The Killer Next Door(97)

‘Oh, I know,’ he says. Their eyes meet for a brief second, then they both look hurriedly away. Oh, God, she thinks. I think he fancies me, too. Does he know? That I’ve been having stupid dreams about him, between the dreams of Tony? It’s not been that obvious, has it? Jesus. It’s like being back at school, trying to hide your crush on the football captain in case anyone finds out.

‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘So that’s why you’re leaving?’

She nods.

‘Collette,’ he says, and the name sounds like poetry from his mouth. She looks up and sees kindness in his eyes, and wants to wail.

‘You’ll leave your mother when she’s dying because you think you saw someone?’

‘Don’t patronise me,’ she says wearily.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘I did see him. He was as close to me as you are now.’

‘Okay.’

One foot wrong, he thinks, and she’ll be gone. And I don’t want her to go. Not in chaos, with loose ends left dangling that she will never be able to tie up. And because I like her. I really do. She has an attitude, an independence, I admire.

‘Maybe I could come with you.’

‘Hunh?’ She’s so caught up in her memory of Malik that for a moment it sounds to her like he’s just asked to run away with her.

‘To see your mother. I could come with you. Make sure you don’t come to any harm. It’s not as if I’ve got anything pressing to do here.’

A hole opens up in the pit of her stomach. No. No, look, if you do that, it will mean I’ve agreed to stay. And I decided. I already decided. It’s stupid. I have to go.

‘Collette, it could be a coincidence.’

She shakes her head, vehemently. ‘In Collier’s Wood? On a Tuesday afternoon? Come on. What are the chances?’

‘I don’t know. I just…’

‘Hossein,’ she says, ‘if you were in Tehran and something like this happened to you, what would you think?’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Christ,’ she says, and tosses her head. ‘I love the way you think this country is some kind of fucking safe haven. There are bad people here too, you know. Really bad people. They’re not the ones in charge so much, but they’re still bad people. This isn’t some stalker thing, Hossein. It’s not – you know – get a restraining order and he’ll go away. It’s… he’s a bad man. A really bad man. People die around him, and nobody does anything because they’re either too afraid or they belong to him. No. No, I’m not doing it. I’m not. He’s enjoying this. He’s loving every minute. Every time he calls me on the phone, I can hear it in his voice, how much he’s liking it, and every time I change my phone he finds the number again. He doesn’t let go. I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t. I’d give my right arm to be free of this, but I don’t think I ever will be.’

Hossein stretches in the sunshine and shows her a sliver of flat brown belly, a neat line of hair pointing down into his crotch. She is suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of lust that almost knocks her sideways. It’s the fear, she thinks. Just being made to think about this and I’m all over adrenalin. I’m mistaking adrenalin for arousal. People do it all the time. He looks over her shoulder and smiles at Vesta, coming up the steps with the tea mugs.

‘Well, think about it,’ he says. ‘For your mother.’

‘She wasn’t a very good mother,’ says Collette, doubtfully.

‘Still,’ says Hossein. ‘You’ll never have another.’





Chapter Forty-One


His love is forged in tears. They spring from his eyes as they struggle for that one final breath, pour down his cheeks while his hands are still about their necks. As he watches the light die out, the surprise, the fear, the pain melt away into nothingness, he feels his chest tighten as though his heart will break. For a moment, as the tears flood down, he will find it hard to swallow. He will take his hands from them and press them to his face, bend double and let the sorrow out.

‘I’m sorry,’ he tells her. ‘I’m sorry, oh, I’m so sorry.’

I’m out of control, he thinks. I no longer have any control over it – over this – this love. It’s got too much for me, now. The loneliness is too extreme. I thought my ladies would heal me. That it would stop this longing, this ache, this empty hole in me if they could never leave.

But it’s all backwards, this love of his. It starts the right way, every time. The way it starts for everyone. A chance meeting, a flash of attraction. The thinking about her when she’s not there, the slow build of intrigue, the fire of passion. But after that it’s all wrong. After the passion comes the mourning, and then the contentment, the relationship, the moments of easy intimacy. And then, creeping over him, day by day, the indifference. He feels nothing for Marianne now. He looks at her and he can barely remember the devotion that filled him just a few weeks ago. She’s just another withered, wizened disappointment, and him with the gnawing emptiness that grows and grows each day.