The Killer Next Door(83)

And her dad’s voice. Calm as a tea party. ‘You can come out now, Cheryl,’ he says. ‘Daddy’s here.’

Under her sheet, Cher claws at the air and mouths a silent scream. And then the dream passes and she curls around her cat.



It’s so strange, thinks Thomas, how a single experience can change the way you feel about someone for ever. Five days ago, she was just the stupid little girl downstairs. Loud-voiced, tactless, a bit tarty, always in trouble – and now he sees her. Really sees her, for the first time.

She’s like me, he thinks. She was the only one among them who really stayed calm. I can’t believe she’s so young. So young, and unprotected, and she handled herself like a queen. Even when I found her broken in the street, there wasn’t a tear. Not a moment’s hesitation, not a sign of fear. She just did what needed to be done, and she did it well.

He sits in his armchair and drinks his coffee. He used to enjoy Sundays more, when he knew that there was a Citizen’s Advice day coming up next day. But now it’s just another day among the others in a life spent waiting for the two days when he has a function in the world. These budget cuts haven’t only sliced away protection for the vulnerable: they’ve sliced away his own sense of self. That’s all he’s ever wanted to be: a good neighbour, a helpful friend, a citizen who makes a contribution. I’ve certainly done the first this weekend, he thinks, and the second. Please, God, let me make it a hat-trick this week.

She’s pretty, he thinks. When she’s not done up in those bright fake colours the young are so keen on these days. When her hair’s just loosely piled on her head and she’s forgotten about make-up, she’s a real natural beauty. That lovely skin: so smooth, so flawless – well, it was, and I’m sure it will be again, when it’s healed – apart from the little smattering of freckles across her snubbed little nose. It’s the perfect shade of tawny. How lucky, he thinks. She’s not had much of a start in life, but at least she’s got looks.

It’s another golden, twinkly day, a welcome breeze stirring the leaves of the shady chestnut tree. His girls face him on the sofa, both dressed in green. A good summer colour: dignified, sophisticated. Nikki’s dress is a vibrant lime. An unlikely choice on a redhead, but it really works; brings out her golden highlights and makes her eyes shine. Marianne’s back in her olive silk, his favourite dress of all. She looks so elegant when she wears it. So calm and poised, so…

… dry.

Thomas sits forward and two lines appear between his eyebrows. He’s been too busy to give the girls their full share of attention this weekend, but Marianne is looking distinctly desiccated. The skin over the décolletage, where the elegant bones have always given her supermodel status in his eyes, looks distinctly flaky. He puts his coffee down and goes over to look more closely. Marianne gazes placidly at him as he bends to study her breastbone. Yes. He can’t remember when he last looked this carefully, but the skin is rougher than it used to be. It’s scaly, like a snake beginning to shed its skin.





Chapter Thirty-Five


She always holds it together when she’s in the room, and when she’s coming out past that sour-faced bitch on the reception desk, with her judgements and her pointed stapling, and maybe her careless way with a phone number, but seeing Janine wrings tears from her every day. The empty face, the faded skin, the oxygen tube clamped to her face and taped there to stop her wandering mad hand from ripping it out. God knows, Janine, I’ve resented you, but I’ve never wanted to see you like this.

When she steps into the sunlight, she wants to scream at the sky. That’s my mum. My mum. The party girl. The good time had by all. How can she be like this? How can it have happened? Oh, God, how can she not know me?

She wants to break things and rip her hair out, but each day she straps on her dignity as the tears stream down her face and she walks away from those cold receptionist eyes. Don’t look back. Don’t look. Just keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Steady as she goes. Willowherb and ragged robin, the edge of the road crumbled away into chalky soil. Keep walking. Just keep walking. She pulls her sunglasses from her bag and clamps them to her eyes. She’s never wanted strangers to see her crying.

Janine is dying. They’ve told her as much. Every day, that heart beats less and the lungs fill up a little more. And she won’t let me hold her hand. I see her fingers plucking, plucking, plucking at the tan plastic cover on her chair, and when I reach out to soothe it, she snatches it away, looks accusingly at me like I’m trying to hurt her. She hardly speaks any more. Just random mumbled syllables, mostly, her brain cells dying, dying away for lack of air. I want her to die, she thinks, but I don’t want to lose her. Not like this. Not when I’m not allowed to say goodbye. Not when…