The Killer Next Door(53)

‘He just – I’ve been having trouble sleeping at night, and then, you know, I think maybe I can get a nap, and he starts up again and it’s…’

‘I know,’ says Vesta. ‘But at least it’s not that boom-bada-boom-bada stuff the young boys are into these days, eh?’

‘What’s his deal, anyway? What’s he doing, locked up in there all day?’

‘I have no idea,’ says Vesta.

‘You don’t wonder?’

‘One of the tricks to living in a place like this is not wondering too much, unless someone wants to tell you.’

‘Really?’

‘Come on, love,’ she says. ‘We all deserve a bit of privacy. You wouldn’t want everyone asking where you’ve come from, would you?’

Collette looks startled. He eyes widen and she almost jumps off the sofa. Hah, thinks Vesta. Thought so. There’s more to your story than just an ailing mum, isn’t there? Honestly: it’s the House of Secrets, this.

Collette blushes, flusters her way through an apology. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean…’

‘It’s all right,’ Vesta smiles, and finally lays her hand on her arm. ‘I was just joking.’

Suddenly, Collette’s words come out in a rush, as though she’s been storing them up for a very long time. ‘It’s just – I… stress. Yes, that’s what it is. Stress. I just can’t… people just won’t leave you alone, will they? I thought if I left, if I just made myself scarce, they’d all forget about me and I could just get some peace, but it’s like… I don’t know. I feel like I’m under siege. All the time. It’s like the walls are pressing in on me. And this house, where I don’t know anyone, I feel like everyone’s looking at me… like they’re… you know…’

‘I wouldn’t worry about them,’ says Vesta. ‘They’re far too caught up in their own troubles. What was it? You don’t have to tell me, but frankly you look like you want to tell someone. Debt?’

Another laugh, hard, sardonic, and another nose-blow. ‘No. Not debt.’

‘It’s all right, you know, Collette. You’re hardly the first person who’s used this place as a refuge. Probably won’t be the last, either.’

Collette plucks at her tissue, stares round the room. Takes in the old-lady décor, the framed photos faded to sepia, the china dogs Vesta managed to glue back together, the whatnot with the spider plant, the net curtains that block out the light. She’s trying to make a judgement. Decide whether Vesta is trustworthy. Then she sighs and clears her throat.

‘I’m in trouble,’ she says, ‘and I don’t know what to do.’



It’s never occurred to her that she could actually just tell someone. So many things stop you. The fear of shame, the fear that they’ll be a spy, simple force of habit. Right from when she was a kid. Janine drummed it into her. Don’t tell people. Don’t talk to those nosy teachers. Too many do-gooders wanting to take you away. They’ll take you away. You want to get me into trouble, is that it? Janine trained her, and life since then has sunk the training in. But she’s tired. Exhausted by living her life in secret and bearing her burdens alone.

She’s surprised by how easily it comes out. She has no idea why she trusts this woman. She’s not really that different from all the other people she doesn’t trust. Steel grey, sensible, hair and elasticated trousers and wrinkles round the mouth, like she’s been pursing her lips all her life. Like someone’s granny. Though grannies, in Collette’s book, are women who throw their pregnant daughters on to the street.

Vesta’s eyes widen a few times as she talks, but she doesn’t panic, doesn’t throw her out and, most of all, doesn’t disbelieve her.

‘Crikey,’ she says, when her story is finished. ‘I should think you could do with a drink. I know I could!’

She gets up and opens the little cupboard under the television. Brings out a bottle of brandy – the sort Collette used to use for cooking back when she was Lisa on the way up – and two old cut-class snifters. Pours two generous measures and brings them back to the sofa.

Collette waits for her to say something. She’s all talked out. Too tired to try to argue her case, if there’s an argument to be had.

‘And it’s three years?’

She nods.

‘And how do you know they’re still looking for you?’

‘Because people like that don’t ever stop,’ she says, simply, and knows it’s true. ‘And the phone calls. He’s toying with me. Enjoying it. If I’d put my hands up and taken what was coming to me there and then, there might have been a chance, maybe…’