The Thin Place

by C D Major

  ‘Well, I . . .’ Ava paused at the appalled expression on Pippa’s face. ‘No, nothing too bad. My blood pressure was a tiny bit high, but I knew Mum would go on and on . . .’

  Pippa relented. They both knew Mum could be over the top when it came to her involvement in their lives. ‘Alright, but promise me you’ll take it easy.’

  ‘I will. What else did Mum say?’

  ‘Not a lot. She was moaning about you taking Gus somewhere dangerous.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sa—’ Ava bit her lip. It had been a risk. He had run for the parapet. If she hadn’t managed to grab his lead . . . ‘OK, it wasn’t the most sensible thing I’ve ever done. But nothing happened. It was all OK.’

  ‘Well, you know what she’s like about Gus. She buys him actual steak for dinner. I don’t think she buys Dad steak.’

  Ava tried to laugh but, as ever, her mind seemed to be elsewhere, miles north of Glasgow.

  ‘Where did you take him anyway?’

  ‘Just somewhere for work. A bridge.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound dangerous.’ Pippa’s nose wrinkled, eyes as ever scanning for Tommy, who appeared to not have emerged from inside a plastic two-storey-high helter-skelter.

  ‘Well, people claim that their dogs have jumped off it in the past. Jumped off it and died.’

  Ava watched Pippa’s shoulders drop a fraction as she spotted Tommy whooshing out of the helter-skelter, a wide smile on his face as he raced back to do it again. She turned again. ‘God, no wonder Mum was cross.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Pippa tipped her head to the side. ‘So why do they jump?’

  Ava shrugged. ‘No one’s really sure.’ She felt something familiar building inside her. ‘My cameraman said it was supposed to be a thin place – spiritual – a place where two worlds come together.’

  Pippa’s brow creased. ‘And you believe that?’

  Ava shifted in her seat, unable to dismiss the question, remembering her visceral reaction to the estate. She averted her eyes, probing her thoughts. ‘It felt . . . like nowhere I’d ever been before.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re on one of your missions.’ Pippa waved at Tommy through some netting.

  ‘Not a mission exactly.’ Ava bristled. ‘I’m just interested.’

  ‘You know you can get quite obsessive.’ Pippa’s voice was reasonable, as if the words didn’t sting.

  ‘I’m not.’

  Pippa leaned forward as the whoops and screams threatened to drown her out. ‘You only have to look at your flat.’

  ‘What? That isn’t being obsessive. That is being tidy.’

  ‘It’s just . . .’ Pippa sat back in her chair, the red table wobbled again and Ava’s Sprite made a puddle on the surface. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Ava fell silent, the muscles tight in her neck. ‘Well, if you say so.’ It was as if they were teenagers arguing again. She sipped at her drink and tried to quell the simmering annoyance at her sister. She wasn’t obsessive, she just liked to get to the truth of things. Nearby, a baby in a pram started crying. It was quiet at first and then building . . . building . . . She pictured herself back in that dark editing suite, the primary colours of the soft play melting away as she recalled the fuzzy track, the jumping screen, the strange insistent wail. She wasn’t obsessive. She just liked to get to the truth.

  Chapter 19

  CONSTANCE

  I pick up my stick, which I sometimes forget. The doctor told me I had to use it to help my other leg get stronger. Mother doesn’t like it when I walk without it. I don’t mind too much but my leg doesn’t ache any more than my other one so it is hard to remember sometimes. I’m allowed into the main house if I have my stick and Mother has started to unlock the door after breakfast. But I have to stay away from Annie because of the germs. Sometimes I see her crouched on the stairs rubbing the shiny bannisters and I want to talk to her so much I feel I might pop.

  At first, I don’t know where to begin, wishing there was another child I could play with. We could hide behind the furniture or the curtains and look for the other. I’ve seen children walking across the bridge on sunny days and I ache to join them. Once, the boy who is a little younger than me walked right past the window of my room! He was swept into a big spinning hug by Annie and then they left together over the bridge, his small hand in hers. I wonder about his life – whether he gets to be outside all the time, whether he gets pains that make him sick too, whether Annie is a loving mother, whether he’ll be back the next day. I watch for him all the time in case he walks past again.

  There are lots of very big, dark pictures on the walls of men in skirts with fluffy circles on them and hair down to their shoulders. They have been painted by someone, like when I saw the man who was painting the iron bench in the garden. I have asked Mother for paints. Christmas is coming and last year she gave me a china doll with a red velvet dress but this year I hope she’ll give me paints so I can paint a big picture. One of the pictures at the end of the hallway is my favourite. I have to tip my head back to look at it. The man in the picture has reddish hair and is standing in a study with lots of books behind him. It isn’t the man I love, but the dog that sits at his booted feet. The man’s hand rests lightly on the dog’s head. I imagine my hand stroking the fur. It is the look on the dog’s face, like he will never leave the man’s side. I stay cross-legged on the floor staring at that picture of the dog for hours.

  Today, I am not interested in the painting because I have invented a new game. Mother has left me for a while to go and see about the garden. The apple trees are infested and she is worried; Mr Hughes is trying out a new pesticide. I have been allowed to stay crocheting in the drawing room. I’m not very good at crocheting. None of mine looks like Mother’s. She can make the coloured threads turn into anything – a field of sheep . . . a steam train . . . a river sparkling in the sunshine.

  I pretend the floor is a muddy bog that I will get sucked into and the cushions are the stepping stones that stop me falling in. I listen out very hard for Mother in case she comes back but I soon forget everything because I’m wobbling on one cushion and I’m definitely going to fall and I can almost feel the thick, wet mud all around me, covering my tight shoes, dirtying my white socks, until my whole body starts sinking, my legs trapped, the mud rising, so cold, up, up my neck so I lift my chin and strain everything but the mud gets higher until it pushes at my mouth and nose and then I can’t breathe. The thought makes me wobble more and I try to stop my foot stepping on the swirled rug. I’m going to make it to the next cushion but then I see a face appear in the window opposite and I gasp and forget the game.

  It’s Mr Hughes, who’s married to Annie. They used to live in the house with Mother, but now live in a cottage in Dumbarton with their son, who is the boy I see. Mother sent them to live in the cottage last year because of the bad germs. Mr Hughes has a big, wide hat that makes his face all dark but I can still see he has tanned skin and dark hair around his nose and mouth.

  He’s holding an enormous pair of scissors and, even though they look sharp, I find myself smiling right at him. I lift my hand and wave and he puts a hand on his hat, which I think means hello. I wonder if I can open the window and talk to him. My heart beats with the thought – I think it might burst right out of my chest. Maybe Mr Hughes will walk with me outside and tell me stories and be my friend? I jump off the cushion, wanting to search for how the big window opens because he is still there and I realise he is cutting some of the leaves from the roses under the window and I don’t want him to move away and miss speaking to him.

  ‘Please wait!’ I call. There isn’t a catch like the one on my window. He looks up again and I feel the same leaping in my chest. I wonder what his voice will sound like. I wonder if he is like the man in the book I just finished who gives his children rides on his back. My father got lost in the war. There’s a painting of him and he looks younger than Mr Hughes. I wish I’d known him. Mother doesn’t like me asking questions about him. I think s
he must miss him because he is dead because of Hitler.

  I am halfway across the room to Mr Hughes when I remember. It’s like ice in my stomach as I freeze, eyes wide. He looks at me, his bushy eyebrows meeting in the middle. I turn slowly to see my stick propped against the armchair on the other side of the room. He has seen me without it. Mother told me I must always use it.

  I pause, not knowing what to do. I want to go to the window but I need my stick. I feel suddenly that I want to cry. By the time I’ve turned to fetch my stick he has moved away from the window.

  I stare out at him as he disappears around the corner of the house with his big scissors. I’m not thinking good things any more, though. I’m worrying. Will he tell Mother? What will Mother do?

  There is a noise above me and I rush around the room. Footsteps passing, doors opening and closing, feet on tiles, on stairs, over and above me. I strain to hear as I try to sit as still as possible. When she returns from upstairs, I have put all the cushions back and I’m bent over my crochet so she can’t see my face. As I hear her footsteps behind me, there’s pounding in my ears. Has he already said something to her? She puts a hand on my shoulder and normally I would lean into it but I jump as if her hand has burned me.

  ‘You really do need to learn the bullion stitch,’ she says.

  I mumble a reply, praying that it will be alright, that Mr Hughes won’t say anything to her. ‘Could you teach me? I’d really like that.’

  Chapter 20

  AVA

  Overtoun seemed familiar to her as she stepped out of the car. The grey towers and walls had found their way into her head, the atmosphere still menacing despite the smell of freshly mown grass and the sound of birds chattering in the tall pine trees. Straightening her loose cotton dress, she craned her neck upwards, taking in the scale of the place, wondering yet again at its strange pull.

  The hot August sun was warm on her face and bare arms. In the last few days, she’d felt the tiny stirrings in her stomach more and more, butterfly flutters on her insides, often when she was lying awake at night, her thoughts elsewhere, as if they were nudging her to notice them. She picked up her camera bag and moved towards the house as a light breeze ruffled her fringe.

  There was no one around as she skirted the house, shadows lying in thick stripes on the tarmac like long fingers reaching outwards. She shivered as she moved across them. There was no way she would have brought Gus again but she missed his presence, his chocolate eyes, his tentative nudges. She approached the bridge, feeling exposed, nerves already jangling as she placed one foot on the walkway.

  Checking and rechecking her camera, she screwed it onto the tripod and began, her voice competing with the noise of the water below, a constant reminder that it was there, that it was waiting. She stumbled over the words and had to start again, a distant bark startling her, making her turn her head. There was no one around – just the house, ever watchful behind her, making her skin prickle with the feeling that there were eyes on her.

  Unscrewing the camera, she moved slowly towards the worn parapet onto which Gus had jumped. As she looked down, wondering who else had stood there, it seemed as if the air itself became alive, the temperature plummeting as it lifted her fringe and swirled around her. She found her body tipping forward, an urge to place her hands on the stone, to peer down over the edge . . .

  ‘You were here the other week,’ a voice said.

  Ava jumped, her hand shooting out to grip the stone of the bridge, freezing despite the heat of the day.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Ava breathed with one hand on her chest as she turned to see a man in his late sixties or so, standing next to her tripod. ‘I just . . . I was just . . .’ She felt herself wrenched back to reality. ‘I’m a journalist.’ She stepped back down onto the walkway with him, tugging at the hem of her dress. ‘I was filming a piece about the bridge.’

  The man had thinning grey hair, copper at the roots, and a narrow face. He wore a creased, pale blue shirt. He glanced at the tripod. ‘You are, are you?’ He had a Glaswegian accent. ‘Well, it’s a free country.’

  ‘Are you local?’

  ‘Very.’ The man smiled, eyes crinkling.

  Ava felt her shoulders drop a fraction. The man wore a relaxed expression.

  ‘I look after the house.’ He stuck out a hand. ‘Keven Hughes.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ava took it. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Ava Brent.’

  ‘Nothing’s happened at the bridge for a number of years now. So not sure there’s a story. Old news.’

  ‘Stuff like this is always interesting, though. Things out of the ordinary. I’d love to know more – about the house, the bridge?’

  His weathered face seemed to be sizing her up. ‘I’ve got a face for radio, I’m afraid.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Could I come inside quickly?’ Ava blurted. ‘Not for long.’

  His back stiffened before he turned. ‘The house isn’t really in a fit state for visitors.’

  ‘I just need the loo.’ She was desperate not to lose the opportunity.

  He nodded. ‘Aye, come on then.’

  Their feet crunched on the loose stones as she moved into the shadow of the house. Her heart thumped as she neared the entrance porch, goosebumps breaking out on her skin. Keven held open a heavy, glass-panelled door. Beyond him was a hallway lined with coloured tiles. She hesitated, overwhelmed for a moment by an instinct to turn away. Nausea rolled through her, despite her being well into her second trimester now. It was as if her insides were repulsed by the prospect of entering.

  Keven looked at her, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘It’s just inside,’ he said.

  Ava nodded slowly, the strange tug of the place overriding her caution, his mild manner melting any more resistance. She crossed the threshold.

  ‘Excuse the mess,’ Keven said as she followed him in. The light of the day was swallowed completely; the interior was tired and grey. ‘I’m re-painting one of the rooms,’ he explained. At the top of three steps she looked to her right, noticing an open doorway, a dust sheet just inside covered in dots of paint and abandoned brushes. The smell of turpentine competed with the musty scent of the house. As Ava glanced to her left her whole body jolted – an enormous stuffed brown bear with glazed eyes and patchy fur glared fiercely at her.

  The corridor was draughty and gave the sense of being too big. There was a ripped-out fireplace, faded lines where pipes must have run along the wall, strange rectangular spaces where pictures must have once hung. The bear looked to be lording over nothing, just an almost empty glass cabinet thick with dust and a pathetic collection of china to defend.

  Keven must have followed her gaze. ‘Looters. They took what was left before I got the grant to renovate the house. Toilet’s just there on the left.’ He pointed to a doorway next to the bear and a small stack of chairs that needed to be upholstered. ‘I’ll be in here.’

  Keven watched her turn left towards the bear before he disappeared into the room with the dust sheet. Once she was alone it was as if Keven had simply stepped off the earth, her footsteps echoing on the tiles, the bear’s gaze following her as she opened the door she needed.

  She didn’t move inside, imagining herself becoming trapped in the small space, clawing at the walls of this neglected building. She backed away. She had wanted to come in to see what was inside the imposing grey house. It was a shell of its past self, spent and sad. It made her feel the same inside, an empty hole yawning deep within her. To her left she could make out the first step of a staircase, a surprising glint of silvery bannister enticing her to venture upstairs. Instead she padded backwards, away from the strange pull, the bear’s eyes, the terrible loneliness of the place.

  She could hear Keven moving around and a strange whir, like wheels on a wooden floor. Something he was using to paint, perhaps? For a second she sensed something scuttle just out of her vision, like claws on wood, and whipped her head around. A hea
vy wooden door stood at the other end of the corridor, down a few short steps. Anxious not to be caught snooping, she took a few steps forward, her feet careful on the tiles. She felt as if the corridor was narrowing, the door looming larger as she approached, pulsing with secrets. Ava imagined whispered words, a muffled giggle, a strange yap. A smell like rancid milk made her nose wrinkle as she moved softly closer. A wooden ramp rested upright against the wall. She couldn’t drag her eyes away. The key in the lock seemed to quiver as she neared.

  ‘Finished?’ Keven’s head appeared around the door, staring at her profile. She spun around, startled, the mood shattered by the word.

  She could only nod a response.

  For a second he opened his mouth as if to say more and then snapped it shut.

  ‘Can I see?’ she asked. She had noticed peppermint-green walls behind him, illuminated by large windows. The room was a relief when she moved over the threshold. A soaring painted ceiling lined with intricate plasterwork forced her eyes upwards. Fat cherubs playing among clouds. Keven was repainting a recess.

  ‘You have to manage all this?’ Ava looked round the huge room, a scattering of five or so rather shabby round tables circled by faded pink chintz chairs.

  ‘I was thinking of opening it for afternoon teas,’ he said.

  Ava scanned the room, noticing the dark mould in the corners and the patches of threadbare carpet. Who would come here wanting a pleasant day out?

  ‘Tourists might like it,’ he said, as if she’d spoken out loud. ‘When you’re retired you need a project.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll make it look lovely,’ she said, trying to fake enthusiasm.

  ‘And the house has got an interesting history. It was supposedly modelled on Balmoral. You could put that in your bit.’

  Ava nodded. She had unearthed that already. ‘Our piece will focus more on the supernatural, I suppose.’