Twisted Agendas by Damian McNicholl Read Free Book Online Page A

assistance, but Mrs. Hartley recovered quickly and mumbled she’d been searching for her cat
before walking back to her own house and slamming the door shut.
    Julia left the window, took a last pull of the joint and stubbed the spent roach into the half-filled ashtray as she looked about the living-cum-dining room. Jeans, jumpers, and two skirts lay
strewn over the sofa and armchairs. A pair of tights flowed like stretched toffee from an upper branch of a tall fichus placed on one side of the French doors that opened onto a spacious garden.
The garden itself was girded by five-foot brick walls on two sides, shrubbery and a stockade fence at the rear. CD cases including KD Lang’s Ingénue and magazines lay scattered
on the carpet. Upon the dining room table was a phone and a platter containing a resealable plastic bag of marijuana, cigarette papers and a roller.
    Keeping the house constantly in order in case someone called from the advertisement she’d placed in the local paper was more challenging than she’d anticipated. At times of
despondency like this, Julia wished her salary was larger and the mortgage payments more reasonable. She also regretted her rush to evict her prior tenant.
    Six months ago, she’d purchased 42 Chumley, a cozy terraced house on the well-maintained North section of the street. Spaniel Street bisected the North and South sections, at the junction
of which was an elevated railway bridge that served the Piccadilly and District tube lines. It hadn’t been love at first glimpse when Julia, accompanied by her estate agent, drew up to the
house on that cold October morning. She’d winced at the powder blue façade and instructed the woman to proceed to the next property, but the enthusiastic agent insisted she take a
look. Once inside, Julia had been quietly pleased when she saw the house was tastefully renovated and made an appropriate offer for both it and the salvageable pieces of furniture. Within hours the
seller’s agent rang her agent, and raised the specter of another bidder, thus setting in motion a blitz of counter-offers until the price was within a hair’s breath of beyond her means
and Julia had had quite enough. She contacted the Australian owner, arranged a clandestine meeting with him and a contract was drawn up and executed next day.
    Five minutes later, when Julia came outside to the street, Mrs. Hartley was still standing by her car. She was chatting to Sonia Berg, the German psychiatrist who lived just beyond the railway
bridge on the south side of the street. Sonia had stopped her VW Beetle in the middle of the road and was standing half-in half-out of the vehicle, her right foot planted on the tarmac.
    “Good morning,” Julia said, and nodded at them.
    “Ah Julia, it is you,” Dr. Berg said. “I have been meaning to ring and thank you for your lovely party. It was so wery fun.” She laughed shrilly. “Jean-Pierre
enjoyed himself and will pay for the dry-cleaning of your tablecloth. You will give me the bill?”
    Mrs. Hartley’s face twisted into a grimace.
    “Don’t worry about it, Sonia.”
    Having met the doctor’s Congolese boyfriend on a number of occasions, Julia had formed the opinion he was socially inept. He made no effort to join in conversation and she figured Sonia
was with him only because he was good in bed.
    The doctor climbed into the sunflower stenciled Bug and revved the engine so that it hummed in that singular Volkswagony way. “Mrs. Hartley, do not forget to tell your friend Martha it is
important she keep her appointments with me.”
    Her neighbour’s face was still pinched with disapproval as she watched Sonia drive away.
    “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Hartley? I noticed you examining my car again.”
    “You parked too close to mine again, Madam.”
    She found Mrs. Hartley’s tendency to address her as ‘Madam’ quaintly polite. She also felt sorry for the old woman. She’d heard her husband had died tragically. Julia