The Killer Next Door(36)

‘Thank God for that. He’s not exactly Mr Party, is he? Between him sitting there staring at the air like he’s trying to catch flies and Mr Chatty going on about the Second World War or something, we might as well pack up and go to sleep now. We’ll never get a word in once he turns up.’

Vesta raises an eyebrow. ‘Said the pot to the kettle.’

‘No, but I’m funny,’ says Cher, with the petulant assurance of the young. ‘He’s just such a… a fuckweasel.’

The side-return gate scrapes open, bangs to. They fall quiet and crane round, none of them sure, really, what a fuckweasel is, but fairly sure that Thomas won’t have liked being called one if he has heard. He can’t not have. Cher’s voice could warn ships on the Mersey.

‘Hello, hello!’ he calls, and his voice is unnaturally jolly. Yes, he’s heard, thinks Collette, but he’s going to pretend he hasn’t. ‘A beautiful afternoon for it!’

He comes round the corner. He’s wearing a polo shirt today – the minor bureaucrat’s smart-casual. It has obviously been maroon at some point in its existence, but has faded to a dark pink. He wears clip-on sun lenses over his spectacles; they’re smudged, and a small chip has come off one corner of the left lens so he has the look of someone who’s fallen on hard times, whose self-maintenance has slid downhill. The scuffed shoes and the slightly dandyish shirt suggest someone who clearly once cared about his appearance. Collette sighs inwardly – he looks like someone who’s lost hope.

‘Well!’ he says, marching across the lawn with a box of Milk Tray held out before him. ‘What a treat! So good to see the garden being used, as well. I love looking down on your little patch of green, Vesta. What a treat to come and be in it for a change. Hello, Hossein, hello, Collette. I’ve brought you some chocolates, Vesta. Maybe not the best present in this heat. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. About the melting issue.’

He doesn’t look at Cher, doesn’t include her in the greetings. Yes, he heard, thinks Collette again. And he’s not happy.

‘They’ll be lovely,’ says Vesta, taking the chocolates. ‘You are kind. Milk Tray! You shouldn’t have!’

‘Not at all, not at all, it’s nothing.’ He rubs his hands together like Uriah Heep and beams around him – at Collette, at Hossein, at Vesta’s begonias, at anywhere other than Cher. ‘Well, it’s another beautiful day, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Though I suppose some people might find it too hot. Nothing’s ever perfect for everybody, is it?’

He stands awkwardly above them all, looking about for somewhere to sit and radiating an aroma of suppressed astonishment that the chairs have run out. I bet he’s one of those people, thinks Collette, who always gives off a faint air of reproach, one of those people who’s never truly happy unless he’s hard done by.

Collette gives it a go, anyway. ‘Here,’ she hauls herself to her feet. ‘Have a seat.’

‘Oh, no, no,’ says Thomas, ‘I couldn’t possibly. You’re sitting there.’

‘No, you’re all right,’ says Collette. ‘I’m more of a floor sitter anyway. And I’ve been in chairs non-stop today. It’ll be nice to get on to a rug.’

‘No, no,’ he begins again, but Collette practically dives on to the blanket next to Cher. ‘Look, I’m here now,’ she says, and he tuts sheepishly and sits himself down, takes the cup of tea Vesta holds out across the gap. ‘Isn’t this nice?’ he says, again, and this time no one bothers to respond.

‘So can we have some cake, now?’ asks Cher.

‘Yes. Collette, do you want to play mother?’

‘Sure.’

‘There’s a knife in the basket.’

‘Okay.’ She reaches in and closes her hand around a handle that sticks out from under a chequered teacloth. Feels a tiny jolt of surprise as it brings the whole cloth with it. It’s a chef’s knife, best part of a foot long: a pointed end and an edge that looks like it would cut silk in mid-air like a Samurai sword. ‘I thought I was just meant to cut the cake,’ she says, holding it up, ‘not stab it to death.’

‘Sorry,’ says Vesta. ‘My old man was a butcher. I’ve got all sorts. Knives, sinew scissors, cleavers…’

Hossein bursts out laughing. ‘It suits you,’ he says, looking at Collette. ‘It’s like it was made for you.’

Collette wrinkles her nose and makes a stabbing gesture through the air. They grin at each other and Vesta sees a small, indefinable moment pass between them. Then Collette bends to cut the cake.