The Killer Next Door (8 page)

Cher shrugs. ‘Didn’t cost much. Hardly anything.’

‘No, but…’ Vesta knows exactly how much they cost. She and Cher looked at them together only a few weeks ago, in the window of Bentalls in Kingston, and she was shocked to see that they cost very nearly a week’s old-age pension. All these years, she had had no idea. Her burglar has taken out very nearly a thousand pounds she never knew she had with a single swing of the poker from the fireplace. ‘… I can’t believe you’ve done this.’

Cher’s face clouds over. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘It’s not that. It’s… Cher, you shouldn’t have done this. You should save your money. You shouldn’t be spending it on things like this. What about your rent?’

She looks up and sees that Cher has visibly shrunk. She swings her legs from the knees like a little kid, wide-eyed with disappointment. ‘I thought you’d like it,’ she says. ‘I can get you something else, if you want.’

‘No, love,’ says Vesta. ‘I love it. I love, love, love it. C’m’ere.’

She holds her arms out and enfolds Cher in a hug. They’re both so thin it’s not a very comfortable hug; more a clashing of bones. Cher smells of salt and hair conditioner, and some floral chemical they all spray over themselves these days. She hugs like someone who’s not used to hugging: comes into it gingerly, as though she’s nervous that something will break, and then clings on far too long, as though she’s afraid to let go. They stay there, awkwardly, in the sunshine, for longer than either of them is easy with. Poor little love, thinks Vesta. Whoever dragged her up, they didn’t make her expect people to like her.

Slowly, slowly, she disentangles herself, and lays the figurine gently down on the grass. ‘It’ll look lovely on the mantelpiece,’ she assures her. ‘I shall treasure it for ever.’

But where the hell is Cher affording this sort of thing? she wonders. It’s not off the dole, that’s for sure. And how do you ask someone if they’ve stolen your present, without offending them? Cher is always popping in with stuff: usually biscuits, or a cake or something. But always premium quality, branded stuff. No Every Little Helps about young Cheryl’s presents. But oh, I would feel terrible if she got caught nicking nonsense to lay at my feet the way that cat brings her mice.

‘What’s the new tenant like?’ she asks, changing the subject because she knows that if she stays on it she’ll have to ask. ‘Have you met her yet?’

Cher plops back down into her deckchair. ‘Ooh, yeah,’ she says. ‘I dropped in, the other night.’

‘Oh, you,’ says Vesta. ‘You’ve got no shame, have you?’

Cher shrugs. ‘It’s not Buckingham Palace. You don’t need a tiara and a fanfare. Anyway, I took a bottle of Baileys.’

There she goes again, thinks Vesta. She’s partial to a drop of the creamy stuff herself, but she doesn’t even buy Baileys at Christmas.

‘She’s all right,’ says Cher. ‘Posh. Talks like someone off
Made in Chelsea
. God knows what she’s doing here.’

‘Divorce?’

Cher shakes her head. ‘She’s been travelling, that’s what she said. Lucky for some. I haven’t even got a passport.’

Vesta laughs. ‘I have. Every ten years, I renew it. Always think I might, you know,
go somewhere
some day.’

‘Anyway, her mum’s in a maximum security Twilight Home. I think she’s on her way out and she said something about wanting to be near her, in case.’

‘In case. I’ve always liked that phrase. You can cover a lot of ground with an “in case”. Shall I ask her down, you think? Would that be nice?’

Cher shrugs. ‘Could do.’

Vesta closes her eyes and listens for a moment to the neighbourhood noise: the laughter of the kids from what they call the Posh Family on the other side of the fence playing in their paddling pool, the tannoy playing a recorded announcement on the unmanned station platform, a jet changing speed as it cruises in towards Heathrow. You would only have heard one of those sounds when I was Cher’s age, she thinks. ‘I wonder,’ she says. ‘Maybe I ought to throw a party?’

‘A party?’

‘Not a huge party. Just us. Well, it’s silly, isn’t it? All of us living on top of each other, and we’ve never all been in the same place at the same time. And it would be nice. A thank you because you’ve all been so nice, about the burglary. You and Hossein. Even Thomas. And it would be a good way to kill two birds with one stone. Welcome her to the house; thank everyone. And get him in Flat One to leave his lair. He’s been here ages and we’ve barely said a word. And besides. It’s been ages since I had a party.’

‘How long?’

‘God, it must be…’ Her mind flashes back to Erroll Grey and the Khans, sitting on her mother’s old settee. Really? She’s not had a party since that went on a skip? ‘Good Lord. Seven years, at least. I can’t believe it. I used to have people down all the time. And I’ve still got Mum’s old teaset. I spend my life washing the damn thing up, and it never gets used. Might as well celebrate the fact that at least he didn’t smash that, eh?’

‘Tea,’ says Cher.

Vesta laughs. ‘Oh, sorry. Were you expecting cocktails?’

Cher pouts, just a little bit. Of course she was. She’s a teenager. She wants to be out carousing, not eating finger sandwiches with a crew of middle-aged strangers. We must all seem ancient to her, Vesta thinks. Practically mummified. Same way she looks like a baby to me.

‘We could have some cider, at least,’ says Cher.

‘No,’ says Vesta, firmly.

The Lover is a great reader. He loves to read. He lives in a world where not many people do, where his learning is an anomaly and treated, often, with suspicion, but without reading he wouldn’t be the man he is. He wouldn’t know about the forty days, or about ritual and how its basis often lies in accidental coincidence and pragmatic use of the surroundings in which it developed. And besides: reading helps stave off the loneliness, in more ways than one.

The things he has read about Ancient Egypt, for instance, and its burial traditions. While venerating the corpses of the great is common all over the world, the means of disposing of them often reflects the circumstances of their lives. Thus the Vikings, facing solid, deep-frozen soil for much of the year, would, unsurprisingly, dispose of their heroes in fire and water. And a country in which the combination of climate and shallow topsoil would frequently turn up desiccated corpses from shallow burials might well eventually ritualise the natural order. Egypt’s arid plains, dotted with salty lakes that threw up great heaps of sodium, was ideal for experimentation. With skilled evisceration, and the right combinations of salts and herbs, forty days would be the perfect time to turn wet and putrefying dead bodies into leathery facsimiles that, at least passingly, resembled the original owner as they were in life.

But in a south London suburb – even a suburb that is going through the longest heatwave in living memory – the process needs a little help.

He’s learned as he’s gone along. Practice, after all, makes perfect, and besides, he’s had to learn two sets of skills where his teachers only had to master one. In Egypt, two sets of priests were responsible for rendering their royalty fit for the afterlife: the
parichistes
and the
taricheutes
, the cutters and the salters. Necessity has forced the Lover to master both roles, and there were bound to be errors along the way.

He doesn’t like to think about his first two attempts at making himself a girlfriend; is just grateful that he didn’t live in this crowded house when the first experiment failed, at least. A body is easier to move before the rot has set in. Jecca left the house in a series of carrier bags, flesh falling from bone like a five-hour pot roast; but at least, coming from a garden flat, she didn’t have to go through any communal areas. Katrina, her body cavities cleared more studiously, was a steep learning curve. His incision, down the front of the abdomen the way a pathologist would do it, left the trunk loose and floppy, and her nose was ruined by his clumsy attempts to remove the brain with the crochet hook. The parichistic entry, via a slit in the left-hand side, though it means having to plunge himself arm-deep in viscera, produces a neater, more human-shaped final product. He discovered the barrel drill in Homebase soon after that. He figures that the Egyptians would have used one too, had they had access to electricity and geared motors. He thinks of them sometimes, his two lost loves: Katrina sacrificed to fire and Jecca to water. He wonders if they are lonely, now, as he no longer is.

But he’s not happy with Alice. She’s an improvement on the two who came before, but it was only once her forty days were up and he had to break her from her crust like a salt-baked chicken that he understood that he needed to change the desiccation salts as the process progressed. The Egyptians had the help of the blazing sun to preserve their kings. For his princesses, he has dehumidifiers, and the close quarters of their confinement means that the juices have nowhere to go.

He moves Alice and Marianne to the sofa to watch the TV while he attends to Nikki. Some tender part of him wants to spare her the indignity of exposing her half-cooked nakedness to the gaze of his more finished beauties. As he carries Alice, he sees that her smile has spread again, as her skin is contracting back towards her hairline. He can almost see her wisdom teeth and is painfully aware of the bones beneath the surface. I haven’t done you justice, my dear, he thinks. I should have read more. If only I’d known before it was too late that a girl like you deserves her share of moisture once the natural wet is gone. He puts her gently down in the armchair, unwinds her arm from round his neck. She settles with a rustling whisper. Her hair is thin and brittle, her eyes sunken and hollow beneath their drooping lids. I wonder, he thinks. Soon you’ll be nothing but skin and bone, flaking and shedding over my carpet. Perhaps it’s time that we started to think about parting company.

He goes back to the bed, to his Princess Nikki.

The base of the bed is covered with a thick plastic sheet, liberated from a building site. Sleeping above his girls has never been a problem for him – indeed, it gives him a feeling of warm companionship – but the process of transformation, even with the alkaline, deadening effect of his home-made natron, tends to produce sudden bursts of smell that wake him, gagging, in the night. He props the mattress – lovely soft, lightweight memory-foam mattress – against the wall and peels the plastic off. Waits, breathing through his mouth, until his stomach settles, then tugs on the cloth ties and allows the lids to lift on the two compartments below. He spent a long time making his choice on the internet once he’d seen the possibility of such a bed, clicking through faux leather after faux leather, until he finally settled on this workmanlike black hessian covering. Cloth tends to soak up smells, but it’s breathable; and when the bed is empty and the plastic cover off, the memory of its former contents dissipates over time. He has drilled air holes where the walls meet, to allow the bank of dehumidifiers in the head section to do their work. The collection tank of each one – and there are six altogether – is nearing full. This was where he went wrong with Jecca and Katrina. You can never believe, until you experience it first-hand, how much moisture there is in a human body. It comes and comes, for the first few weeks. In week two, once the natron really starts to work its magic, he has to empty the chambers on a daily basis.

Two by two, he unclips the chambers and carries them to the kitchenette sink. The water is strangely greasy, as though it has been used to wash up with after a full Sunday roast. He doesn’t bother to flush around the sink. He’ll be chasing it down soon enough, after all. He grabs the bucket and the trowel from the cupboard under the sink, and returns to his darling.

The natron has settled, as it often does, and one shoulder peeks out from above the surface. This is one of the reasons that he’s opted for the weekly fuel change. He left Alice alone for the full forty days, and chipping and scraping her out from her hard-set casing was the full work of an afternoon, a chore that made him admire the stoical patience of archaeologists in a way he never had before. And he has been forced to dress her in sleeves since he got her out, to hide the deterioration of her exposed left arm. No little sundresses for Alice; no pretty evening gowns. Every time he looks at her, he feels sour and sad. So close, and yet so far.

‘Never mind,’ he says to Nikki. ‘I’ve got
you
, now.’

He digs from the walls inwards. The powder is still dryish in the corners away from the flesh. It pours like sand into the bucket, almost good enough to use again. But the Lover no longer believes in shortcuts. Precision, he knows, means the difference between failure and something to treasure for ever. He fills the bucket and takes it to the sink. His natron, made by mixing simple washing soda with equal parts of bicarb, has the added advantage of acting like a drain cleaner. Everything that goes down his sink – tea leaves, bacon fat, scraps of visceral matter scrubbed from his parichistic hands – is periodically dissolved and flushed away from the pipes as he changes his preservatives. He upends the bucket, turns on the cold tap and watches, pleased, as the natron fizzes, smokes and vanishes down the plughole.

He works with the windows thrown wide, but the heat is heavy on his shoulders and, as the digging becomes harder, his breath is damp and stuffy behind the surgical mask he wears to protect his lungs. Three weeks in, and Nikki has given up the greater part of her moisture, but still the natron has solidified around her and needs prising out in lumps. He sweats as he works, sees drops of it run over his goggles, feels it drip from the end of his nose to mingle with Nikki’s body fluids. It takes a full half hour of digging and flushing before he has her uncovered, and can brush the final sticky coating off with the help of a stiff paintbrush in preparation for the final cleaning.

He never likes this part. She is lying on her left side, so he has to roll her over to access the entrance to her abdomen, to get at the packing that both dehydrates her torso and prevents it from losing shape as it does so. Then he goes in with a serving spoon, scooping out the natron like stuffing from a Christmas-day turkey.

This packing is more solid than that on the outside; interiors are more permeable than skin designed to keep out the rain. And it’s dark brown in colour, where that which surrounds the body is a blend of khaki and yellow. And it stinks. The stench that rises from the depths of Nikki makes him gag repeatedly as he buries his arm to the shoulder and scrapes out its filling. This won’t wash down the sink so easily, either. It’s one for the toilet. Once again, he makes a mental note to keep a bucket of clean powder back to chase it down the drains.

It’s worth the effort, though, he tells himself. Two more weeks of this, and she’ll be perfect.