Something Wicked (18 page)

‘Do you want to know his name?’

‘Not necessarily, that’s not what I’m trying to say.’

‘You’re trying to say that I don’t seem to get on well with other people.’

‘Yes, well no . . . sort of. Sometimes you do, other times you don’t. I’m never quite certain where you’re going to fall on things.’

She delved into the box for another cake. ‘When I was at school, fourteen, fifteen, something like that, I had this RE teacher. He was pretty much the only teacher I actually liked. I
think it was because there were no right or wrong answers – he’d let you argue whatever point you wanted, as long as you could back it up.’

‘And you always took the opposite view to the majority?’

She laughed. ‘How did you guess? Anyway, he called me back after class one day. I thought he was going to try to kiss me or something, you know the type – stubble, spiky hair, loose
shirt and tight trousers, like they’ve not realised they’re supposed to be the authority figure. There’s always one at every school and we had about four. I think two of them
ended up being suspended for copping off with students. Anyway, he didn’t want to do that at all. He sat on the edge of his desk and he goes, “Have you ever heard of Empathy Deficit
Disorder?” I thought it was a chat-up line, then I realised he was being serious. He said that when I argued with other people, I never bothered to consider how it would make them feel. He
wasn’t pushy, or anything, he just said I should go away and think about that.’

‘That’s quite an intense thing to say to a fifteen-year-old.’

Still, Jenny wasn’t like many – or any – young girls her age, so Andrew doubted she had been a regular fifteen-year-old.

Another shrug. The box of Jaffa Cakes disappeared into her rucksack and out came a can of fizzy Vimto. ‘Yeah, but he wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t think I’d
understand. He was right, though. When I was walking home, I realised that I really didn’t care what other people said or thought about me and I certainly didn’t care what they were
feeling.’ Slurp of Vimto, satisfied sigh. ‘I went back to him the next day and said he was right, but I didn’t understand why it was an issue. He said that was the point. Most
people have something within them that makes them feel sympathy.’

Slurrrrrrrrrrp.

Andrew went cold, wishing he’d never asked. This wasn’t what he’d expected.

Jenny offered the can towards him. ‘Vimto?’

‘No.’

‘He told me that adults call it all sorts of things: bipolar, psychopathic, sociopathic. I’m not even sure Empathy Deficit Disorder is a real thing.’ She paused. ‘Sorry .
. .’

Andrew realised he must have been squirming uncomfortably in the seat. His speed had dropped to ten miles an hour below the speed limit and there was a BMW clinging to his bumper. Still, being a
bumper-hogging bastard was a symptom of owning a BMW, so that wasn’t unexpected.

‘You, er, don’t need to apologise,’ he said.

Andrew risked a sideways glance but Jenny was staring directly ahead, the hint of a grin on her face.

‘I’m not a psycho, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just need to teach myself things and I can only do that by watching other people. Like just now, I sensed that you
were uncomfortable, so I said sorry, even though I don’t really know why I should. People say sorry to each other all the time, so that’s an easy one to pick up. You see strangers on
the street stepping in front of each other, accidentally clipping one another, going for the same door, and it’s all “sorry, sorry, sorry”.’

‘So are you bothered that I felt uncomfortable?’

Jenny didn’t reply, didn’t sip from her drink, didn’t move. Ahead, brake lights flared. Andrew stopped in the queue of traffic, leaving them at a thorny impasse. The BMW must
at least have had good brakes because it didn’t slam into him. The driver was on his phone, another apparent requisite of owning that particular brand of German machinery. If he rammed
cyclists, he’d have the holy trinity of how to drive a BMW nailed down.

‘I think so,’ Jenny eventually said. ‘When you keep wondering whether you’re doing things to fit in or because you really want to, you can drive yourself mad.’ She
stopped, before adding: ‘Depending on your definition of mad, of course.’

‘You found all of this out from an RE teacher?’

She giggled. ‘No, he just made me think about it. I think he was having a bit of a game with me. I was always trying to offer the opposite view to other people, so he figured he’d
see how I liked it. He was right though. I went away and read all sorts.’

‘
. . . It’s normal for you to keep believing. A year from now, five years, ten years: you still believe he might return . . .
’

Andrew thought how Jenny had copied his explanation in an attempt to comfort Elaine Carr about her son. She would have felt lost otherwise, so mimicked something she’d seen. It also
explained why she was so good in certain situations and a spare part in others. If she’d witnessed something similar before, she would know how other people handled it. If she hadn’t,
then she had no idea. Perhaps that was why she seemed to read him so well – because they spent so much time together.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said.

Jenny’s words sent a tingle slithering along Andrew’s back, until she broke into a giggle and then it sounded as natural as she’d probably meant it.

‘What?’

‘You’re wondering if that means I worry about people being hurt. That’s what’s wrong with psychopaths, they really don’t care if other people are in
pain.’

‘So what’s the answer?’

Jenny twisted in her seat to face him, even though Andrew was still focusing on the road. ‘I told you, I’m not a psycho.’

‘So you do care about other people?’

‘I’d feel bad if I saw someone being attacked, or hurt. I just don’t really get on with that many people. Plus I’m happy by myself.’ She paused to drain the rest of
the drink and then scrunched up the can with a metallic screech. ‘Is that okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘Still, I could have just said all of that because I’m completely self-aware of my own condition and I wanted you to feel empathy for me. That’s what a
real
psycho would
do.’

Andrew stared at the road, not knowing what to say.

Jenny’s girlish laugh broke the mood again. ‘I didn’t do that, by the way. I know I’m weird – but you did ask.’

Andrew wondered if he would have been better off not knowing.

There was no kind way to put it: the Eccles housing estate on which Kristian Verity was last known to have lived was a complete and utter hole. At the front of the development
was a graffitied road sign with a double O converted into a pair of breasts. Rusting shopping trolleys lined a wall next to a row of boarded-up shops, with the customary group of tracksuit-clad
youths hanging around smoking. Next to their feet was a gold-coloured cardboard box full of Special Brew – not even the cheap supermarket knock-off version, but actual Special Brew. It must
be someone’s birthday.

The sat nav continued to direct them through the winding labyrinth of roads. Each time Andrew hesitated, the female voice stroppily demanded he perform U-turns in inappropriate areas and then
took her time offering an alternative route. The mardy cow.

Kristian Verity’s house was a two-bedroom place in the middle of a terrace. Every other house was either ‘for sale’, ‘to let’, or boarded up. The rental car was the
newest vehicle on the road by at least ten years and the moment Andrew parked, a moped that sounded like a jumbo jet chuntered past.

Andrew nodded towards the house. The window frames were thick with grime, net curtains blocking any view of the inside. The front door was rotten and wet at the bottom, even though it
hadn’t rained all day. It looked like a good boot would easily put it through, the only surprise being that no one had bothered to try. Stuck to the wall between the door and window was a
‘to let’ sign, with a ‘for sale’ on either side.

‘Was this definitely the last place he lived?’ Andrew asked.

Jenny eyed the street, taking in the grim scene. ‘It’s all I could find.’

Andrew knocked on the door just in case but there was no answer. When he turned, Jenny was on her mobile phone.

‘Hello, is that Walker, Walker and Walkden? I was hoping to arrange a viewing of one of your properties.’ She held her hand up to prevent Andrew from saying anything, dimple on
display again. ‘I was hoping for today, really. It’s a bit of an emergency. I know it’s a Saturday but we’re really struggling.’ She read out the address and then
waited. ‘That’s the one.’ Pause. ‘I know where it is – we’re right there. Like I said, it’s a bit of an emergency.’ Jenny checked her watch.
‘As soon as you can would be great. We’re
really
interested in renting it.’ Pause. ‘Brilliant, thanks very much, we’ll be waiting.’

She slipped the phone back into her pocket. ‘They’re going to be about forty-five minutes. Not bad, considering.’

Andrew raised his eyebrows.
‘“Really interested”?’

‘They’re estate agents. They’re used to the odd white lie, or a dirty big black one.’

They sat in the car avoiding the elephants in the vehicle: Jenny potentially being mentally unstable and Andrew not wanting to talk about Keira. What a pair they were.

A little over half an hour later and a souped-up Vauxhall Look At Me with a personalised number plate – PL4YER – screeched to a halt behind Andrew’s car. The thumping bass went
silent at the same time as the howling oversized exhaust. A man in a shiny grey suit with a thick Windsor knot strangling him jumped out, clutching a plastic folder underneath his arm. Fake tan,
chunky watch, shiny shoes, slicked-back dark hair, sunglasses in November, a bit of a simple look on his face: definitely an estate agent.

Andrew and Jenny climbed out of the car, with her unexpectedly hooking her arm through his, all teeth and dimples.

‘Thank you
so
much for coming around so quickly,’ she smiled. ‘Like I said on the phone, we’re really interested.’

The estate agent showed them his best fake grin – which was actually pretty good – and then fiddled with a set of keys, before shouldering the front door open with an ungainly
grunt.

There wasn’t a lot he could say because the inside was as much of a dump as the outside. The hallway had a green-grey carpet that smelled of old trainers, with the smallest of the upstairs
bedrooms reeking of cannabis.

The agent stood in the doorframe, umming, erring and blaming it on ‘incense’, but he wasn’t fooling anyone, including himself.

Andrew and Jenny took the full tour, peering into the bedrooms, trying not to pull faces at the mouldy green bathroom and wondering why no one had cleaned the cooker in seemingly ever. Apart
from the carpets, curtains and an occasional lampshade, there was nothing in the house.

They eventually ended up back by the front door, the agent’s skin colour switching from mahogany brown to Oompa-Loompa orange as he realised this was going to be a harder sell than he
suspected.

Jenny was still hanging onto Andrew’s arm. ‘What happened to the last tenant?’

The agent skimmed through his file, clearly trying to avoid eye contact. ‘There were a few issues.’

‘What sort of issues?’

‘They’re sort of . . . confidential.’

‘How do you mean, “sort of”?’

The agent pressed himself against the front door, swagger disappearing in front of their eyes. Confidentiality clearly wasn’t his strong point. ‘To be honest, it was a single guy who
upped sticks still owing money. He left all of his stuff here and we had to clean everything out. We were going to leave the furniture but it wasn’t in the best of states. There were books,
clothes, and all sorts – mainly junk. We tried to trace him but he wasn’t answering the phone, plus there was no next of kin listed on his form and no partner.’

‘Did you find out what happened to him?’

‘Nope.’

‘So what happened to his stuff?’ The agent glanced down at his pad again and Jenny quickly added: ‘I’m wondering what we’d do if we moved in and he came
back.’

The agent nodded shortly, one hand dropping into his pocket, the scent of a result closer again. ‘Some of the grimmer things went straight to the tip. There were food wrappers and all
sorts. After we’d emptied it, we had to get cleaners in. Everything cost the agency a fortune. The landlord lives abroad and we’re financially responsible for the tenants. Everything
else is in storage. No one seems to know what to do with it. We’re trying to find out if we can ditch it or if we have to wait for a certain length of time.’

‘Did you call the police about a possible missing person?’ Jenny asked.

‘They said there’s nothing to go on. People go missing all the time and I’m not sure they even came out.’

Andrew hadn’t said a word, wondering if chatting up gullible ego-types was something Jenny had taught herself. She was certainly good at it.

Jenny squeezed Andrew’s arm slightly, gazing up longingly at him for a moment. ‘We’ve got loads in storage, mainly my things: clothes, shoes, all sorts. There was a fire in the
house next to us and we’re desperate to settle somewhere. Storage is really expensive, though. Which company are you using? We’re after something cheap – everyone tries to rip you
off these days.’

The agent didn’t think twice before replying: ‘It’s nowhere special. There’s a garage out the back of our main office. Everything’s in there.’

Jenny squidged Andrew’s arm again – a sure sign that trouble was on her mind.

Winter had fully arrived in the north of England. The wind was whipping along the River Irwell, hunting along the canals and sealing Manchester in its arctic tendrils. Andrew
was wrapped up in a thick olive-green jacket he’d bought from a shop in the Northern Quarter. The man behind the counter had assured him it was authentic army wear, straight from the
battlefields of Afghanistan to his shop. Andrew couldn’t have cared less if it had come from some knock-off factory in Stockport – it was bloody warm. Jenny was wearing a dark beanie
pulled down over her plaited hair, with jeans and a dark jacket. They sat in his car on a side street, watching the pub crowd on their way out for the evening: a mix of middle-class couples ready
for a nice meal, with stag and hen parties giggling their way down the street like howling packs of wolves.