Page 57 of Breaking the Dark

“Yes. Jordan’s ex, four years ago.”

“Calm.”

She hears locks turning and then the door opens, and a man she remembers vaguely is standing in front of her. As she recalls, he was the nicer of the two who lived here.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, his eyes roaming up and down her body. “Polly. Yeah. I remember you. Sweet. You coming in?”

“Yeah. Please.”

He gestures for her to come indoors; it smells as she remembers, pungent with the combined aromas of skunk, of men, of unwashed T-shirts. She perches herself gingerly on a foldout chair.

“So,” says the guy, whose name she cannot recollect. “Polly. You good?”

She nods. “I’m good.”

He puts his hand on a cheap plastic kettle. “Tea?”

“No. Thanks.”

He takes his hand off the kettle and sits opposite her. “You see Jordan anymore?”

She shakes her head. “No. He moved away.”

The guy nods, then appraises her. “You buying?”

“No. No, I’m not. I’m…” She rearranges herself on the uncomfortable chair and sighs. “Listen. Remember the family that lived next door to you, back then?”

The guy wrinkles his brow. “You mean that, like, serial killer?”

Polly startles slightly.

He smiles, revealing a missing tooth. “I’m kidding ya. Obviously. It was just, like, a running gag, y’know.”

“But what was the deal with him? I remember you saying weird stuff used to happen there.”

“Yeah. There was a woman here one time, banging down their door, screaming for her son.”

“What was she screaming?”

“Oh, yeah, just kind of, ‘I know he was here! I know he was here! Where is he?’ That sort of thing. And that man, the dad, like, he was always making friendly with my customers. Out there”—he jerks his head—“fiddling with cars, in his boilersuit, making small talk. Asking weird questions.”

“What sort of weird questions?”

“Just about their families, like. About their health. That sort of thing. I’d say to him, what are you, like, an effing doctor?” He laughs.

Polly smiles, to keep things moving. “And what would he say?”

“Nothing. Rude bastard. Never talked to us. All three of them were the same.”

“The mum, and the son?”

“Yeah. Acted like they were the only people in the world. The mum, you know. She’s like a psychic or something? We used to…feel stuff? Coming from there.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. Vibrations. Or like…like”—his hands dart around as he searches for the right word—“waves, more like. We used to call it the wiggles.” He wriggles his fingers. “You know, like, when someone opens the back window of the car when you’re driving fast? And these mad noises. Thought maybe she was, like, doing a séance or summink. Inviting, like, evil spirits in. You know? And that kid. What was his name?”

“Arthur?”

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