The People Next Door Read online

  Beyond the herbs the same strip of lawn as next door’s, only slightly less bedraggled here – and in need of a cut. She might do it tomorrow. A clothes line running down one side, strung between two poles. At the bottom, the weary-looking wooden shed, then between it and the back gate the two red gooseberry bushes that Greg had planted the week Yvonne and Clara had moved in. Hard to believe it was almost seventeen years ago now – no wonder the bushes were a bit straggly.

  It had felt like a refuge, the first time she’d stepped into this redbrick house. On the far side of town from the tiny flat she and Brian had been renting. Cheap enough for the compensation money to cover most of the cost because of the state it had been in.

  Walking behind the estate agent through the musty-smelling rooms, Yvonne had hardly noticed the peeling wallpaper, the dripping taps, the cracked tiles. Before they’d even gone upstairs, she’d decided to put in a bid. Tiles could be replaced. They’d deal with the damp. And anyone could paint a few walls.

  She had a job, she was earning. After Clara was born she’d taught herself to type from a book, on the typewriter Brian had brought home for next to nothing when the office was having a facelift. Between the feeds and nappy changes, she’d tapped at the keys until she felt confident enough, when Clara was eight months old, to answer an ad for a typist in the local paper. When Brian died Yvonne was on her third job, as secretary to two architects, and able to afford the repayments on the small mortgage she’d taken out to buy and refurbish number seven Miller’s Avenue.

  Just then, her neighbour’s back door opened and two figures stepped out on the patio, bringing with them the murmur of male voices. It was too dark to see them clearly but she recognised the shape of Dan, pointing down the garden. The other man seemed to be wearing a hat of some kind. She wondered if he was a relative, come to keep Dan company for a while maybe.

  Poor Dan.

  After a minute, she pulled the curtains, switched on the bedside lamp, started undressing – a shower, at last – and thought again about the ridiculous thing she was definitely not planning to do.

  In her bedroom, Clara gently tissued off the honey face mask she’d applied in the bath. She soaked a cotton pad in toner and wiped away the residue. She unscrewed her jar of night cream, dipped her fingers in and stroked it slowly over her face.

  When she’d finished, she stood and undid the belt of her dressing gown. It slid from her body and pooled on the floor. She looked into the long mirror on the wardrobe door, took in the full breasts, the flat stomach, the puff of dark blonde hair beneath it.

  Dirty girl.

  She flicked off the light, crossed in the darkness to her double bed, slid between the pale blue sheets and closed her eyes.

  NUMBER EIGHT

  ‘… and there’s parking at the end there. You drive down the lane beside number seven and it swings around the back of these three houses.’ Dan O’Farrell waved in the general direction of the bottom of the garden, and as Kieran Delaney chewed his gum and pushed his hat up a bit further and pretended to see whatever was down there, a light switched on in an upstairs room next door threw a pale lemony patch onto the lawn. Something rustled in the hedge near them. Kieran wondered if it was a rat. They weren’t too far from the river here.

  He thought of something. ‘Where’s one to six?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘This house is number eight, isn’t it? And I’m assuming your neighbours are seven and nine. So where’s one to six?’

  ‘Oh.’ Dan paused. ‘I never really thought about it, I’m only here a couple of years myself. I suppose the apartment block down the way – maybe it replaced the original houses.’

  Was there something slightly odd about this man, or was Dan imagining it? He’d seemed normal enough on the phone that afternoon, hadn’t asked too many questions, said he’d be around later to see the room. Dan hadn’t realised that later meant nearly eleven o’clock.

  ‘Oh, hello – Kieran Delaney. I rang earlier.’

  Around Dan’s height. Biggish nose, small, even teeth, dark eyes just visible under a mustard-coloured cowboy hat. Older than he’d sounded on the phone – Dan’s first impression was fifty, at least. Wearing loose navy corduroy pants, brown shoes and a crumpled green T-shirt with ‘Kilkenny Cat Laughs 2002’ on the front. Hardly your average prospective tenant.

  Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Dan stuck out his hand. ‘Dan O’Farrell, good to meet you. Let me show you around.’ Smell of mints and something else – shoe polish maybe.

  They walked through the house. Kieran didn’t say very much. He didn’t comment on the sitting room, didn’t ask why two and a half walls were papered and the rest painted. He glanced briefly around the medium-sized bedroom on offer, nodding at the bed – bigger than a single, smaller than a double – against the far wall.

  In the bathroom he walked straight to the window and pushed the net curtain aside to peer out. Only in the kitchen had he shown some curiosity, asking Dan if he did much cooking (no) and whether the oven was gas or electric (gas) and applauding the fact that Dan didn’t own a microwave.

  After pointing out the parking, Dan turned back towards the house. ‘Will you have some tea?’

  Kieran shook his head. ‘Never touch the stuff, thanks.’ He fished in his trouser pockets and transferred his gum into the strip of foil he pulled out. ‘But I’ll take a glass of water.’

  In the kitchen Kieran took off his hat again and ran a hand through his still-there-but-very-white hair. He’d gone white in his early thirties. It hadn’t bothered him, although he’d have preferred his eyebrows to have changed colour too. He thought it looked a bit odd, them staying so black. A bit unnatural.

  Dan held a glass under the tap. ‘I don’t have bottled water, sorry.’

  Kieran smiled. ‘Never go near it. No idea how long those bottles have been sitting somewhere.’ He glanced around the kitchen, noticed the floor could do with a wash, the dried-up something on top of the cooker, the scatter of crumbs on the table.

  He took the glass Dan held out. Maybe he should have left the hat in the car. He’d meant to, and then he’d forgotten. ‘Thanks.’

  He liked the house, liked the feel of it, liked the idea of living in a place built with red bricks. And the gas cooker was a definite plus. He never fully trusted electricity to produce something he’d want to eat.

  He thought he and Dan could get along, despite the age difference. Kieran generally got along with people, if it was up to him.

  ‘Biscuit?’ Dan was unscrewing the wrapper of a half-finished packet of ginger nuts that stood on the table.

  ‘Thanks.’ Kieran took a biscuit and dunked it in his glass and said, ‘Well, I’m happy with the place. It’s pretty much what I was looking for.’

  Better just say it out, see the reaction it got. He bit into the wet ginger nut and waited.

  Dan nodded, trying not to wonder why anyone would want to dunk a biscuit in cold water. No harm in it, just a bit odd.

  ‘Right.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Fair enough, that’s fine with me.’ May as well go for it; he could do a lot worse. Couldn’t he?

  So that was it. They shook hands and Kieran said, ‘You haven’t mentioned the rent.’

  Dan stared blankly at him. He’d forgotten about the rent. It simply hadn’t occurred to him to fix on a figure, even though money was the only reason he was looking for a tenant.

  ‘Ah, right, let’s see …’ He hadn’t a clue what people were paying to rent a room in a house these days, hadn’t done any investigating. ‘Right

  He seemed so at a loss that Kieran said, ‘Fifty euro a week would be about average. Including utilities.’

  Dan nodded immediately. ‘That sounds fine to me. Fifty a week.’ He put the ginger nuts back on the table. ‘So, when were you thinking of moving in?’

  Amazing. No questions about what work he did, or whether he even had a job. Not a word about references, no curiosity about where Kieran had come from or why a man o
f his age would be wanting someplace to rent. He might be a paedophile or a terrorist. He could have just got out of jail after serving twenty years for God knew what.

  He felt like warning Dan about the dangers of taking someone you didn’t know into your house without vetting them properly. Maybe he could work it into a future conversation.

  He considered. ‘How would Saturday suit?’

  ‘Saturday is fine.’ Dan nodded, thinking, Thank God that’s that. No more traipsing up and down the stairs with a succession of strangers, apologising for the state of the garden, pretending that the half-painted sitting room had only been half-painted for a couple of days, instead of six weeks. Having to keep the bathroom tolerably clean and remember to put his socks in the laundry basket.

  Although, to be fair, three people was hardly a succession – two if you didn’t count Kieran. One man, mid-twenties, had followed Dan around silently, tapping on walls and flicking on light switches. When they got downstairs again, he’d mumbled ‘No thanks’ and opened the front door and let himself out.

  A student nurse, Dan’s only other candidate, had been all chat until she’d looked out of an upstairs window and spotted Picasso in the garden. Then she’d said immediately, ‘Oh, God, is that your cat? No way, sorry – can’t bear them. They give me the creeps.’

  Suddenly he thought he’d better let Kieran know about Picasso. ‘How d’you feel about cats?’ He should have mentioned it earlier. Hopefully he wouldn’t lose another possible tenant, have to go through all this palaver again.

  But Kieran’s face brightened. ‘Cats? I’m partial, very partial. You have one?’

  ‘Well, it’s really—’ Dan stopped, then nodded. ‘I have, yeah. Lives in the garden, mostly. Sleeps outside. A grey tom.’

  Kieran looked even more pleased. ‘Does he have a name?’

  Far too happy about the cat for Dan’s liking. ‘Picasso.’ The moment it was out, Dan realised he could have made up any name and this man would never have known. He could have said Fred or Sooty or something normal. Anything but Picasso, really – such a poncy name for a cat.

  ‘Great name. Unusual. I look forward to meeting him.’ Kieran put his glass on the draining board. ‘Well, thanks a lot. I’ll be off now, let you get on.’

  At the front door they shook hands again, and Kieran said, Around two on Saturday, that be alright?’

  ‘Fine. See you then.’ Dan watched him walking down the path, settling the hat on his head and rummaging in his baggy corduroy pockets, presumably for his car keys. He closed the front door softly.

  It wasn’t until twenty minutes later, as he was finishing his supper of two rock-hard fried eggs and four ginger nuts, that Dan realised he had no contact number, no address for his new tenant. What if some emergency came up between now and Saturday, and Dan needed to get in touch?

  On the other hand, what if Kieran didn’t show up on Saturday and didn’t ring to explain why? How long was Dan supposed to wait? A week? Longer? Kieran had signed nothing. They hadn’t talked about a lease. Was Dan supposed to suggest a trial period in case it turned out to be a disaster?

  It struck him that he hadn’t asked for a deposit. He should definitely have looked for that, shouldn’t he? In case Kieran broke stuff or didn’t pay his rent or something.

  Being a landlord had never been part of the plan. The plan was to stay married to Ali, till death them did part. The plan was to fill their house with children, not with men pretty much old enough to be Dan’s father, with black eyebrows and white hair, who wore cowboy hats and dunked biscuits in cold water instead of hot tea.

  Dan wondered what else there was to know about Kieran. Maybe he should have asked a few more questions. He hadn’t a clue who he was letting into the house. Was Kieran Delaney even his real name? What if he played the drums all night or brought women – or men – home with him, or had a pet snake? Just because he hadn’t mentioned it didn’t mean he didn’t have one. Look how happy he’d been when he’d heard about Picasso; a real cat lover, by the sound of him.

  What if he had his own cat, just turned up with it on Saturday? Dan could barely handle one.

  He took his plate to the sink. He parted the blinds on the kitchen window and peered into the garden. Two small ovals of yellow light gazed at him from directly outside the window. He sighed heavily and opened the back door. Picasso jumped lightly down from the sill and glided in, brushing against Dan’s leg. His coat was dewed with rain.

  ‘You’re going out the minute it stops.’ Picasso mewed and twined around his legs. Dan poured milk into the empty plate and watched without interest as the cat lapped it daintily.

  He didn’t like cats in a house, didn’t really like cats much at all. He especially didn’t like the cat he’d inherited when Ali had walked out on him, because the man she’d left him for was allergic.

  Dan knew he was allergic because his mother had told him so. Because the man Ali had left him for was his mother’s younger brother, Dan’s Uncle Brendan.

  Dan’s fifty-two-year-old Uncle Brendan, twenty years older than Ali. Dan wished it didn’t all sound like some embarrassingly bad joke.

  Picasso finished the milk and stretched each pair of paws in turn. Then he sat on the floor and began to wash himself calmly. Dan bent and took the empty plate away.

  Ali had insisted on the cat sleeping indoors, even in the middle of summer.

  ‘Darling, how can you even think about putting him out? Look how dark it is – and it might rain.’ And of course Dan had given in and Picasso had curled up on the padded window seat in the sitting room each night, leaving a tangle of grey hair behind him in the morning.

  To be fair, though, he didn’t seem to hold it against Dan that he slept on the patio now, since Ali had left. He seemed happy enough in the half-built barbecue, especially since Dan had shoved an old cushion in there and put a plastic bin bag on top to keep out the rain.

  And Picasso seemed to have forgotten about Dan trying to get rid of him.

  Early one evening, about two weeks after Ali had gone, when the loneliness, frustration and rage had got the better of him, Dan had bundled Picasso into his cat carrier and driven several miles out of town, well past the last housing estates and petrol stations. He’d stopped by a gate into a field, lifted the carrier out onto the grass and pulled up the mesh door. ‘Shoo. Go on now, shoo. Clear off.’

  Picasso stood and stretched his neck forward and sniffed a few times. Then he sat down again and looked at Dan.

  ‘Go on, shoo. Get out.’ Dan tilted the carrier and Picasso half jumped, half fell from it. He padded around, tail flicking, sniffing the ground. Dan got back into the car quickly, threw the empty carrier on the back seat and drove off.

  It took him less than five minutes to turn the car around and double back, appalled at himself – he couldn’t take it out on the blasted cat, it wasn’t his fault – but in that short space of time, Picasso had disappeared.

  Dan must have searched for nearly two hours in the fading light, calling the cat’s name over and over, poking into bushes, peering through hedges. At one stage, not knowing what else to do, he knocked on the door of a nearby farmhouse.

  It was opened by an elderly man who poked in his mouth with a toothpick. The smell of cabbage wafted out to Dan.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you’ – God, he felt such a fool – ‘but I’ve lost my cat somewhere around here. I don’t suppose you noticed a grey cat, did you?’

  The man regarded him solemnly, taking the toothpick from his mouth. ‘You lost your cat.’ His brown trousers were very shiny at the knees. He wore black socks and no shoes.

  ‘Yes – around here somewhere.’ Dan was regretting his impulse. This man didn’t look very sympathetic – and he might still be in the middle of his bacon and cabbage.

  ‘Taking it for a walk, were you?’

  No hint of a smile. Was he serious?

  Dan decided to hang onto what little dignity he had left. ‘We were in the car. I stopped to –
er – take a phone call and the cat jumped out.’ He turned away. ‘Sorry to have—’

  ‘Hang on.’ The man disappeared, leaving the door wide open. The hall was papered with green and orange stripes. The floor was tiled in black and white. When Dan looked from the wall to the floor, the tiles danced for a second. He could hear the sound of a radio, or maybe a TV. Then the man reappeared, wearing muck-spattered wellingtons.

  ‘We’ll have a look.’ He strode beyond Dan, around the side of the house. ‘What did you say his name was? That your car out there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dan trotted after him. ‘Er – his name is Picasso. But you needn’t – I mean, I wouldn’t want to disturb your—’

  ‘PICASSO!’ The bellow took Dan by surprise. ‘HERE, PUSS! HERE, PUSS PUSS!’ If Picasso was within earshot, he’d probably run a mile. The man crossed the yard behind the house and opened a wide gate that led down a dung-covered lane. ‘PICASSO!’ In a normal voice he added to Dan, ‘Mind your shoes.’

  It took Dan thirty minutes to escape. Thirty minutes of ear-splitting bellows and hopping over cowpats, stumbling through treacherously bumpy fields and trying not to be intimidated by the stares of the animals they passed (bullocks? females whose udders hadn’t dropped yet?) before Dan managed to persuade the man – no human names had been exchanged – that he’d really done all he could, thanks awfully, sorry again about disturbing him.

  He got back into the car and drove off, waving and smiling at the man, who stood on his doorstep observing him solemnly.

  Going back into town, Dan felt like the murderer that he was. A pampered cat like Picasso wouldn’t survive five minutes in the middle of the country. He might be dead already, trampled by one of those teenage bulls or whatever they were, or run over by a tractor. How could Dan have been so cruel, punishing an innocent animal like that?