48

Toby spent the whole of Thursday looking out of the window. He saw Amitabh leaving Leah’s flat at two o’clock, wrapped against the cold in his cosy parka and a knitted hat. He saw the builders passing in and out of the house, taking stuff out of their van, putting stuff back in their van, throwing things onto the skip, sitting on the wall eating sandwiches. He saw people, dozens of people, coming and going, children being piled in and out of cars, estate agents doing viewings, cats patrolling their territory. He saw a Tesco delivery van unloading, a woman across the street throwing a sack of rubbish into her wheelie bin, a man with a fluorescent bag dropping restaurant leaflets through people’s front doors. He saw the sun start to fall and the moon start to rise and he watched the two of them share the indigo sky for half an hour as they changed shifts. He saw Melinda park her car and climb the front steps, chatting to someone on her mobile phone. He saw Ruby going out with her guitar. And, at eight o’clock, he saw Leah come home. He watched her open her front door, lean down to pick up some letters, then disappear. He saw her switch on her lights, draw her curtains. He wondered if she’d seen his note yet. He wondered what she’d think of his jauntily worded little message, expressing his desire to join her at Crouch End Public Swimming Baths one day this week (if he promised not to try out his butterfly stroke). He wondered if Amitabh would be coming back tonight.

He was about to go downstairs, to get himself something to eat, when he saw something else through his window. He saw Joanne, looking flustered and panicky in dungarees and a leather flying jacket. She was walking very fast and kept looking behind her. Toby saw a man, following behind. He was tall and slim with fine shoulder-length hair. He was shouting to her. Toby couldn’t hear what he was saying. He saw Joanne turn to the man and shout something back. And then he saw Joanne start to run towards the house. He heard her footsteps up the front stairs and he saw the man chase after her. He heard the front door slam shut and he heard the man’s fist beating against the door. He got to his feet and ran down the stairs, two at a time. Joanne was standing breathlessly at the foot of the stairs.

‘Jesus. Joanne. What’s going on? Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, pushing past him to get up the stairs.

‘But who’s that man at the door. Why is he following you?’

The man beat at the door again. Toby could hear his muted shouts from the entrance hall.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He’s no one.’

‘My God. Shall I call the police?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘don’t do anything. He’s just mad, that’s all. He’ll go in a minute.’

‘But, Joanne. He looks really dangerous. What shall I do?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, disappearing up the stairs, ‘don’t do anything.’

Toby glanced round the empty hallway. The man was still banging on the door. He fell to his hands and knees, and crawled to the entrance hall. He slowly lifted the letterbox and brought his mouth to it. ‘Go away,’ he said, ‘or I’ll call the police.’

A pair of eyes peered at him through the letterbox and Toby let it slam shut. He stood up straight. ‘Go away,’ he shouted through the door. ‘Go away. I’m calling the police.’

‘I want to see Joanne.’

‘Well, she doesn’t want to see you. You’re scaring her.’

‘I just want to talk to her.’

‘I told you. Whoever you are, she doesn’t want to talk to you.’

‘Please,’ said the man, ‘please. Just let me see her. I have to see her.’

The man’s voice had softened now and it sounded to Toby as if he might even be about to cry.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘My name’s Nick,’ he said. ‘I’m Joanne’s husband.’