The Mysterious and Amazing Blue Billings

by Lily Morton

He leads me down a winding mess of side streets, setting a quick pace. He’s obviously a local here despite the Irish in his accent, as he takes shortcuts without a second thought, moving as surely as a cat in the dim light. Finally, we end up on a busy main road, and we stop in front of a pub.

  “The Golden Fleece,” I read the sign out loud.

  He nods. “It’s jammed full of ghosts.”

  “Why didn’t we see it on the tour, then?”

  “Because Hugh, the arsehole, was very intent on fucking my tour up.”

  “He didn’t succeed.” I pause. “He seems very pissed off with you though. Were you together long?” I say tentatively, unable to believe I’m asking him that question.

  Blue shrugs. “A couple of nights.”

  I stare at him for a long moment. “Oh, er well. That’s nice,” I say lamely before finishing slightly more robustly. “I’m afraid I just can’t take a man on a box seriously.”

  He shakes his head and motions me into the pub, the quirk of his lips not quite covered. I look around as I follow him to the bar. It’s wood paneled and narrow and very busy, and Blue is greeted left and right by people calling his name. He smiles at everyone, but that spark is somehow missing now. Like he’s muted himself with his very own remote control. He looks even more tired than he did before, if that’s possible.

  When we pole up at the bar, the barman comes over immediately. His hair is dyed green, and he’s wearing a kilt with combat boots and a holey jumper. “Blue,” he says. “Fay’s looking for you.”

  A funny expression crosses Blue’s face. “Well, she can carry on looking.”

  The barman shrugs. “Your funeral.” He looks me up and down as I settle at the bar next to Blue. “He with you?” he asks, nodding at me.

  Blue shakes his head. “Just having a drink.” He looks at me. “What do you want?”

  I order a pint of bitter and the Budweiser he requests. When the barman passes them over, I dig into my pocket. “My treat,” I say and Blue shrugs, palming his drink and looking around.

  “We’ll go in the back,” he shouts over the noise. “It’s quieter in there.”

  I follow him into a narrow room at the back. It is quieter here, lacking the jukebox, and Blue unsmilingly indicates a table. His mood seems to have soured since the conversation with the barman.

  I slide in and watch as he does the same, noting the way his eyes dwell on a corner of the room intently for a few seconds. I twist my head to look but there’s nothing there.

  When I look back, he’s sipping his drink with a smile playing on his lips. “So, you mentioned it was different living in your house?”

  I look cautiously at him. What I’m about to tell him would have me laughed out of the room in London with Mason. However, I have a feeling he’ll understand.

  “You could say that. It’s got a bit of a funny atmosphere.”

  As I begin to explain, his open gaze and his calmness—the way it seems like there isn’t anything that would shock him—I find myself telling him everything. The footsteps heard at all hours of the day and night, the way the cellar has been repeatedly trashed, the windows and doors opening of their own accord.

  He listens, the only sign of disquiet a furrow above his nose. His eyes are a startlingly pale blue with a dark circle near the pupil. They remind me of wolf eyes—piercing and cold.

  “Is that it?” he says when I draw to a fumbling close.

  “Just about,” I say, glumly waiting as he breaks into a fit of coughing. It racks his thin body and he shudders and swallows his drink quickly, motioning for me to continue. I consider asking if he’s all right, but his closed expression deters me. “Apart from the smell of lily of the valley,” I say slowly. “Like someone’s upended a bottle of the stuff over the upstairs, mainly in my bedroom and the attic. Some days it’s like walking past the fragrance counter in John Lewis.” I run my finger carefully down the moisture coating my glass and look up at him.

  He’s playing with his lip ring almost as if he doesn’t know he’s doing it, his face deep in thought.

  “You called it the Murder House,” I say abruptly. “Why?”

  He jumps and looks steadily at me. “It’s quite a famous house. Didn’t they tell you this when you bought it? I thought estate agents were legally obligated to tell you everything now.”

  I shrug. “I bypassed the estate agents. The house was left to my mum and therefore came to me as her next of kin.” My voice, to my embarrassment, falters slightly.

  His gaze sharpens, but when he speaks, it’s gentle. “That’ll do it, I suppose.” He sighs and takes a sip of his drink, his full mouth closing around the bottle’s lip.

  A shiver erupts at the base of my spine, and I shift position awkwardly as he starts to talk. “It happened in 1895.” His voice slips into the slightly dreamy tone he used so well on the ghost walk. It’s husky and compelling, the Irish in it spinning a lilt to his words. “A brother and sister lived there from a wealthy family. Their parents died young, and as was the way, the man inherited the estate. His sister had been married, but she was widowed early and moved back in. From the stories I heard, she was really almost a prisoner there, dependent on his good graces.”

  “So were most women at that time,” I venture.

  He nods. “Hopefully, some of them were happy, but Rosalind Cooper obviously wasn’t. Still, no one knew that until it was too late. Her brother Alfred was in banking and travelled up to London a lot. She kept house and did a lot of charity work in the area. They were, by all accounts, liked in the community. Or at least that’s what people said afterwards.” He gives a slightly cynical smile. “I think people’s opinions get better the deader a person is.” I can’t help my smile, and his gaze sharpens. “Anyway, there wasn’t a drop of scandal about them until the morning of November the sixth when the maid came in to light the fires and get breakfast. Alfred had an early start planned, apparently, because he was catching the train to London. Rosalind was going to a meeting of one of her charities which tried to help fallen women.” I raise my eyebrows, and he smiles. “Prostitutes. Not women with balance issues.”

  I grin. “What happened?”

  “The maid, by her account, got the fires going downstairs and went upstairs with tea for her employers. She knocked at Alfred’s door and, receiving no reply, she entered the room. The curtains were drawn and she thought he was still sleeping so she hesitated, but he’d asked to be awakened, so she opened the curtains. When she turned back to the bed, it was to find that he wasn’t asleep.”

  “And?” I ask eagerly, and he smiles at me.

  “He was lying in his bed with his throat slit. Blood was all over the floor and the bed and bloody footprints crisscrossed the room and led out of the door. She screamed and ran out of the room, following the grotesque prints into her mistress’s room where she found her mistress hanging from the light fitting. Poor girl never recovered from the shock.”

  “Jesus,” I say, sitting back. “What had happened?”

  He shrugs. “The police investigated and deduced that Rosalind had quite calmly slit her brother’s throat. She then walked back to her room where she removed her wedding ring and jewellery and hung herself.”

  “Why did she do it?”

  “Who knows.” He sips his drink. “The police never could work it out. The two of them obviously gave good face to the world. The only thing they could get out of the maid that cast any light was that she’d once heard her master talking to his sister in a very unkind voice and that she’d been crying. She was very indignant on her mistress’s behalf but couldn’t give any other instances. The police surgeon discovered in the autopsy that Rosalind was in the early stages of liver cancer and she’d been told that by her doctor the previous week. The police decided that she’d been driven mad by sorrow and grief from her husband’s passing and then the illness, and the courts marked it murder and suicide while of unsound mind.”

  He sits back, and silence falls again. I notice vagu
ely that he looks at the corner of the room again but dismiss it as a thought occurs to me. “Which room did the brother sleep in?” I ask grimly.

  He thinks hard. “I’ve been told that it was the room looking down on the garden, but other people say it’s the one looking over the road.”

  “Shit, the one at the front is my room,” I say glumly.

  “Hope you washed the sheets.”

  I snort and shake my head. “I don’t know …” I hesitate over how to put this, and he grimaces.

  “Don’t tell me. You don’t believe in ghosts,” he says in a glib, cool voice. “Must be another reason for this.” I stare at him and he leans forward. “There are more ghosts around York than you can shake a stick at.”

  “Where?” I ask, stung. “I can’t see them.”

  “Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there.” A bleak look comes into his eyes. “Like a lot of people around here.” I stare at him and he shrugs, a cool expression sliding over his face. “So, that’s the story. Did I earn my drink, Mister?”

  It sounds dismissive, and by the way his face has closed up, I know I’ve overstretched his hospitality.

  “Oh,” I say. Then “Oh” again a bit louder. “Yes, thank you. I’m so sorry for keeping you,” I say stiffly. I grab my coat and pull it on, standing up and offering my hand.

  He shakes it with a bemused look on his face, and I try to conceal how affected I am by feeling those long fingers and his smooth palm slide against my own. My hand drops, and I stare down at him. He’s running his finger through the wetness on the table making patterns. He’s already dismissed me.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I say softly. “I’m very grateful. And thank you for the tour. I really enjoyed it.”

  I move out of the room towards the noise and bustle. At the last second, obeying my instincts, I glance back. He’s staring once more at the corner of the room, his expression bleak and tired.

  Chapter 4

  Levi

  I see him the next day when I’m queuing to buy a galette at the crepe stall in the market. He’s sitting at a picnic table with another man. Dressed in skinny jeans, a white T-shirt, and a grey hoodie tucked under a coat, he’s laughing at something the other man is saying. He’s wearing the same combat boots from last night and his blue hair is tucked under a beanie. He looks cool and very eye-catching, and as I note how the other man is gazing at Blue and the lazy way that Blue is smiling back at him, I swallow hard.

  The woman behind me makes a noise. I turn and note that she’s staring Blue. She smiles happily at me. “Nice to have something pretty to look at when you’re in a queue,” she says cheerfully.

  I chuckle. “They ought to employ him to just sit there.”

  She grins and edges closer. “He runs one of the ghost tours.”

  “Does he?”

  She nods. “I’ve been on it four times now. I know the words better than he does.”

  I laugh, and the sound must cut through the crowd, because Blue looks up and catches my eye. For a second he doesn’t seem to recognise me, and then an immediate wariness crosses over his face. I get the impression that he really doesn’t want to talk to me which is understandable after my stumbling awkwardness on the ghost tour.

  Stung, I nod coolly at him and turn back to face forwards in the queue, my face burning. This reminds me a bit of being at school, watching the cool kids and longing to be a part of them but being utterly dismissed as being below their notice.

  Okay, that hurt a little, I say to myself. But really, what do you expect? Look at the men he hangs around with. You’re excessively boring compared to him. No piercings or tattoos and the only time you put colour in your hair was for a Comic Relief fundraiser.

  I gaze determinedly around at the multitude of people milling around the market. It’s actually a nice market, unlike a lot of the ones you come across in England now which are filled with tat. This one has stalls of fresh produce and crafts and, I’ve come to realise, the best street food in York. There’s an area to the side of the market which has picnic tables set under huge umbrellas. Tiny huts dot the edge of this area, selling everything from burritos to artisan hotdogs. The street food is gorgeous, and I’ve applied myself to trying something different every day, a lunchtime treat for getting my work done.

  Suddenly, I catch the scent of peaches and something else that reminds me of damp wood. I turn to find Blue standing next to me looking at me quizzically.

  “Blue!” the girl from behind me says. “How are you?”

  He turns to her slowly. “Hey, Sandra,” he says, a wide, charming smile lighting up his thin features. “How are you?”

  “I’m booked on the ghost tour this Friday.”

  “Again,” he says humorously. “You’ll be leading it soon.”

  She laughs and nudges him, nearly propelling him into an elderly couple on his right. I grab his arm to right him at the last second, and he smiles up at me.

  “Hello,” he says. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Of all the gin joints in the world,” I say wryly.

  “Gin,” Sandra says. “Are they serving gin here? I love gin.”

  Blue laughs. “Better than coffee any day.” He smiles at me. “Didn’t think you were going to say hello.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t think you wanted me to,” I say steadily.

  He looks nonplussed for a second, but I refuse to play games. I always have.

  “Maybe I didn’t want you to,” he finally says, his face clearing. I stare at him, aware of Sandra watching us avidly. He raises an eyebrow. “What do you want?”

  I shrug. “I’m not sure, to be honest. Maybe I want the truth about what’s happening in my house. Maybe I’d like to talk to you about it and—”

  “No,” he interjects. “I mean what do you want to eat. The man’s waiting.”

  Red stains my cheeks and I spin to face the man in charge of the food truck. “Sorry,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll have the goat cheese galette with some bacon on it, please.”

  “Anything else?” he asks in a bored voice. He spots Blue and smiles widely at him. “Alright, mate?” he says. “What you doing up so early?”

  “Please, Rob, you’ll give me such a reputation,” Blue says, grinning and holding his hand to his head like he’s going to faint.

  “You’ve already got one of those,” Rob says, guffawing loudly. I shift position, and he returns to his bored expression. “Anything else?”

  I open my mouth, but Blue interjects. “Give us a couple of bottles of water, and I’ll have an apple crepe, please.” He smiles at me. “I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth. It’s got caramelised apples and almonds in it.” He hands the man a twenty-pound note before I can even get my wallet out.

  “Oh no,” I protest. “You can’t buy me food.”

  “Why not?” he asks interestedly.

  “Well, because I don’t know you,” I mutter, watching the man pour batter onto a circular griddle.

  “Goodness, this is just like one of those Jane Austen books. Do I have to put my name on your dance card before you can clutch your pearls?”

  I shake my head, feeling a smile tug at my lips. “I don’t mean it like that.”

  He shrugs his wide shoulders, accepting his food and nodding his thanks at Rob. “You bought me a drink last night, so I’m buying you lunch.” He tilts his head. “Let’s find a table.”

  I take my own food and smile a goodbye at Sandra, who’s watching Blue move sinuously over to an empty table and therefore doesn’t notice me.

  I slide onto the seat opposite Blue. “So, you aren’t normally up this early?”

  He shakes his head. “According to Rob. Not sure why he thinks he knows me any better than anyone else.” He seems to ponder that and then shrugs. “Who cares. I keep late hours with the ghost tour, and unless I’m working in the day, I dip about here and there.”

  I take a bite of my galette and groan. Inside the crispy pancake, it
’s a gooey mix of goat cheese and cheddar with pickled beetroot and tomatoes. “Shit, this is good.” I look up and still. He’s watching me with a very intent look. “You okay?” I ask, hoping I haven’t got rocket in my teeth. “You’d better eat yours before it gets cold.”

  He smiles. “I’ve eaten worse.” I open my mouth to ask more questions, but he forestalls me. “So, why the move from London? I can tell you’re from down south.”

  “London born and bred.” I watch as he takes a massive bite of his food. He chews quickly, his elbows out rather like a small child who’s anticipating a bully taking the food off him. Before I’m even halfway through my lunch, he’s finished. Looking up and catching me watching him, he flushes.

  I burst into speech. “I was left the house, like I said. It came at a good time.” I put my food down and take a sip of water. “I was ready for a change. A long-term relationship that I’d been in was ending, and I needed to get away.”

  He stares at me like I’m an animal at the zoo. Some exotic creature that he’s never seen before. “How long?” he asks.

  I frown, but then I realise what he’s asking. “Oh, five years. Would you like to try a bit of mine?” I ask, catching his longing look at my food and offering him some of the galette.

  He takes a bite, making an appreciative groan that goes straight to my dick. “Blimey, that’s a long time. Why did you split up?”

  I stare at him, slightly nonplussed. “Erm.” I bite my lip.

  “Is that too personal?” He shrugs, looking perplexed. “I never know what’s polite or not, to be honest. I hate chit-chat. If I’m interested, I’ll ask questions. It’s the only way to get to know anything.”

  I blink. “Okay, I suppose that’s right. Erm, we broke up because I found out he was cheating with someone from his work. He’d been sleeping with him for six months by the time I found out.”

  “That’s shit,” he says slowly. “Why?”

  The incredulous note in his voice bewilders me. “Why not?” I shrug. “Not much surprises me anymore.” I stare at his long fingers that are tapping on the table. “I once thought we’d be together forever. I was stupid. Relationships never last that long.”