Sam peered out the window and narrowed his eyes. “Who moves house on a Wednesday?”
“What?” Dave glanced up from his phone and followed Sam’s line of sight. “You never told me you were getting new neighbours.”
“I only found out last weekend. They didn’t have a sign up or anything. Said they were letting it to a friend of theirs or something like that. I wasn’t paying all that much attention.” Sam took his tea and walked into the living room to get a better view. His ground-floor flat faced the road, and his new neighbours were moving into the one right next door.
“God, you’re so bloody nosy.” Dave moved to stand beside him, and Sam gave him a pointed look, which he ignored.
“I’m interested in who’ll be living next door to me. That’s all.”
Dave rolled his eyes. “Then maybe you could go out and introduce yourself instead of spying on them from behind the curtains.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Sam sipped his tea and continued to watch the back of the van for signs of movement. The doors were open, but no one had come or gone in the last few minutes. “Anyway, I want to suss out what sort of people they are before I go introducing myself.”
“And how are you going to do that skulking in here?” Dave shook his head and moved to sit on the sofa. “At least come and sit down.” When Sam didn’t budge, he added with a sigh, “You still have a pretty good view from here, and you’ll look less like a creep if they see you.”
He made a good point.
Assuming the people moving in were decent types, Sam didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot.
Dave grinned as Sam walked over and sat next to him.
“Oh, shut up.” Sam set his mug down on the coffee table as movement near the front of the building caught his eye. He nudged Dave, narrowly avoiding spilling his tea. “Look, here they come.”
Sam’s living room had French doors that opened out onto the grass surrounding the building. An iron railing atop a low brick wall separated the grass from the pavement. All in all, the road was about twelve feet from his living room window, and with the van parked just a little way down the road, they had a pretty good view.
Two guys walked towards the open rear doors, both dressed in jeans and T-shirts. “It’s bloody November, not June,” Sam muttered, his gaze catching on the way their muscles bunched as they lifted what looked to be a double bed base from the back of the van.
“I imagine moving all that stuff would make you hot.”
Sam grinned against his mug as he took another sip of tea. “Pretty sure they’d be hot no matter what they were doing.”
Dave gave them another look, and Sam caught the way his lips curved up into a smile. “True.”
For the next twenty minutes, they sat in companionable silence, watching the two guys unload the rest of the van.
“D’you think they’re together?” Sam asked, finally. His mind conjured up a few choice images.
“I don’t know. Could be brothers or best mates?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
They’d finished moving stuff by the looks of things, shutting the van doors and turning to face each other. One scuffed his shoes on the pavement while the other ran a hand through his hair. Even from where he and Dave sat, you could see the tension crackle between them, and Sam wondered if they were going to kiss out there on the street. In the end, they went in for a hug that lasted longer than Sam figured a friends-only hug would, and Dave seemed to agree.
“More than friends, I’d say. Or were at any rate.” Dave sat forward, eyebrows scrunching together. “Hey, does he look familiar to you?”
Sam sat up a little straighter and set his mug down. “Which one?” The guys were a similar height and built, but one was dark-haired, the other blond. Neither looked all that familiar. Although…
“The dark-haired one. I know him from somewhere.”
“Now that you mention it.” Sam sat forward as well to get a better look. He hadn’t seen it at first, but now Dave had pointed it out, he did look faintly familiar. “Can’t think where I’ve seen him though.”
“No. Me neither.”
Blond guy drove off in the van and dark-haired guy turned and went back inside his flat.
Dave slumped back against the sofa now they had nothing else to look at. “That’s going to bug the shit out of me now.” He sighed and glanced out the window again.
Sam patted his leg, then stood. “Come on, let’s go and get some lunch. I’ll go say hi later, give him time to get sorted. Maybe a name’ll jog your memory.”
Dave shot him a look, eyebrow raised. “Oh, so now you’ve sussed him out as acceptable, have you? After watching him unload a van?”
“He seems okay.”
“Yeah, right.” Dave gave him a light shove as he stood. “It’s got nothing to do with the fact that you think he’s hot.”
Sam shrugged but couldn’t keep a straight face. “Just being a good neighbour.”
“Of course you are.” He gestured for Sam to lead the way and followed him towards the door. “Let’s hope he didn’t catch you watching, or that’s going to be an awkward introduction.”
“Nah.” Sam waved him away. “He didn’t look this way once.”
As soon as they got outside, the cold hit them, and Sam pointed to the car park, all thoughts of his new neighbour forgotten. “Walk or drive?”
Dave shivered. “Drive. Then you can pop to Ikea afterwards and pick up that wardrobe you wanted.”
“Yeah, okay.”
They hurried round the side of the building and Sam quickly unlocked his van. He’d only got as far as pulling out onto the main road when Dave snapped his fingers and said, “School!”
Sam glanced at him, confused. “What?”
“That’s where we know him from.”
He felt Dave’s gaze on him, and when he glanced over again, Dave had an expectant look on his face.
Laughing, Sam shook his head. “I still have no idea who it is. You’ll have to give me more than just school.”
Dave grinned back at him. “You’re not going to like it.”
Sam frowned, casting back through his memories from school. He’d managed to go through secondary school relatively unscathed—hadn’t been in any serious trouble and got on with most people. “Nope, still can’t—” He cut himself off as the thought hit him. They stopped at the traffic lights, and he turned to Dave. “No. Can’t be.” But even as he said the words, he knew in the back of his mind that it bloody well was.
“Yep. The guy you were just drooling over is none other than Charles Whitmore.”
Sam groaned, and Dave laughed again.
Wanker Whitmore.
His new hot neighbour was the one person he’d hated at school. Well, maybe not hated, exactly, but the guy had been a colossal knob. “Fuck.”
“Still gonna go round later to say hi?” Dave prodded him in the ribs when Sam ignored him. “He’s aged well, you’ve got to give him that.”
“Still doesn’t change the fact that he beat up Nigel Watts. For no fucking reason. He ended up in A&E!” The age-old indignation flared easily back to the surface, and with it came the disgust Sam had felt at the time. “The only reason Nige didn’t press charges was because Whitmore threatened to do it again if he did. Nige was terrified of him, made me promise not to tell anyone.” He’d only told Dave a couple of years later when they were drunk one night.
Some of the amusement faded from Dave’s expression. “That was years ago, mate. And I always said you should take what Nige told you with a pinch of salt. Besides, I’m sure Charlie’s changed since school. God knows we have.”
Maybe, maybe not. Sam didn’t really give a shit. “I’m not bothered whether he has or hasn’t changed. I’m not interested in getting to know him, and I won’t be going round to say hi anytime soon.” Whether Nigel massaged the truth or not, he’d been a right mess. There was no making that up.
Thankfully they were almost at the pub and Dave let the subject drop.
SAM MANAGED TO avoid thinking about his new neighbour right up until he and Dave pulled back into the car park behind Sam’s flat. The look on his face must’ve given him away, because Dave nudged him with his shoulder.
“Chances are you’ll hardly see him.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “We literally live next door to each other. I’m going to bump into him at some point.”
“He might not recognise you. Might not remember who you are.”
“Mm.” Sam couldn’t decide if that made him happy or not. Which was ridiculous. Why should he care whether some twat from school remembered him or not? But a tiny piece of him wanted Whitmore to remember him. Just like he remembered Whitmore. Eventually anyway.
“Come on. If you want a hand putting that new wardrobe together, then we need to start now. I promised my mum I’d be there before six.”
Sam could manage on his own, but with two of them, they’d get it done so much quicker. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
Between them, they carried all the boxes inside and into Sam’s flat. With his old wardrobe long gone and Sam’s bedroom tidy for once, they had a nice space to work in.
Dave looked down at the boxes stacked on the carpet. “You go put the kettle on and I’ll start unpacking this lot.”
Waving a hand towards the hall, Sam said, “Chuck all the rubbish out there; it’s bin day tomorrow. I’ll just stick the cardboard out for recycling.”
“Will do.”
He left Dave to it and headed to the kitchen. Despite his resolution not to, Sam couldn’t resist a glance out his window. Not that he could see any of next-door’s flat from there, but maybe hot van guy had come back.
I can still oglehim.
Unfortunately, the van was nowhere to be seen, but as Sam leaned against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, he noticed a dark blue Fiesta pull up outside. Interest piqued, he watched as a woman—probably around his mum’s age—got out and waved at someone Sam couldn’t see.
He figured it was probably Whitmore’s mum, and sure enough, the man himself appeared a few seconds later. They hugged, and then his mum went to open the back door of the car.
“You making a cuppa or what?” Dave appeared in the kitchen doorway, took one look at Sam, and sighed. “Really?”
“What? I was waiting for the kettle.” He flicked it on again, realising he’d totally missed it boiling before, and leaned back against the worktop. Dave just shook his head but reached up to get two mugs out of the cupboard. “His mum just arrived.”
“How do you know it’s his mum?”
Sam shrugged. “She looks like a mum.” He turned back to the window in time to see Whitmore duck into the back of the car and then come out holding… “A cat.”
“Hmm?”
“He’s got a fucking cat.” Because of course he did.
Dave laughed, the bastard. “Oh, come on, there’s nothing wrong with cats. I don’t know why you’re so against them.”
Sam vividly remembered being terrorised by next-door’s cat when he was about seven. The thing used to wait for him behind the wheelie bin and jump out when he walked past. “I’m more of a dog person.”
The raised eyebrow he got in response was as good as a “Bollocks are you,” but Sam ignored it. Instead, he watched Whitmore lift the basket to eye level and start talking to the cat inside it. Idiot.
“As long as he keeps it away from me, that’s all I care about.”
He poured up two teas and, with a last look at the now empty street, followed Dave into his bedroom to get started on that wardrobe.
Prologue
Alger
Once Upon a Time
Teaching school paid next to nothing, but I had cheap lodgings and some of the families made me meals from time to time, which helped keep body and soul together. Some did not consider teaching a man’s job, one that could support a family, but at least for the time being, my pleasure in helping to form young minds superseded any other factors.
Especially at the holiday season. On the last day of school before the Christmas vacation break, we suspended regular classes to bring all the classes together in the decorated auditorium for a holiday recital and festivities before sending the children to their frolics until the New Year.
This year, our class would be singing a selection of Christmas carols and I, dressed in the red suit of Saint Nick popularized by Clement Moore’s ’Twas the Night Before Christmas or A Visit from Saint Nicholas would appropriately read that story to close the event. As I prepared for my reading, a little sadness tugged at my heart. It was easy to pretend I had enough time with these children during class terms, but on holidays, when they were with their real families, the loneliness seeped in. Maybe I should have aspired to another career.
Sitting in the armchair placed at the front of the stage, with my students seated on the floor around me, my heart warmed. Sometimes the poverty many of them lived in daunted their spirits, but now smiles of pride at their performance lifted the corners of their lips. They’d indeed done well, and Santa Claus might have taken notice from his North Pole residence. I cleared my throat, bemused at my suspension of logic. Christmastime always made me sentimental, reminded me of my parents and brother, grandparents, all those who’d already departed this realm. They would celebrate the birth of the Christ Child with the angels in heaven, while I sat in my rented room eating whatever someone thought to bring me from their holiday table.
Even my landlady, who often included me in her holidays, would be away. I’d put her on the train myself, this morning, laden with presents and baked goods she’d prepared. I didn’t resent her good fortune this year. Her married daughter had remembered she had a mother for the first time since my arrival and invited her for the festive season. Mrs. Dougherty’s excitement had been contagious, buoying my spirits as I waved until the train disappeared down the tracks.
Such a good soul, she deserved happiness. A tug on my trousers reminded me of where I was, and I began the poem. I recited more than read the beloved verses, putting as much heart into them as possible. My gift to the children whose faces I gazed into every school day, who learned their letters and numbers at my tutelage.
I taught the youngest of them, tasked with giving them a love of learning as much as any specific knowledge. If they had that love, they would do well going forward.
Finishing the reading, I closed the large book on my lap and chuckled as I thought Saint Nicholas might have before going up the chimney after laying out the gifts for the children of the house in the story.
Silence for a moment had me worried I’d not done justice to the tale, but then appreciative applause reassured me. The book was one my mother read the same story to me from, precious in its faded covers and holding just as much magic now as then. After I finished, the headmaster stood from his seat at the back of the stage and made a short speech. The same speech, word for word, as last year and the year before. But it suited the occasion and sent everyone off with a smile and a wave.
A few other teachers and I supervised some of the older boys putting the auditorium to rights before closing the school for two weeks. When we were done, and all the handmade decorations removed, it looked so dull. But clean and ready for the events of a new term.
As we were leaving, I spotted a bit of litter near the stage, so I bid the others goodbye, said I would lock the doors as I went, and crossed the room to pick it up. Alone, I looked around again. Just an hour or so ago, it had been filled with singing and laughter and bright colors both in the decorations and the students’ and their families’ holiday best attire.
Now, there was just me, in my brown jacket and trousers, not one sprig of greenery or red ribbon in sight. And since we’d turned down the furnace, the warm air in the room was being replaced by a distinct chill.
Time to go home.
I was about to leave the building when I saw a small boy sitting on a chair by the door, kicking his feet and staring at the floor. Little Timothy from my class. All by himself. I approached him and took the seat beside his.
“Timothy, did your fathers leave without you?” All the families were invited to the holiday recital, filling the auditorium with their appreciation for their children’s performances.
“No, Mr. Bobell.” His legs slowed their kicking but did not stop. Nor did he look up from his focus on the black-and-white tiles.
Oh. “They were unable to attend today, then.” He looked so sad.
“They never come. Like they didn’t come on Meet the Teacher night. Or our spelling bee or...or anything. Sir.”
I didn’t always get to speak to every parent when they came. Some were shy or just never made it to the front of the room for one reason or another. But from the children’s reports, nearly all their parents or guardians attended when we invited them. Making the invitations was always a fun and popular activity for our art class the week before, and I had some very talented artists in my room this year. Timothy was one of the best. “Sometimes parents are very busy with their responsibilities and cannot take time to enjoy themselves. It’s a shame. But we must try to understand.”
He did lift his eyes to mine at that point, and they held all the pain and disappointment no child should have to experience.
“I have to lock up now, Timothy. Can you see yourself home?” Some did, and some others had a parent or older sibling to walk them.
“Yes, sir. I always go home alone.”
Alone. I had a feeling he often arrived into an empty house. His worn shoes and everyday clothes had stood in stark contrast to most of the other children’s holiday outfits, but poor didn’t mean abused or neglected, and not all had new clothes. But his sad loneliness said it all. How had I not realized just how bad things were? Maybe because we were not allowed to interfere with students’ outside of school, and parents had absolute authority there. Knowing they had it rough made it even harder to do my job and treat all the children equally.
Still.
Timothy stood and started for the door, but on a whim, I stopped him with a question. “Timothy, what is your wish this Christmas?” If it was within my power to grant it for him, I would, even if it meant I skipped a meal or two.
“A cookie,” he replied. “Like my grandma used to make before she died.”
My heart squeezed so hard, I gasped for a moment before recovering my breath. My mind worked furiously. Where had I seen cookies? A big cookie on a plate! “Timothy, do not leave. I will be right back.”
I dashed down the hall to Mr. Samberg’s class where, on his desk, sat a plate with a large, perfect, dark-brown molasses cookie. A single delight that might bring a smile to a young man’s face. Mr. Samberg was gone already, and by the time we returned from our holiday, it would be gone anyway, food for a stray mouse.
Timothy was still there when I returned, and I gave him the cookie, thrilled to see the sadness retreat from his expression while he studied the marvel in his hands. “This is all for me? This whole cookie?”
“Merry Christmas, Timothy.” I held the door open, turned off the lights, and followed him outside. “Be a good boy, and I’ll see you after New Year’s.” I locked the door and by the time I turned to leave, the little boy was nowhere in sight. I wished I had so much more to give to this child and to the others who might have less-than happy Christmases for different reasons this year.
Like me, many had lost relatives in the Spanish Flu epidemic a few years before, others had folks who were out of work or had debt that made it impossible to buy things for a festive meal or gifts.
Saddened by the thoughts that not all the children I taught would have what all children should have for Christmas, I trudged away from the school building.
“Hey, you. I have a bone to pick with you, Mr. Teacher.”
That couldn’t be...but it was. An elf.
On the last Thursday before Christmas, Edward’s shop was quiet. He hadn’t minded in the morning; Edward liked to take the mornings slowly, waking up with multiple cups of tea while he worked on anything that had been left over from the previous day. Business often picked up around lunchtime.
With the hammering rain outside creating a lovely background tune for his task, Edward finished the repairs on an old smoking jacket and carefully set it on a hanger ready for steam cleaning. The jacket had come from a man who’d found it in his granddad’s attic, and wanted to wear it for his wedding on New Year’s Eve. It was a marvellous thing—black velvet with satin lapels and a beautiful patterned lining. Edward hadn’t recognised the name on the label so he’d turned to the internet to research it. That had taken a few days, but he’d learned that it had likely come from a tailor in London, who had been very fashionable in the nineteen twenties. The jacket was probably a hundred years old.
Edward had opened his tailoring and alterations shop in the village of Little Wetherill, on the northern edge of Dartmoor, almost six years ago. Despite his relative youth in the community, he’d become a solid figure in it. People travelled from all over the south-west to bring him things—either repairs, which he enjoyed, or custom projects, which he’d built his reputation on.
His mother had been overtly derisive of his decision to open a real-life, bricks and mortar shop, convinced that he’d never be able to turn it into a profitable business. But Edward had been running a bespoke tailoring business out of his living room for years, and he had a small but loyal following of people who bought his custom designs online.
Sure, the shop was small, and cold, and in the first year he’d been forced to spend hundreds of pounds replacing the windows at the front so they were double-glazed. In the winter he only got the sun first thing in the morning because of the side of the high street he was located on. So he’d spent even more money installing good lights, so he could see what he was doing at his workstation at the back of the shop. It was worth it. Every penny.
Edward was startled from his cup of tea by the shop door crashing open, then a man rushed into the shop looking particularly red-faced and out of breath. Edward thought that when he calmed down, he might look attractive. Handsome, even. Probably looking for a gift for his wife, knowing Edward’s luck.
“Can I help?”
“I really hope so.” The man heaved his satchel, which was dripping with rainwater, onto Edward’s counter. “I don’t suppose you have a set of nativity costumes that would fit a group of five and six year old children?”
Edward stared at him. “I’m a tailor. A menswear tailor.”
“I know. It’s just that I’ve been everywhere, literally everywhere, and I don’t know who else to ask.”
Curiosity killed the cat.
“How many costumes do you need?”
He started to count them off on his fingers. “Mary and Joseph. Three wise men, three shepherds, three sheep, a cow and a donkey. The inn keeper and his wife, and the Angel Gabriel. And a star.”
Edward blinked. “Seventeen. Seventeen costumes.”
“Yes.” He nodded rapidly. “Ten boys and seven girls. That’s my class.”
“And when do you need these by?”
“Three o’ clock tomorrow afternoon.” “Can you sew?” Edward asked, feeling like asking had been a monumentally bad idea.
“Honestly? No.”
Edward stared at the handsome intruder. Did he want to make seventeen nativity costumes? Of course he didn’t. That sounded like absolute mayhem. He took a deep breath, then sighed.
“Well, for your sake, I hope you’re a fast learner.”
Edward pulled on his long wool coat and flipped the sign on the door to ‘Closed’. He grabbed an umbrella, too, it was still raining cats and dogs out there.
“My name’s Harry, by the way. Harry Britton.”
Harry. It suited him.
“Edward Saunders.”
A few minutes later, a vehicle approached from behind. Reacting instinctively, I turned around and waved my arms, hoping the big truck would stop and have mercy on my freezing ass.
I let out a giddy yelp as it slowed down, but it got stuck in my throat when the driver rolled down the window.
He was huge and couldn't hold his head upright without banging it on the ceiling. Big steel gauges adorned both his ears -- at least an inch and a half wide -- and his hair was black and so closely cropped it resembled a five o'clock shadow more than an actual haircut.
"You need a ride?" he asked and his voice was deeper than the Mariana Trench, perfectly matching his frightening appearance. Black tattoos crept up his neck and snaked down his hands below his sleeves. His shoulders were wide, his muscles strained the sleeves of his thick black jacket, and his cheeks were hollow. I was one second from shitting myself.
"I'm not riding with a serial killer!" The words slipped out of my mouth and I groaned. I couldn't have kept my mouth shut for five fucking seconds to avoid being chopped up and thrown to the wolves?
He threw his head back and let out a thunderous laugh.
"What's so goddamned funny?" I glared at him, but he didn't seem to care.
"I'm no serial killer."
"And I'm just supposed to take your fucking word for it?" I raised an eyebrow. I knew I was being combative and taking out my frustration on this stranger, but I couldn't stop myself.
"You could call my ma for references."
"Ha ha. Very funny." With a deep sigh, I resigned to my fate and started walking again. No way was I getting into a car with that mammoth of a man.
"Where you goin'?" he called after me. When I didn't bother to answer, he eased off the break and let his truck crawl after me.
I swirled around. "Stop following me, you creep," I hissed.
He let go of the steering wheel with one hand and held it up as if he surrendered. "Look, man. It's freezin'. You're wet and miserable. Get in the truck and lemme take you wherever you're goin'." His deep voice was surprisingly gentle. Non-threatening, as if he'd come to expect reactions like mine.
"I'm really not a bad guy." He stuck out his lower lip in a pout that would have made a five-year-old girl green with envy and I had to bite my lip to stop a smile from erupting.
"Really?" I tried to hang on to my mistrust, but he made it hard. His appearance screamed RUN AND HIDE, but there was something soft in his eyes that told a different story.
He shot me a crooked smile. "It was worth a try. It works on my niece every time."
The fucker knew all the right words to say to disarm me. "And how old is she?"
"Four."
I huffed out a reluctant chuckle. "Well, you know how it is. Everyone always says how they couldn't believe their neighbor was a serial killer because he seemed like such a nice guy."
His eyes grew big and round. "You're sayin' you don't trust my niece as a character witness?" He sounded as I'd just delivered the biggest insult of his life, but the amused glint in his eyes told me it was all for show.
"Can you blame me?"
"I guess not." He sighed and grew serious. "Please. I couldn't live with myself if I left you here to freeze to death."
My body screamed at me to take him up on his offer. The ice pellets were relentless and I was soaked and gloomy and was starting to feel like maybe being ax murdered wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen to me right now.
The openness in his posture and honesty in his eyes had me on the verge of caving. "You promise you won't kill me?" I sounded like a scared little kid even to my own ears.
