He needs an upstairs window to monitor what transpires next door and tiptoes into Gracey’s room.
He’d intended to call the local police station once Fiona left, to apologise for hanging up, for being incoherent, to make a better report about the previous night’s activities. But the Moots have beaten him to it.
Making sure he remains far enough inside the room and concealed from below, he sees the neighbours, now restored to their usual selves. She’s dressed-down in gardening scruffs. Magi resembles an ageing keyboard player from a Seventies prog-rock band. But this reversion to the Moots’ idea of normalcy does nothing to alleviate Tom’s revulsion at the sight of them. Nor does it ease his horror at his memory of their other selves.
The Moots’ visitor is an attractive policewoman, her blonde hair fashioned into a tight bun, which Tom can see on the back of her hatless head as the WPC bows to Mrs Moot, while clutching the crone’s gloved hands to express her heartfelt gratitude. A parlay that sickens Tom with the same poignancy he felt as his neighbours stood before the imp of the pond, each balanced upon one leg; an intimation not only of lunacy but of an enemy’s stored power. A connectivity they possess to this place that he merely trespasses.
Grinning, Magi watches Fiona turn the car at the end of the lane and accelerate away. A knowing, spiteful expression twists his bearded face as he turns and confronts the window that Tom peers through.
Tom starts but does not flee. How can he know I’m here?
Still grinning, Magi moves his hands behind his gleaming pate and extends his index fingers to fashion the ears of an animal. As he does so, the very floor and the pink walls of the room judder a fraction in Tom’s peripheral vision. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit,’ he whispers. But before he can withdraw from the window, Tom’s attention is held fast by the police officer lowering herself to her knees.
Also aware of where Tom cowers, Mrs Moot turns to face Gracey’s window.
Kneeling, the police officer grasps the older woman’s hips and places her pretty face between Mrs Moot’s buttocks. She then kisses his neighbour’s arse with devotion.
‘No. No. No. Please.’ To his own ears, Tom’s voice sounds especially frail.
Beside the grotesque display, Magi’s grin broadens.
Mrs Moot’s imperious expression softens with bliss.
In the silence of his old house, Tom sinks to the floor and sits still.