Quiet Neighbors Read Online Free PDF Page A

abruptly, a gasp escaping her.
    The first thing she saw was her wallet on the bedside table. Then, looking past it, she glimpsed Lowell Glen sitting in the armchair, its load of clothes dumped in a heap at his side. His legs were stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles—he still had his shoes on—and his arms were folded over his front. His head had dropped back until his mouth was wide open and he breathed in uncomfortable, choking snores that set Jude’s pulse rattling. Then she took in the rest of the scene. The trousers hanging by their braces, the till receipts and coins, the coffee cup, the newspaper. They were all still there, and shoes shoved under the wardrobe that she hadn’t noticed before. She felt her throat begin to close and lowered herself gently back down again, trying to stare at a blank section of the ceiling and ignore the dark bulbs in the centre light, the fly resting in the bottom of the shade. But the bed was old and creaky. The snoring stopped, and when she glanced over he was smiling at her.
    â€œYou slept all night,” he said. “It’s almost morning.”
    â€œWhat about all the other beds and couches?” she said, sounding terse, feeling guilty.
    â€œI was worried about you. I decided to keep watch.” He rubbed his chin and laughed a little. “Dear me, I fell down on the job rather.” Before Jude could answer, he sat up and smacked his hands. “Coffee!” he exclaimed. Then at her silence, “Tea?”
    â€œCoffee would be wonderful.”
    He got up, levering himself out of the armchair with both hands, groaned and stretched, then shuffled away. Jude watched his reflection in the dressing mirror. He stopped at the top of the stairs and spoke over his shoulder.
    â€œThat’s … ahh … that’s a bathroom with the half-glass door, my dear. I’ll use the downstairs carsy.” Then he descended, his hair—like a seed head from his night in the chair—catching the first light from the landing window.
    Jude swung her legs round and stood. She thought she caught a whiff of odour as she moved. Funeral, Wednesday night hiding with her heart in her mouth, fleeing across London scared to look behind her, hours in the station, hours on the train, the raucous commercial hotel, the bus, the weeping, and then—she glanced at her watch—fifteen hours in a stranger’s bed, dead to the world like a princess with vines grown up around the castle.
    No wonder she stank.
    As if he had heard her thoughts, Lowell spoke again. She glanced at the dressing mirror and could see him hovering on the half landing, eyes down to shield her privacy.
    â€œThere’s always lots of hot water in the morning,” he said, “if you should want a bath. And um, second door along from there, if you rummage in the wardrobe there are clothes and things … Look in the chest too. There are … Well, clothes and what have you, you know.”
    Jude was intrigued. She waited until he’d gone, then tiptoed out and along to the second door to investigate. It hadn’t been used recently. Dust lay thickly on the dressing-table top and even furred the tufted trim of a cushion on the armchair, but there was nothing out of place. If she could have brought a Hoover in here and worked round from the door, floor to ceiling, following the swags of cobweb and nudging into every fold, it would be perfect again in minutes. She dragged her feet across the carpet as she walked and then picked the grey rolls from the soles of her tights and pocketed them.
    The wardrobe door was a snug fit and it squeaked open, letting go a breath of old wood and faded lavender. Jude ran her hands along the row of plastic department-store hangers, little cylindrical beads on their necks showing the sizes. She was no expert, since jeans were jeans and tee-shirts were tee-shirts, but these clothes looked decades old. She could remember a