7. Cuckoo
CHAPTER SEVEN
CUCKOO
Sometimes I sneak out on my own.
I know my route; I always go to the same place.
There is an added danger to it. As a girl, every instinct in me is screaming this isn’t safe, and yet another part of me is thrilled.
The streets turn from homely and normal to manicured and sinister.
The houses loom large, enough space between them so they never know their neighbors.
Period buildings, gardens that were once well taken care of but are now floundering without the proper maintenance.
The people who live in these houses don’t do the gardening themselves.
They have front drives with gates blocking access to anyone walking past, with very expensive cars tucked away in garages.
Sometimes there is a light on in one of the upstairs rooms, and I wonder if there is some man or woman hunched over a computer earning thousands by the hour for fussing over numbers.
Or maybe it is someone my age, playing computer games and not caring about the state of the world because it looks pretty good from where they’re sitting.
The house at the end of this street is particularly nice.
I have studied it on Rightmove, when it was last for sale seven years ago.
A long time ago, but the exterior hasn’t changed much.
These people very much keep the place looking perfect.
Suspiciously so, considering no one should be working for them at the moment.
Because this house is at the end of the street, it has the worst security. A hedge around the back can be pushed through quite easily, and the wall isn’t too high. I can scale it and be in the garden in seconds.
If I’m early enough, I’ll catch them in the open-plan kitchen, lights on, everything visible through the sliding glass doors. They sit at their island, the two of them: husband, wife, picture-perfect. The large television isn’t on; neither has their phone out; they’re chatting and laughing.
Mostly. Sometimes there isn’t much laughter at all. Sometimes he makes her cry. Sometimes he reaches for the wine bottle again instead of his running shoes.
But usually he goes running.
And I follow him. He runs the same route; he enjoys the solitude and the dark as much as I do. Or I watch his wife instead.
She sits in the kitchen and has more drink.
She watches television, catching up on shows I don’t think he lets her watch otherwise.
She puts a hand to her forehead and closes her eyes and just exists in her own thoughts.
I like to imagine running up the garden path and banging on the glass doors and making her scream.
I like to imagine him falling over as he runs. Tripping him up, or pushing him. I imagine other things too.
Rarely, I am too late for either of them. The house is dark and I sit there anyway. He comes back from his run and into the kitchen for a glass of water. He has no idea I am watching him.
I shape my hand into a pretend gun and fire. One shot, directly into his head.