The Killer Next Door(47)

She puts the card on top of his bank statement. Something to brighten his face up, she thinks. He always looks so grey and mournful when she sees him, the only person in London not to sport a suntan this summer, as though he spends his life in a cave, like a fungus.

There’s nothing, as usual, for Cher – she’s not had a single letter since she came here – and nothing, she notices, for the new girl, either. If you pay your power on a meter key, it’s still possible not to exist at all in the modern world, whatever the government says.

Seeing Gerard Bright’s card reminds her that she’s not had a single card herself this summer. She used to get them from time to time, from former neighbours, old colleagues from the primary school kitchen in their static caravans down on the coast, even the odd friend from school. She would prop them in pride of place on the mantelpiece, to look at and make her feel remembered, to give her dreams of a seaside escape of her own. One day, she thinks. If he ups his offer to twenty grand – God knows, that would still only be ten per cent of what the flat is worth – I could just about do it. A little static near a pebble beach, just a patch of patio to see out my days… but eight? Once I’d paid the movers, I’d barely have enough for a deposit.

She hears a key in the door and slips the junk mail into her Budgens bag, along with the potatoes and the eggs and the bit of bacon she’s bought as a treat. Smiles as Cher lets herself in, pretty and normal today, no wigs, no fake glasses, just an orange cotton dress above the knee and a pair of gold plastic flip-flops, white earphones in her ears, a Pucci-patterned headscarf tied round the base of her Afro making her look older, more sophisticated, like a model on the front of an album from the 1970s. ‘Hello, love!’

‘Hiya.’ Cher pulls out a single earphone and she hears a tinny scritch of music. She looks down at the little gadget in her hand – all smooth and shiny with a circular thing at the top – frowning as though she’s unsure how it works, then presses and holds a button on the side. Takes out the other ’phone and wraps the wire round the machine. ‘You been out?’

‘Just for a bit. Went up the High Street for a few bits and bobs. What’ve you been doing with yourself?’

‘Went and had a sit on the Common,’ says Cher. ‘Did a bit of scrumping. Loads of people up there.’

‘Scrumping? I never noticed any apple trees on the common.’

‘They don’t always grow on trees,’ says Cher, mysteriously, and tucks the iPod into her pocket. ‘How’ve you been? How’re your drains? He been and done anything about them yet?’

‘Good grief,’ she says. ‘Don’t remind me. I was in a good mood a minute ago. If he has, he hasn’t told me. You in the mood for a cuppa?’

‘I’d kill for something cold. You seen my cat anywhere?’

‘I’m sure he’s about. He’ll be asleep on your bed at this time of day, I should think. I’ve got bitter lemon in the fridge. I made it yesterday.’

Cher looks incredulous. ‘You made bitter lemon? I thought it was one of those things they made in factories. Like Pepsi.’

‘Oh, good grief, you young people! You don’t know anything, do you?’

‘No,’ says Cher, complacently. ‘We’re young, innit?’

She strides past Vesta, all legs and ankle bracelets. ‘D’you want a hand with that?’

‘No, love, I’m fine, it’s not heavy. You go ahead and put the kettle on.’

‘’kay,’ says Cher, and pulls the door open. Puts her foot on the top step, shouts in surprise and falls forwards into the dark. Vesta hears an ‘oof’ and the sound of tumbling. She runs to the doorway, grabs the frame and peers into the gloom. ‘Cher? Cher! Are you all right? What happened? Cher?’

She feels above the door for the light switch, clicks it on and puts her head into the stairwell. Cher is halfway down the stairs, hanging on to the banister at the point where it begins, one leg buckled beneath her, the other straight out down the steps, her flip-flop dangling from her big toe. ‘Fuck,’ she says. ‘That was close.’

‘Are you okay?’ Vesta suddenly feels nervous and tottery and old. She puts her bag down and works her way towards her with a hand on each wall.

Cher sits up, unfurls her leg and rubs her upper arm. ‘Ow.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. I – there was something on the top step. I trod on it and it went right out from under me.’

Vesta reaches her and sits down beside her. ‘What on earth…? I didn’t leave anything on the stairs.’