The Visitors(70)

The morning after Della walked by me in the street, she visited Mr Brown again. This time I didn’t bother calling into work, but I didn’t go for my usual bus. I could hardly say I had another ailment that meant I’d be late in.

I waited at the end of the street again. This time, it was barely half an hour before I saw the front door open. Della rushed out and Mr Brown stood on the step, his hands laced on top of his head.

‘Della… I’m sorry!’ he called, but she didn’t look back.

I waited in the shadows until he’d gone back into the house, and this time, when she drew level with me, I spoke to her.

‘Are… are you all right?’ I asked. I reached out and touched her arm, just very lightly, but it startled her all the same.

‘Who are you? Get off me.’ She pulled her arm away, her eyes wide.

Her skin was smooth, like porcelain. Pale curls framed eyes that were the colour of cornflowers. I’d never been as close to someone so beautiful.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean any harm,’ I said quickly. ‘You just looked upset.’

‘I’m fine.’ She scowled and stomped past. When she reached the main road, she turned and glanced back at me, but she didn’t smile.

I didn’t go to work that day. I walked back to the house and for some reason stopped outside Mr Brown’s gate. I walked up his path and found myself knocking at the door.

What am I doing? I remember thinking, but by that time it was too late. The door flew open and his hopeful, relieved smile turned into a frown.

‘What do you want?’

‘I… I just saw… I wondered if everything was OK.’

I watched as his expression moved from puzzled through realisation to pure annoyance. He leaned out of the door and looked up the crescent, but there was no sign of Della by this time.

‘Your friend looked upset,’ I said.

‘Keep your nose out of my bloody business,’ he snapped, his face puce.

The next thing, I was looking at a closed door again.

The following morning, Della didn’t come. I didn’t go to work. I watched Mr Brown in the garden. But he wasn’t gardening as such; he was on more of a rampage.

He arbitrarily pulled out flowers and plants and tossed them aside to die in the sun. He lugged the mower out from the shed like a man possessed and tramped up and down one narrow piece of lawn repeatedly until not a blade of grass remained.

It occurred to me that he must really be very fond of Della. But Mr Brown was a married man and Della obviously wasn’t that keen on him any more.

But she might want another man to take care of her. Someone who was available, I thought.

I suppose that was the point when my thinking changed. When I became very interested in Della. Some might say obsessed.

I’ve never had an apology from Mr Brown even after all this time, and it’s hard to forgive that, but I feel so much better about my life since Holly appeared on the scene.

I’d like a chat with him; a conversation might clear the air, though only if he was prepared to listen, and I’m not all sure he would.

I look down at my phone and am considering whether to call his house again when his arm reaches over for the remote and the flickering light of the television ceases. A minute or two later, the lights in the living room go off.

I stand there a little longer, watching the upstairs window, but no faint hallway light enters the space as he opens the door. There is no sign that he has entered the main bedroom.

I fear my suspicions about the Browns sleeping in separate bedrooms may be proven right. My fears seem more real when I think about him whispering to Holly.

The seed of an idea begins to form in my mind, but it’s late and I can think about that more tomorrow, I decide.

Back in bed, the restlessness returns to my body. I throw the quilt off and then pull it back on when my skin cools. I shove the pillows away and lie staring up at the ceiling, although I can see barely anything in the dark.

Holly is mere yards away from me in the next house. I wonder if she is feeling restless too.

Some people believe that if you focus on another person and send direct thoughts their way, they are received telepathically on some level.

I sit up in bed and stare at the faint shadow of the wall in front of me.

I’ve seen inside Mrs Barrett’s back bedroom. I know that the bed is pushed up against the outside wall. Holly’s headboard is directly in front of my outstretched legs.

I imagine for a moment beams of light leaving my eyes and travelling effortlessly through the brickwork into Holly’s bedroom. The beams of light enter the top of her head and fill her with a reassuring warmth that I am here, looking out for her.

Even if she doesn’t know the feeling comes from me, it doesn’t matter. Maybe on one level she will feel it, know that I am thinking of her right now.

I blow out air, only realising now that I’ve been holding my breath, and then slip out of bed and walk to the wall opposite.

There is a chest of drawers there. I open the bottom drawer and place my hands flat on the clothes that Holly cast out to the bin on her first day at Mrs Barrett’s. I pick up a T-shirt and hold it to my face, inhale the faint floral scent still lingering around the neckline and then sniff the acrid tang of sweat under the arms.

I close the drawer and squeeze in between the side of it and the edge of the wardrobe. I press my face and chest against the wall, spreading my arms wide. I splay my sticky fingers and push my palms against the cool plaster.