The Killer Next Door(116)

Cher is above her, huddled against the chimney, her clothes clinging to her body and her hair poodled around her face. She’s shivering, barefoot, only wearing a light top over her jeans and it’s soaked through. She’s holding her right arm with her left, her hand dangling between her legs, and black circles ring her eyes. Collette looks closer, and sees that her jeans are stained with blood. It drips from the tips of her useless fingers, mingles with the water and trickles away across the roof.

‘Are you okay?’ she asks, redundantly.

‘Peachy,’ says Cher, and grinds her teeth.

Her head is fogged with confusion. ‘What the hell’s going on? What are those…?’ She points back into the room.

‘Do you mind if we talk about that later?’ says Cher, in a small voice, her tone surprisingly humble. Her body is rattling with cold and shock and she is beginning to sway on her perch. ‘I could do with some help. I’ve done something to my shoulder.’

‘How did you – where’s Thomas?’

‘He…’ Cher shakes her head. ‘He’s gone.’

‘Gone? Gone where?’

‘He…’ She seems confused, dazed, rests her head against the brickwork. ‘I think I killed the fucker. He was coming after me, so I pushed him.’ She jerks her head behind her, then hisses and clutches her shoulder. ‘Collette,’ she says, ‘it’s nice to chat and all, but…’

Collette slaps herself internally to wake herself up. ‘Okay. Yes. Hold on.’

She hoists herself on to the window frame, lurches forward, saves herself by grabbing the open pane. Sees the trees on the other side of the road seesaw towards and away from her. ‘Careful,’ calls Cher.

‘Yes, thanks, I’ll try.’

There are dead bodies in the bedroom, she thinks. All this time, we’ve been living downstairs from a bunch of dead bodies. It looks like he’s been mummifying them. They can’t have got that way naturally, can they? And, oh, God, I hope Vesta doesn’t wake up. One more cracked skull outside her bedroom window and I think she’ll tip over the edge.

‘Oh, Collette?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry. About your mum.’

She looks up in surprise. It seems like such a startlingly normal thing for someone to say under the circumstances. She’s such an odd kid. ‘That’s okay,’ she says, because she can’t really work out what the appropriate response would be.

She hooks a leg over the windowsill and lowers herself slowly down. Heights have never been her thing. Looking over edges has always made the inside of her head ring hollow, like a bell, the muscles behind her ears contract. Well, don’t look down, she tells herself. Just look at where you’re treading, and look at Cher. Once you’re up there, you’ll have no choice but to keep your cool. Just don’t think about what you’re doing now, or you might not be able to do it at all.

No wonder he was so calm about the Landlord. No wonder he knew so much about what we were doing. He’s been doing it for God knows how long. Up here in the roof, all snuggled up with his corpses. Oh, Jesus, this is so high. How come it doesn’t look this high from the street? Lying on her stomach, she edges along the window frame until there is no more window frame to be had.

She looks up at Cher. The girl’s face has a peculiar tinge of green to it and the shaking has stopped. She’s going into shock, she thinks. I need to get her inside, get her warmed up. I wonder if that break’s cutting off her circulation? I swear I see a lump on her collarbone. It’s snapped clean in two. She must be in agony.

‘Hold on,’ she says. ‘Just… hang on in there, Cher.’

She puts the ball of a foot down on the tiles to slide herself, and it slips out from under her like it’s skating on ice. Collette grabs at the window again, pants as panic overtakes her. I’ll just… I’ll go back in. I’ll go and find someone. Someone else will know what to do. Someone else will know what to do. Hossein. Christ, bloody Gerard Bright, if it comes to it. Anyone. I’m not brave enough. I can’t. She hangs her head in through the window, sees the thighs of the girl in the chair, so still, so thin. Oh, that poor child, she thinks. He would have done it to her, too, and we’d never have known. All the people in this house, moving on, the waters closing over their heads, we’d have been sad for a couple of days, we’d’ve asked each other where she was, and then… we would have forgotten her. The way everyone who lives here is forgotten, one by one, by the people they’ve shared their space with. The same all over London, the anonymity we all cherish: it’s a sure road to oblivion.