‘I’m doing it,’ she said. ‘Pass them down.’

We sat cross-legged on the floor with two pairs of scissors and cut open the taped-up boxes. The first, the heaviest, contained two large metal hooks.

‘What are they for?’ Lola asked. ‘S&M props?’

‘No, no way he’s that fun,’ I said, picking one up and examining it. ‘I have no idea.’ I unwrapped another package that contained a large, heavy plastic case of white powder. I held the label up close to my face. ‘Potassium nitrate,’ I read, examining a hazardous symbol. ‘Warning: powerful oxidizer. Keep away from flames.’

‘That’s very weird,’ she said, opening the third package. ‘What’s this?’ She unwrapped a long object covered in bubble wrap. Something bright silver glinted as it caught the kitchen overhead light. She revealed a large thin blade, around fifteen inches long, with a slightly curved tip and a dark wooden handle that looked like the base of a pistol.

‘Oh my God.’

‘What the fuck is he going to do with a machete?’ Lola asked. I held the handle and brought it close to my face to examine. ‘Nina?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

Lola unwrapped another knife, this one with a longer, thicker blade. She placed it on the floor. On the handle was a small carving. ‘I think this is Japanese. That means he’s in a Yakuza gang,’ she said. ‘I watched a documentary about it years ago. It’s Japanese organized crime – they have slicked-back hair and they cut off their own fingers. You have to report him.’

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’ve stolen his things.’

‘He can’t buy machetes.’

‘I think he can, I think it’s legal to buy them. I think you just can’t carry them.’

‘Where would he have bought them online?’

‘I don’t know. One of those online black-market places.’

‘Clearly he’s planning to kill someone. Or at least cause some proper harm.’

‘We don’t know that.’

‘Yes we do – the disconnected, strange behaviour. The poison, the knives, the fact he never leaves the building. He’s preparing for it. It’s literally the plot of Taxi Driver.’

‘Put them back in the package,’ I said, passing her the knives. ‘I don’t want to look at them. I’m going to throw them out.’

‘You can’t, they might be evidence down the line.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

But I didn’t know if Lola was being ridiculous. I didn’t know whether to tell Alma what I had found, or the police. I didn’t know what my responsibility was.

I knew that I would now probably feel safer living above this man if I had two knives stashed in my flat. I knew that I was grateful not to go to sleep alone that night. I knew not to shout at him about recycling any more. And I knew now that I wasn’t just living above a nightmare neighbour. I was living above a psychopath.

15

‘Matters of the Sartre,’ Mum announced. ‘Isn’t that good? For our next literary salon.’

‘So the theme is?’ I asked.

‘Existentialism!’ Gloria replied. ‘I’m coming dressed as Nietzsche.’

‘Did you find a moustache big enough?’

‘I did in the end,’ Gloria said, topping up her glass of white wine. ‘Brian had an enormous one left over from a Freddie Mercury costume.’

‘When did you dress up as Freddie Mercury?’ Mum asked, passing round a platter of devils on horseback.

‘New Year’s Eve do a few years back,’ Brian said.

The five of us were sitting in Mum and Dad’s garden around a table on plastic chairs to celebrate Dad’s seventy-seventh birthday. Mum had reluctantly agreed to let me organize the menu as part of my book research – I’d chosen all of Dad’s favourite dishes, particularly the ones he talked about from childhood. But Dad was distracted – he had barely responded to any of us when we tried to speak to him and when he did he seemed agitated.

‘Who else is everyone coming as?’ Gloria asked.

‘Annie is coming as Simone de Beauvoir, Cathy is coming as Dostoyevsky if she can find the beard and Martin is coming as “existence”, which I thought was quite fun.’

I looked at Dad to catch his gaze and laugh, but he was silently staring ahead into nothingness. His mouth was horizontal, his eyes unblinking. His face looked as if the plug that connected him to the world had been yanked out of its socket.

‘Now, Mandy,’ Brian said, helping himself to another prune wrapped in bacon, ‘how’s it all going at the church since you’ve become social sec?’

‘Oh, it’s all politics, politics, politics, as is always the way with these things.’

‘What have you got lined up for the next quarter?’ Gloria asked.

‘We’ve got a Widows and Widowers mixer happening next week, which I think will be a laugh. When it gets a bit warmer we’ve got a whole lot of outdoor things happening – Boules and Bake-off, Volleyball and Vol-au-vents, that sort of thing. A lot of activities.’

‘A lot of alliteration,’ I said.

‘Where’s my mother?’ Dad asked suddenly. ‘Where is she? We can’t start lunch without her.’

‘I don’t think she’s coming today, Dad,’ I said. Mum looked nervously at Brian and Gloria.

‘Of course she’s coming! I’m her son, it’s my birthday.’

‘I’d like to talk about her, though,’ I said. ‘Shall we look at some pictures of Nelly?’

‘Why would we look at pictures of her, we’ll see her shortly.’

Mum remained quiet and took a sip of her wine. Brian stared at the table and Gloria fiddled with her necklace.

‘I’m going to give her a call.’ He stood up from the table and walked into the house. I followed him.

He stood in the kitchen and picked up the landline phone.

‘Now,’ he said, holding the phone away from his eyes to focus on the numbers, then began pressing the buttons. ‘Oh-seven-one–’

‘Dad –’

‘Shush,’ he said, flapping me away irritably. He continued to punch in numbers before holding the phone to his ear with one hand and leaning on the table with the other. ‘Oh, bloody hell.’

‘Is it not working?’

‘No.’

‘She must be out, Dad. Or on her way. We can save her some food.’ He hung up the phone and put it back in its cradle. ‘Tell me about the last birthday you spent with her.’ I walked back out to the garden and he followed me slowly.

Mum and I brought lunch to the table – pork chops with green beans and mashed potato. Dad held the platter of pork chops up to his face and gingerly examined it.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘It’s pork chops,’ I said. ‘Like you ate when you were a kid.’

‘I never used to eat this.’

‘Yes, you did, Bill,’ Mum said. ‘They’ve always been your favourite.’

‘It is not my favourite, I can’t bear the taste of pork chops. I’ve never liked them.’

‘I’ve always enjoyed them,’ Brian said, merrily reaching for a piece by the bone. ‘Like to eat them with mustard.’

‘Well, bully for you, but I can’t stand pork.’

‘What would you like instead, Dad? It’s your birthday, you choose.’

‘Anything but pork chops.’

‘Do you have eggs, Mum? I could make him a quick omelette?’

‘No, no, I don’t want fuss,’ he said. ‘I’ll just have to eat around it.’

We served ourselves and there was little noise other than crockery clatter, sounds of appreciation and some discussion about what a mild spring it had been, as bland as the pork chops, which Dad ate with laborious chews and flared nostrils.

‘Where were you born, Bill? Which hospital?’ Gloria asked.

‘Homerton,’ Mum answered.

‘Was it Homerton?’

‘Yes, Grandma Nelly showed me your birth certificate once. Homerton Hospital, May third, 1942. William Percy Dean.’

‘Percy!’ Gloria said. ‘What a lovely middle name. Mine’s boring old Judith. What’s yours, Nina? I can’t remember.’

‘George.’

‘Oh, that’s right.’

‘Because Wham! were number one the day I was born.’

‘Wham! weren’t number one the day you were born,’ Dad said, putting his cutlery down.

‘Yes they were,’ Mum said.

‘The song that was number one when you were born was “Lady in Red” by Chris de Burgh.’

Mum laughed. ‘Very funny, Bill. Now – how is everyone for drinks?’

‘It was!’ he said.

‘No it wasn’t, it was “The Edge of Heaven” by Wham! which is why we gave her the middle name George. Now – drinks.’

‘Oh, for CHRIST’S SAKE,’ Dad growled and slammed his fists on the table in uncharacteristic frustration. ‘Why does nobody sodding LISTEN to me any more?’

‘I’m listening, Dad,’ I said.

He closed his eyes and spoke in a quiet voice to calm himself. ‘The day you were born, “Lady in Red” by Chris de Burgh was number one in the singles charts and I remember it very clearly because it was playing in the Nissan Micra when we drove you home from the hospital.’

‘Oh, I loved that Nissan Micra!’ Gloria said through a mouthful of mash. ‘So dinky. You looked hysterical driving that thing, Bill. Like Noddy in his little car.’

‘You’re getting muddled again,’ Mum said, loading more green beans on to Dad’s plate.

‘I am NOT. And I do not want ANY MORE bloody beans so stop FUSSING.’