The anxiety in Emily’s stomach clambered up into her chest. The painting unsettled her, yet she found she could not look away.
A sharp rapping broke the strange spell that had been cast over her. Setting the painting down, she tiptoed through the apartment. The gloom of the hallway seeped inside as she opened the apartment door.
“Are you all right there, dear?”
An elderly woman smiled up at her. She was small in stature, barely reaching five feet tall. Time had warped her spine, fusing the vertebrae together so that she stood like a question mark, her head bobbing up and down in front of her shoulders.
Emily returned her gaze.
“I’m fine,” she stammered, not knowing how else to reply. “I’ve just moved in.”
“Me and Andrew were just saying we must go and say hello to the new neighbour, make them feel welcome,” the woman said, in a voice carved from the bricks and mortar of the city. “Because it’s always nice to meet new neighbours and you know that never happens in a place like this. Most people are too busy to spare a minute and say hello to a little old lady like me. But I’ll still give them a wave. Reminds them life isn’t all about running around. Sometimes it’s good just to stop for a moment and take account of the people around you, to have a look around at what you’ve amounted. Goodness, I’m rabbiting on already and I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Harriet Golding. I live right opposite you in number Eleven.”
Emily looked over the woman’s shoulder, at the open doorway across the hall.
“Emily,” she said, managing a smile.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Emily. Now, why don’t you take a break from all that unpacking and let me get to know you a little better over a nice cup of tea?”
Emily hesitated. “I—it’s just that there’s so much to do.”
“Those boxes aren’t going anywhere,” Harriet said. “Humour an old lady and have a cup of tea. I won’t keep you long.”
When Emily showed no signs of moving, she beckoned her with a papery hand and cackled, “Come along, I won’t bite! The teeth went years ago!”
Before Emily could change her mind, she found herself standing in Harriet Golding’s hallway, breathing in dust and a musty odour. Behind her, the old woman closed the door, slipping a chain lock into place.
“Can’t be too careful,” she rasped, the effort of her laughter taking a toll on her lungs. “Don’t know who’s lurking about these days.”
Emily stared at the piles of books, newspapers, and bric-a-brac that filled the space. Beneath her feet a once red and gold carpet was now faded and threadbare.
“You sit yourself right down,” Harriet said, leading Emily into a living room half the size of her own.
Towers of books covered a large table. On a mantelpiece, hordes of china animals huddled together like livestock awaiting slaughter.
“Excuse the mess,” Harriet ushered Emily towards a dog-eared sofa. “My Andrew’s always got his nose in a book. You ask me it’s a waste of precious time. Won’t be a minute.”
Emily stared in awe at the surrounding chaos. There was a door she hadn’t noticed. As she sat wondering what lay beyond, the door swung open.
The man was tall and heavy, his dark trousers pulled high up over his pudding bowl midriff. He wore a brown chequered vest over a white shirt. His dark hair, which was combed into an immaculate side parting, matched the neatly trimmed moustache above his narrow lips. Emily found it difficult to age him. Definitely older than forty but younger than sixty. Something about the way he looked at her made her uneasy.
“Mother didn’t say we were having visitors,” he said, his voice deep and raspy.
Emily stood up. Unable to speak, she looked towards the kitchen door. She heard cupboard doors open and close, and the chink of cups and jars colliding. The man remained in the doorway, his irritation dissolving into nervousness. He stared down at his vest, distracted by a small stain.
“I’m Emily. I just moved in across the hall.”
“Andrew,” he muttered. “Mother already got her claws in you then? She’ll have you over here every day if you’re not careful. Likes to chat.”
His movements stiff and awkward, Andrew hurried towards Emily with an outstretched hand. She shook it and watched as he rubbed his palm on the front of his thigh and then hid his hand back inside his pocket. The space between them filled with cement-like awkwardness until the kitchen door swung open and Harriet trundled into the room.
“Oh, I see you two have met.”
“You didn’t say we were having company,” Andrew replied.
“Can’t plan for a surprise. Now, be a dear and fetch the tea tray. It’s too heavy for me.”
Andrew sloped off towards the kitchen.
“Don’t pay him no attention,” Harriet said, patting Emily’s arm and motioning for her to sit. “He takes good care of me, bless him, but sometimes he behaves like a middle-aged baby. Now, tell me all about yourself, Emily. Who you are and where you come from. And I bet you have a lovely husband on your arm as well, don’t you?”
Emily shook her head.
“No husband?”
“It’s just me. I’ve just moved here.”
“Where from?”
Emily hesitated, then said, “From the countryside.”
“Did you hear that, Andrew? Emily’s just moved here all on her own! That’s very brave of you, dear.”
The old woman patted Emily’s hand while Andrew set the tea tray down onto the table and poured tea into three china cups.
“Mind you,” Harriet continued, watching Andrew pour the milk, “you can’t be too careful in London. Living on your own might seem brave, but you hear all sorts of horrible things happening to people. Lord knows there’s been enough trouble in this building without wishing for more. Got a job, have you?”
Unnerved by Harriet’s words, Emily picked up her cup and saucer and took a sip. The tea had a sweet, flowery taste and an instant calming effect.
“I haven’t started looking for one yet,” she said.
“Give the girl a chance, eh! What’s your profession?”
“I was an English teacher.” The words felt like stones in Emily’s mouth.
“How lovely! Children are so sweet when they’re young, aren’t they? Always speaking their minds like nobody’s business, not a care in the world! But soon as they turn into teenagers, something changes in them. You see all those gangs of youths on the streets, carrying knives and swearing like sailors, and you wonder what’s got into kids today that they have to travel around in packs like dogs, scaring old folk like me. It’s frightening when you think about it, isn’t it Andrew?”
Andrew snorted, picked up the nearest book and began to read.
“Poor Andrew,” Harriet continued. “Walking home one evening he was, after running some errands for me. A gang of heathens appeared out of the shadows and attacked him! Took his wallet, his phone—not that anyone calls him, but that’s beside the point. He had to have stitches, didn’t you, dear? And the police never caught the buggers, did they? Probably didn’t even look if you ask me. It’s enough to make an old woman scared to leave her home. I bet you don’t have all those troubles with teenagers in the countryside do you?”
“It’s all drugs and videogames these days.” The words shot from Andrew’s mouth in quick succession.
“Do you want children some day?” Harriet set out a plate of chocolate chip cookies. “Lord knows, I’ll be dead in my grave before I’m ever made a grandmother.”
Emily stiffened, shook her head.
“Fancy that, a young woman like you not wanting children. What’s that’s about then?”
Emily froze, her mouth half-open, the flesh under her fingernails turning white against the teacup.
Harriet waved a hand in the air. “Oh don’t mind me. Just tell me to keep to my own affairs. Andrew always does, don’t you?”
Emily put down the cup with an unintentional clatter. Suddenly she wanted no
thing more than to go back home. Not to the apartment across the hall, but back to the safety of her cottage. Except that it wasn’t her cottage anymore, and it hadn’t been safe for a long time.
“Oh look, I’ve gone and upset the girl.” Harriet reached over and patted Emily on the knee. “I am sorry, dear.”
“It’s fine.” Emily could feel tears filling her ducts, her throat hardening. She would not cry, not in front of strangers. She forced a smile to her lips. “How long have you lived in this building, Harriet?”
The old woman looked around the room, as if all the years she had spent here were scattered among the books and newspapers.
“Since I was ten years old.”
Emily sat back in her chair. The distraction was working. Tears receded. Her throat relaxed.
“See, back in the day, when The Holmeswood was still a hotel, me and my parents came to live here. It was during the war. Father couldn’t go off to fight, on account of him only having one leg. Lost the other in a car accident a couple years before. Anyway, our own house had been destroyed and we had nowhere else to go. The Holmeswood started renting out rooms long-term. The rooms were cheap and so here we stayed. When the war was over, people were still on rations and busy trying to put their lives back together. No one came to stay at The Holmeswood anymore. Most of those that were living there eventually moved out. The owner lost all his money. That’s when Mr Christie stepped in, bought the hotel and turned it into the place it is today. My old dad may have lost a leg but he was still a fine carpenter. Mr Christie offered for us to stay on for cheap in exchange for his help—to convert the hotel rooms into apartments.”
Emily sat forwards, intrigued by Harriet’s story. Andrew, who had clearly heard the tale a hundred times, dropped his book and picked up another.
“By the time all the work was done, Mr Christie had become like family to me and my mum. He was always bringing round clothes and whatnot for me to wear. Said they belonged to his daughter when she was little. Father didn’t much like it. He was proud, you see. And he didn’t much like the attention Mr Christie paid to my mother. When he was found murdered one night, God bless his soul, Mr Christie stopped coming round altogether. I suppose it was unbecoming—a young widow receiving married gentleman callers.”
Sighing, Harriet added another spoonful of sugar to her cooling tea and stirred.
“Murdered?” Emily was aghast.
“They found his body in a dumpster out back.” Andrew’s eyes appeared over the top of his book. “Whoever killed him hadn’t even bothered to clean up the mess. Granddad had been stabbed seventy-two times while taking the lift. His body was dragged across the foyer, out through the back corridors and thrown out with the trash.”
Harriet shook her head and sipped her tea.
“Apparently,” Andrew continued, lowering his book to reveal an almost gleeful curling of his lips, “there was so much blood that it took an entire day to mop it all up.”
“That’s terrible!” Emily exclaimed. “Who killed him?”
Harriet lifted her hands, palms to the ceiling. “No one knows. For all the blood they couldn’t find a single fingerprint or piece of evidence that pointed to the culprit. I always thought that strange. How could someone make such a mess without leaving a single clue? Well, after that, my dear old mum was never the same. Fortunately, Father had had the good sense to take out insurance. Mr Christie started selling off the apartments and she bought ours outright. When I was old enough, she signed it over to me on the condition I stayed living with her. Which I did. I met Andrew’s dad, we got married and he moved in here. Mum died soon after. I’ve been here ever since.”
Harriet fell silent. When she looked up again, her eyes were glassy and wet; two deep pools of sad memories. Emily sat still, at once moved and horrified by her story.
“Of course,” Andrew said, breaking the silence, “his wasn’t the only murder to take place in this building.”
Emily stood. “I should be going. There’s still so much I have to unpack.”
“All those boxes to empty and things to put away. I’ve kept you long enough,” Harriet said.
The old woman was quiet until she had unlatched the chain lock and opened the apartment door.
“You’re welcome here anytime,” she smiled. “And I have to say, after that last couple, I’m very glad to see a nice young lady like yourself taking up residence.”
“Oh? What do you mean?”
“Always shouting they were. Always fighting. And not a kind word to say to anybody. It’s a wonder nothing bad happened sooner. Well, I’ll let you go. Don’t be a stranger!”
Before Emily could ask her to elaborate, Harriet closed the door and slid the lock into place.
Returning to her apartment, Emily set upon the unopened boxes at a feverish pace. She thought about the macabre tale the Goldings had told. Although her inquisitive nature had been a little overwhelming, Harriet’s friendliness was a welcome remedy to the solitude that had been Emily’s only company for the last weeks. She would see Harriet again, perhaps return the favour and invite her over for tea. Andrew, however, could stay in his room. Not only had she found him rude and abrasive, he had positively relished in the bloody details of his grandfather’s demise.
A blast of cold air rushed through the kitchen window and stung Emily’s skin. Rubbing her arms, she spied the refuse sack of women’s clothing. She thought about what Harriet had said about the couple who had lived here. She would ask Harriet about them when she next saw her. For now, she wanted the clothes out of her apartment. They were a bad omen, a black stain on an otherwise spotless floor. And seeing as how her move to London was supposed to be about new beginnings, any signs of endings—even if they weren’t her own—were unwelcome.
Five minutes later, Emily stood in the lift as it descended towards the ground floor. She half-dragged, half-carried the sack of clothes across the foyer, moving beyond the staircase and into the darkness of the corridor. The sound of the bag sliding across the tiled floor was like pouring sand. She listened to its hypnotic rhythm as she passed boarded up doors and stacks of broken, empty crates.
She came to the back door of the building, took a breath and began counting. Winter wrapped icy tendrils around her as she stepped out into the narrow alley. Dumpsters for waste, recycling and clothing were lined up against the exterior wall. Rain played a lonesome melody against their metallic bodies. Empty beer cans rattled and old newspapers flapped as the wind skimmed along the litter-strewn ground, bringing with it the drone of traffic and pedestrian chatter.
Wedging the fire door open with a fallen chunk of masonry, Emily worked quickly, heaving the sack up with both hands and swinging it over the lip of the clothing dumpster. An acrid smell seeped out, burning her nostrils.
When she returned inside, the fire door slammed shut, the thunderous boom chasing after her like a malevolent spirit.
Back in her apartment, Emily couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed her in from outside. She felt eyes burning holes in the back of her neck as she paced from room to room, anxiously picking up empty boxes and flattening them for storage. When she passed the bathroom doorway, she saw the painting leaning against the wall. It was the woman’s eyes she felt. They cut through the failing light, fixing her with their penetrating stare.
Emily regarded the painting for a moment before flipping it over, pressing the woman’s face against the wall. She should get rid of it. Along with the rest of the rubbish that still sat on the living room floor. She would do it first thing in the morning.
Lying back on her bed, she listened to the rain fall against the window. She would venture out tomorrow. She would go to the supermarket, perhaps even to that café. Once she had overcome her anxiety and made it outside, things would get easier. It was just a matter of time. Because time erased all worries and abated all fear. It soothed pain and blotted out terrible memories. It even tempered guilt. But you had to have patience. You had to relinquish that
pervasive sense of hopelessness. Otherwise, all that time could bring you was infinite despair.
The room had grown dark. Outside, the rain intensified, beating on the windows, demanding to be let in. Emily stared into the shadows. In the corner by the door, she thought she saw movement.
“Phillip, is that you?” she whispered into the darkness. Then she was asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
Pulling a hat over damp hair, Emily grabbed her shoulder bag and headed out of the apartment. A sign announced the lift was out of order, so she took the stairs. One floor down, panic had sunk its teeth into her.
“Get a hold of yourself,” she whispered, gripping the stair rail.
She drew in a deep breath and blew it out in a steady stream. Behind her, the fire door burst open, missing her by inches. A tall man in his late twenties came rushing out, eyes down and headphones blaring.
“Sorry!” he shouted, noticing Emily at the last moment. His smile was dazzling against his walnut-coloured skin as he pulled the headphones from his ears. “Not looking where I’m going as usual. I always try and fit one song in before I get to work. Helps me start the day in the right mood. Customers can be a pain in my ass, so anything to get that smile going, you know? Are you walking down?”
Emily nodded, both wary and intrigued by the stranger beside her. They took the rest of the stairs together.
“You just moved in, right?”
Emily stopped still. “How did you know that?”
The man’s smile grew wider. “You get to know the faces around here. Plus Harriet Golding told me all about you.”
They got moving again and moments later, Emily saw the red and white tiles of the foyer below.
“You’ve moved in right above me,” the man said. They reached the foot of the stairs. “You’re in Twelve-A, right?”
“Yes.”
They were by the door now. Emily’s gaze froze on the view through the glass. Hundreds of bodies moved by in a slow train. Beyond them, traffic jammed the road.
Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) Page 2