you are.’

  Chilled by her reply, he had thrown a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to find his exit blocked by security. But it turned out she hadn’t known who he was. Not then. That came much later and it cost them everything.

  A car door slammed, and the postman was back in The Avenue, sun on his neck, still on his delivery round. He mustn’t allow himself to be distracted. He walked up and down the driveways and garden paths, letters gathered in his hand like gifts.

  Even now, fourteen months after that night in the club, the postman could pinpoint the moment a line had been crossed. As they had dangled their legs over the seawall near Southend, a few weeks after they had met, she had lifted her lit cigarette to his lips, and he had taken a drag. Their eyes had held each other’s through the smoke, and they had both known. But she wasn’t his to love.

  And trusting him had killed her.

  51

  Tuesday, 31 July 2018

  Hanningfield Reservoir – 1.12 p.m.

  The sound of beating wings startled Wildeve and she watched the flock of geese land with grace on the sparkling skin of the water.

  From her perch on the decking of the cafeteria, she could see knots of families, spreading out rugs and unpacking their picnics and cricket sets, the drift of merry voices through the air.

  Adam had wanted to be a father, had often talked about surrounding himself with a brood of children – a legacy of a childhood without siblings to share the well-meaning but suffocating attentions of his parents. His friends had filled the gap of brothers and sisters but had fallen away as he’d grown older. When they had first moved back to the Essex town where Adam had spent his childhood, he’d wanted to find them again but had never seemed to have the time. A few months ago, he’d been invited to a school reunion. He’d spent a couple of evenings on social media, tracking down his former classmates. I’d like to connect with old friends, Wild. Recently, he had spoken of one in particular he was still trying to locate, muttering about credit checks and electoral roll searches that had drawn a blank. But life and work had got in the way and he hadn’t mentioned it again.

  Wildeve had been less certain about children, concerned about how weighty she might find the burden of responsibility. At thirty-six, she had experienced no maternal pangs, no longing for motherhood. Now she might never know.

  She wrote a single word on a piece of paper: Funeral.

  A man with silver at his temples and pouchy eyes approached her table. She stood and reached out a hand to greet him, but he pulled her into a rough hug. He smelled of aniseed balls.

  ‘What a bloody mess.’

  ‘I can’t believe this, guv,’ she said, mouth pressed against his polo shirt. She let him go. He was wearing knee-length shorts and deck shoes. She tried not to stare, more used to his smart trousers and ironed shirts.

  He ran a hand through his hair. ‘What can I do? I messed up.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ she said hotly.

  ‘Didn’t catch him though, did I?’ He smiled at the waitress and she came over to their table. Wildeve tried not to mind that she had been trying to catch the young woman’s eye for ten minutes. Mac seemed to have that effect on both sexes. Objectively, he was a good-looking man, but she loved him because in the four years she had known him, he had never flirted or been overfamiliar, talking proudly of his wife and boys.

  ‘I can’t believe Roger Sampson has been put on the case,’ he said. ‘Or that he sent you home.’

  She fiddled with a sachet of brown sugar, absently tearing the paper. Tiny grains scattered across the table. ‘He’s come in with all guns blazing,’ she said. ‘They’re going back to square one, to Natalie Tiernan.’

  Mac sighed. ‘That’s a mistake. They don’t have the resources. And we’ve already spent more on that strand of the investigation than the rest of the victims put together.’

  It was an unfortunate perk of being the first to die.

  The waitress brought over their drinks, smiling at Mac. The ice cubes in their glasses of lemonade clinked as they both took a sip. A frivolous sound, unsuited to a grieving widow and a career copper put out to pasture
.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  He put down his glass. ‘Get under Peggy’s feet. Help Harry get ready for university.’ His laugh was hollow. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I can’t sit around at home. I just can’t.’ That hot pricking behind her eyes again. She took another sip of her drink because it was a way to stop herself falling into the dark spaces.

  ‘I know, lass,’ he said, all his decades down south not quite drowning out the music of the Tyne. ‘I know.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching a small boat meander home to the jetty. A jabber of swallows or swifts, she could never remember the difference, swooped and spiralled above the water, an aerial ballet.

  ‘I don’t know what more I could have done,’ he said, and Wildeve had to lean forward to catch the shape of his words. ‘But we’ve missed something important.’

  ‘No persons of interest?’ She knew the team would have checked out anyone with convictions for violence or sexual assault, but she wanted Mac to confirm it.

  ‘Nothing, or at least, nothing relevant.’ He sighed again. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it now, though. We’re out of the game.’

  Wildeve pushed the police statements and a photocopy of the faded newspaper clipping that she had found at home across the table.

  Mac stared at them. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I found them in Adam’s things.’

  Mac scanned the paperwork while she talked, determined to convince him. ‘We need to speak to a man called Trefor Lovell. He’s expecting me this afternoon. He owns the shop now. I think he knows more than he’s letting on.’

  He looked up. ‘You know we can’t do that. We’re off the job.’ He gave another laugh, laced with bitterness. ‘And, in my case, out of the police.’

  ‘Why can’t we?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Guv, they’ve treated you like shit. And you’ve left Essex Police now, remember?’

  ‘I know that.’ His delivery was considered, as if weighing up the consequences of what she was suggesting.