The Neighbour

by Fiona Cummins

  The boys – although a shotgun pointing at them on that empty summer’s day did more to turn them into men than years of furtive cider-drinking and stolen cigarettes – were mostly silent.

  Charlie – at least, she assumed it was him – muttered something like, ‘You’ll pay for this, you prick,’ but he was shushed by Bailey, and the four of them stood next to each other, suspects in a police line-up.

  Old Man Lovell shoved the muzzle into Charlie’s chest. The front of the boy’s pale green shorts darkened. Aster felt laughter stir inside her like an air bubble, but it wasn’t down to Charlie’s lack of control, but at the sheer awfulness of the predicament they were in.

  ‘If you ever come onto my property again, you will regret it.’ He pushed the muzzle deeper into Charlie’s chest, making him stumble backwards. He’ll have a bruise there tomorrow. Again, a bubble of laughter threatened to burst from her and she clamped shut her lips.

  ‘Get rid of it.’ He jerked the gun towards the pig’s head.

  The boys exchanged glances and Bailey stepped forward. He tugged at one of the ears, but Charlie had impaled it with such force that it would not budge. He shot a panicked look at his friends.

  Marco moved hesitantly towards it, grabbed the other pig’s ear and yanked. The combined strength of both boys freed it from the stake and they staggered backwards. Flecks of raw meat and pale, bloated fat flew through the air and landed on Aster’s bare arm.

  She screamed.

  Lovell turned his attention to her.

  ‘You’re one of the new family.’ It was a statement, not a question. He already knew.

  She nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady, her eyes drawn to the stiffening splashes of red on the front of his shirt.

  ‘A word of neighbourly advice.’ The corners of his mouth were white with spittle. ‘Stay away from this bunch of no-hopers. They’re not worth it.’

  Bailey kept his gaze on the ground, but Aster saw Charlie roll his eyes behind the old man’s back.

  ‘Now fuck off.’

  He did not need to tell them twice. The boys grabbed their bikes – Bailey still holding the pig’s head – and were off, cycling up the street at speed, leaving Aster alone in a stranger’s garden.

  ‘See?’ said Lovell, shaking his head. ‘Told you they’re not worth it.’ He went inside and shut the door.

  Abandoned in the flat, hard sun. True, she barely knew them, but they had left her behind. No one had done that before. Tears of self-pity filled her eyes. She missed Matthew and her friends from home. This was not home. It would never be home.

  And then, at the top of street, a bike came into view.

  Bailey pedalled furiously down the street towards her.

  ‘Get on,’ he said.

  She stared at him for a moment, confused by what he meant. But then he eased himself forward until he was standing upright over the crossbar, feet on the ground.

  ‘The seat,’ he said, flashing an anxious look at the house. ‘Hurry up.’

  A thrill of excitement rushed through her. She climbed awkwardly onto the seat, resting her feet on the rear wheel axles, but there was nothing to hold on to except Bailey’s waist.

  She slid her arms around him. His stomach was flat and hard, and she could feel the heat of him, even through his T-shirt. She blushed, self-conscious, worrying about whether she was too heavy and would slow him down, but enjoying his proximity too.

  And then Bailey pressed his weight against the pedals, and she laughed and so did he, and they were cycling up the road, away from Old Man Lovell, away from her house and her little brother, and into the bright, shining lights of a new friendship.

  Charlie and Marco were waiting for them on a patch of grass by the newsagent’s, their bikes tilted loosely beneath them. They were talking furiously. Aster switched her gaze from one boy to another. It was like watching a table tennis match.

  ‘He’s a twisted fuck.’

  ‘Duh.’

  ‘So let’s do something about it.’

  Marco nudged the toe of his trainer against his pedal, making it spin. ‘You’re joking, right? He told us to keep away.’ He glanced at Bailey and Aster. ‘I get the impression he means it.’

  Charlie flattened his lips. ‘Uh-uh, my friend. We’re going to pay that old bastard back for what he did to us.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Total. Humiliation.’

  ‘Come on, Charlie.’ Marco’s tone had become pleading. ‘He’s got a gun, for fuck’s sake. Let it go.’

  Charlie narrowed his eyes. He was a tall, heavyset boy. Glasses. A sweep of acne across his forehead. ‘Bailey?’

  Aster got the impression that although Charlie was the muscle of the gang, Bailey was its leader. He steadied the bike, and held her hand as she dismounted inelegantly. Aster was glad she was wearing denim shorts and not a skirt.

  Bailey gave a half-shrug. ‘Could be fun.’ He was still holding Aster’s hand. His thumb brushed hers. Don’t let go.

  ‘What do you think, Aster?’ He had an amused expression on his face. The other two boys looked at her, Charlie with a hard, appraising stare, Marco with a kind of hopeful relief.

  Aster’s insides squirmed. Her conscience warned her away from Lovell, from this whole sordid situation. But Bailey’s fingers were threaded through hers, and she was lonely and weak.

  ‘I’m always up for some fun.’ She cringed inwardly, but the reaction from the boys was instantaneous.

  Charlie’s face broke open in surprise and he saluted her, a new respect in his eyes. Bailey squeezed her hand, hot breath in her ear, ‘I knew you were one of us.’

  Only Marco shook his head slowly, naked disappointment on his face.

  ‘Tonight,’ said Charlie. ‘Here. Two a.m. And cover your faces.’

  58

  Tuesday, 31 July 2018

  The copse – 1.54 p.m.

  All around her the birds were singing.

  Olivia Lockwood ran her tongue across her cracked lips. She could taste blood and mud, and she felt like her legs were on fire. From a faraway place, she could hear the low growl of machinery. She groped for the word, but could not find it, although she knew it had something to do with cutting grass and the garden and a fresh, sweet smell.

  Her eyes would not open, and when she tried to move, to relieve her body from the discomfort of the twigs and stones digging into her back, pain was everywhere, setting off flashes of light. From somewhere inside came the knowledge that she should not be here and that something terrible had happened, but she could not untangle these thoughts or smooth them into sense, and instead, with barely a sigh, she tumbled back into the black hole of unconsciousness.

  59

  Tuesday, 31 July 2018

  32 The Avenue – 1.55 p.m.

  DC Bernie French sniffed his armpits. Fresh as a fucking daisy. He had a spring in his step as he walked down The Avenue, the bounce of a man who had got his own way.

  He checked his watch. He wasn’t a stickler for punctuality, but he was excited and had arrived early for his role as ringmaster in this particular circus.

  Mr I’m-too-tired-to-talk Lovell was about to get the shock of his life.

  The sun made his shirt stick to his back, and the baton he’d slipped into his pocket was digging into his thigh, but even those inconveniences were not enough to put French off his stride. Today had been a good day – and it wasn’t over yet. Clive Mackie off the case, that emotionally derelict copper back in her box, and DCI Sampson – and now the on-call magistrate – approving his request for a search warrant. This is a major manhunt, your honour. The public is terrified. It is imperative we leave no stone unturned. Imagine the outcry if we overlooked an obvious suspect. Never mind that he’d over-egged the pudding. He grinned. Minor details. Lovell was as off as three-day-old fish.

  He checked his phone. Less than an hour until he was supposed to hook up with some detective constable he barely knew. He’d texted him to say he was following up a lead in Leigh-on-Sea and would pro
bably be late. Sometimes, a man needed to be alone.

  Translation: he wanted to have a little fun before the others got here.

  A seagull wheeled overhead, blowing in from the coast. French looked up at the sky. It was flat and blue with cigar-shaped clouds. The perfect day to fuck up someone’s life.

  The curtains were drawn at 32 The Avenue, but DC French considered that to be an advantage. It meant that Lovell couldn’t see him coming.

  Strictly speaking, he should wait until the rest of the team had arrived. He’d even dithered about delaying until tomorrow. His favourite kind of raids were the 5 a.m.-ers, when suspects were pulled from their beds without warning, vulnerable with sleep, pale-faced and exposed. He got a kick out of rummaging through their dirty washing baskets, seeking out worn clothing and potential DNA. Relished the penny-drop moment when the gawping idiot he was investigating realized he’d left it too late to destroy the evidence. Revelled in the power of having one over on another human being.

  And Sampson would frown on this. No question about it. But while French wasn’t one to play by the rules, he had no intention of getting found out. This is what happened when you pissed off a police officer. And Lovell had pissed him off.

  Plus, he wanted to catch him in the act.

  But if he had planned to wrong-foot Lovell, it was Lovell who wrong-footed him. As if the old man had been waiting for French to return, the door opened before he could knock.

  ‘You’re early.’

  ‘I have a warrant to search these premises. If you’d like to step aside, please.’ Admittedly, that last sentence was a bit unnecessary.

  ‘Can I see it?’ Lovell’s tone was mild. His hair was wet and he smelled of soap, as if he’d stepped out of the shower.

  French hesitated. He didn’t actually have the court order on him. The DC from Rayleigh was supposed to bring it with him. And most suspects didn’t ask. They were usually too shocked to remember their rights.

  But then Lovell surprised him.

  ‘Come in, I suppose.’ He stood back to let French enter. ‘Remind me, what do you think I’ve done?’

  French coughed. The house reeked of lavender, its floral scent catching at the back of his throat. And an undertone of something thicker, uglier. The residue of the rotting-meat smell that had prompted him to apply for a warrant, but it was faded, like an old memory.

  French ignored him. ‘Can I have a look around?’ he said, although it was a perfunctory question. He was already opening doors and cupboards.

  Lovell’s house was neglected and unloved. Motes of dancing dust were illuminated by the sun. The dirty shadows of boot prints were visible across the hall rug, as if no one ever bothered to sweep up. Piles of cat hair and dried mud lifted gently as the air moved with unexpected activity. A patch of something unidentifiable marked the carpet on the stairs.

  ‘Ever heard of cleaning, mate?’

  ‘My wife used to do it.’

  French muttered under his breath. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  Lovell’s eyes narrowed as French stared him down. The old man was wearing a clean white shirt and a jacket, with a gold pin that was vaguely familiar on his lapel.

  In the kitchen, the back door was open. A pallet truck stood on the patio, a sheet of MDF positioned across its forks and attached with a length of rope. A blanket rested on the ground. French could see a garage, and through its open door, a large chest freezer. His fingers tapped against his leg, nervous energy thrumming through his veins.

  He would take a closer look outside when he had finished in the house.

  The rotting-meat smell was stronger upstairs, but it had not reached the gagging stage yet. A tiny part of him – the part that occasionally doubted himself – wondered if he should have waited for the others, but he silenced it. This was his lead. His discovery. Lovell had been discounted early on, yes, but in the heat of a rapidly moving investigation mistakes were often made. Evidence was overlooked. Corners cut. If Lovell was the Doll Maker – Fuck you, Mac – then French would claim this victory all on his own.

  Promotion. Pay rise. Pussy.

  French opened the spare-room door, and stumbled backwards, hand over his mouth. The air was thick with heat and the sweet, sickening smell of decomposition. His memory threw him back to Christmas Eve a decade ago.

  He’d been called to an elderly woman’s flat by her alcoholic son. No response for a few days. His colleague had stayed with the man while French had broken a kitchen window. At first, he’d assumed her blinds were black, pulled tight against the cold glare of daylight, but the glass had been darkened by flies. They’d crawled over his arm as he’d shattered the pane.

  As soon as the air from inside the flat had reached him, he’d known that she was dead. The weather was stone-crackingly cold, but the windows had been shut, the gas fire blazing. She had died sitting in front of it.

  He had flicked her a brief glance, disturbed by the ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come. Her nose was not where it ought to be, and it had taken him a minute to register that her face had slipped off in the fierce heat, and it was not her nose, but her tongue.

  She’d been wearing a nightgown with pockets, filled with cash she had squirrelled away to give to her grandchildren as Christmas presents. The notes had stuck together with the fluids that had leaked from her decomposing body. French had collected them in an evidence bag and stashed them in his locker. The stink had permeated the station and put him off his fish and chips.

  That night, the son had turned up at the station, half pissed, demanding his mother’s money.

  ‘I can’t give it him,’ muttered French to the desk sergeant. ‘It’s a public health hazard.’

  The sergeant had shrugged. ‘Nothing we can do about. Legally, it belongs to him now.’

  French still felt queasy when he remembered the stench that had risen from the damp notes as he had peeled them apart to count, and the idea of them being passed back and forth to customers in the pub.

  But that was a long time ago. And this was now.

  Because ten years later, lying on the bed, was another woman in her nightgown, and she was staring at him, eyes wide and fixed. Her arms were straight and stiff, hanging over the side of the coverlet, and her skin was blanched like a piece of freezer-burnt meat.

  Her face was painted, her cheeks stained pink, lips a deeper red. A few drops of water were visible on the carpet.

  And she was unquestionably dead.

  60

  Now

  I tried so hard and for so long.

  I learned to garden. I planted and tended and watched life grow. I made things. I observed other people. I cooked and read and listened to the radio. Got on with the business of life.

  And I tried to rub out the scars that both of my mothers – and you – had left upon my soul.

  I folded up my past until it became a forgotten slip of paper, buried at the bottom of a drawer. Formed friendships. Tried to behave in the ways that others did. I watched and learned and copied.

  I was a decent person. Paid my taxes. Put litter in the bin. Helped old folk to cross the street and contributed to society.

  But as the seasons moved on, I did not.

  I found it hard to see clearly, to shine as brightly as I might. I was obscuring a part of myself, like a smear on glass.

  Because through the years of living my life, the old-jumper-ordinariness of it all, death whispered to me. It still does. Lures me. Teases me with its what ifs? I tried to ignore it. And I managed to do so for such a long time. I fought to nail it down. And I would have succeeded. But the interference of others denied me a future.

  They held a special service for Natalie Tiernan. With counsellors on hand. The school she taught at established the Natalie Tiernan Prize for Academic Excellence in her memory.

  First through the shop door. First to find Birdie. First to die.

  Her murder was as perfectly executed as clockwork. She had no reason to suspect. Invited me in with a s
mile on her lips. It didn’t take long for her to stop smiling.

  I developed a taste for it once I had started. And I claimed them, one by one.

  Oh, the newspaper stories. Reams and reams of them. Enough to paper a house. All asking the same questions. Why paint the faces of the dead? Gouge out the eyes? Why hide the bodies in the woods?

  And the naming. Always the naming. Drum roll, please. Step forward, The Doll Maker.

  There’s a pleasing symmetry, don’t you agree? The Doll Maker and the man who makes dolls. Clever of them. The press, I mean. But not quite clever enough.

  I have read all the stories, I have watched the television specials, and their theories are wrong.

  There is no mystery behind the paint. A final gift to bestow upon the lost, to rescue them from the ravages of decomposition, to ensure they face the darkness as the best versions of themselves. An apology too, I suppose. A way of making amends for the act of murder, of repaying what I have stolen by using their skin as my canvas, breathing youthfulness back into them. And, most importantly, a sleight of hand, a misdirection.

  The eyes are different.

  I took those because of what they had seen.

  61

  Tuesday, 31 July 2018

  25 The Avenue – 2.06 p.m.

  The first thing Garrick Lockwood noticed was the silence.

  ‘Liv.’ His voice rang out in the stillness. Again, with urgency: ‘Liv, I’m home.’

  Nothing.

  He rested his portfolio against the wall, his chances of a job at the cutting-edge firm of architects blown by his early departure. The only sound was the shifting of gears as his taxi drove off and the thrum of next door’s lawnmower.

  He stood at the bottom of the stairs and called again. ‘Liv.’ A pause. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’ But the house had the feel of emptied pockets about it.

  The edge of panic that had haunted his journey home – on the Tube, the broken-down c2c train that had sat on the track for what felt like hours and the car ride from the station – tipped into a creeping kind of worry.