Grace looks up through a hole in the ceiling to the rafters above, to the fat grey birds hrooing to each other as they jostle for space. The floor beneath their roost is speckled with grey white blobs of pigeon poop and feathers.
She edges round the blobs of guano, not wanting any of the filthy goop on her shoes, and works her way systematically from room to room. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms. All are in a pretty poor state of repair, some worse than others, although many of the original period features of the building are still there – fine plaster cornices, ceiling roses, fireplaces and corbels, and the designer part of her cannot help but begin to see some potential under the wreckage.
Over to the other wing. Same here. Bathrooms and bedrooms, decay and decline. She reaches the last unexplored room and waves the torch beam around it. Just like all the others.
And then the light picks up something out of place. A flash of colour. Something red. She concentrates the light on it. It looks like a hat. A knitted woollen hat … with flaps like spaniel’s ears, a few strands of matted grey poking out.
She moves the beam down and freezes. It takes all of two seconds for her to register what exactly it is she is looking at, and when her ear splitting scream breaks free, it rebounds from every niche and nook and cranny in the building, sending the cooing pigeons into whistling flight from their roost in the attic and the mice back to their holes under the skirting boards.
She staggers back until her feet get in the way and she tumbles hard onto her backside. The torch jolts from her hand and drops to the floor with a clunk, rolls and comes to rest with its beam pointing at the bundle in the corner, its low angle highlighting parts whilst elongating and deepening the shadows in between, stretching and twisting light and dark into something grotesque.
Grace presses herself hard against the wall, eyes squeezed tight shut, breathing in short sharp gasps.
“Okay, not what I was expecting, but … it’s fine … it’s a dead body … but it’s fine. It’s been dead a long time, so it’s not like it’s going to jump up and rip out my throat, is it?”
She risks a quick glance with one eye into the corner. It’s still there. She hasn’t imagined it. Both eyes make sure. It hasn’t moved. She edges forward on her hands and knees until her outstretched fingers touch the rubberised handle of the torch. She snags it, then grabs it and retreats to the wall, all the while keeping the beam trained on the body.
Only now the angle of light is different and the shadows have lessened. She makes another adjustment, shifting the focus of the beam until the body is fully illuminated by a flat white glare. Not so bad.
In fact, the more she looks at it, the less afraid she feels. Her shocked heart reduces its rate from that of a skittering rabbit to somewhere close to normal, and her gasping hyperventilation steadies into a regular in and out rhythm.
The body is definitely male, proven by the few wispy strands of grey beard still clinging to the leathery covering of his chin, and must have been dead a long time to be in this advanced state of decomposition.
There are no eyes in the skull, just empty holes. No nose either, or lips. The rats have helped themselves to all the tasty bits. The skin they left behind has dried out and cracked and taken on the texture of a worn out leather purse, peeling away from the underlying structure in strips, exposing a manic grin of yellowed tombstone teeth, top set for the most part present, bottom row missing all its molars.
A dirty red Aberdeen Football Club supporters bobble hat is rammed hard over the head, its cold weather ear flaps pulled down, fraying cords tied together loosely under the chin.
A length of twine nips in the waist of a filthy, padded jacket over baggy corduroy trousers, well worn and with a hole in the knee – like some she’s seen before.
He’s wearing mismatched trainers, their soles almost worn through, no socks, and a pair of fingerless gloves cover fleshless phalanges.
Scattered around are empty bottles and cans - strong lager, cheap supermarket cider, methylated spirits from the DIY store, along with polystyrene containers, the type used by fast food outlets and chippers, and probably plucked from the bin or out of the gutter in the hope of a few bites of left over burger or a handful of chips.
A sad scenario begins to play out for Grace – this poor wanderer, looking for somewhere to shelter for the night and have a quiet drink, finds his way in here, snuggles into this corner because it’s the driest and out of the draught, and then … what? Drinks himself to death? Has a heart attack? Dies of hypothermia?
Judging by the number of cans, bottles, fast food containers and other accumulated detritus lying about he must have used the place frequently, felt safe here, found some degree of sparse comfort in the dark and the quiet.
Could it be that he’d drunk himself into a stupor and the place had been secured with him inside and when he woke, found he couldn’t get out?
“Nobody knew you were here, did they? Imprisoned with no food or water, slowly dying of starvation and dehydration, nobody hearing your cries for help, nobody caring if they did. You died alone and afraid, and nobody even noticed you were gone. You poor bastard.”
She draws out her mobile phone. No matter who he is or how he died or when, somebody needs to know about it, and she calls the police.
“You’ll need a pair of bolt cutters,” she advises them.
They arrive an hour later, a standard patrol car carrying two bored looking constables, and they make their way inside, guided by Grace, who has more than a few questions to answer to explain away her presence.
In the interval between her call and their arrival, she has had ample time to make up a convincing story.
She is researching local history she tells them, and needed to take some photographs and didn’t want to bother anyone for a key, didn’t mean any harm etcetera. She’s had a shock, and she’s very sorry for trespassing and certainly won’t be doing it again any time soon, officer. She’s learned her lesson. If push comes to shove, particularly if it stops her from being arrested, she might be able to turn on the waterworks.
None of it is necessary. The police don’t seem particularly interested in either how she got in there or what she found, merely taking her name and address and giving her no more than a ticking off. She finds their nonchalant attitude somewhat disturbing.
“When you find out who he is you will let me know, won’t you?” she says, standing back as two authorised operatives manhandle the corpse, now encased in a blue plastic sheet, into the back of a black transit van marked ‘private ambulance’ for transportation to the morgue.
The policeman in charge, after some persuasion, agrees that he will, takes her contact details and lets her go on her way.
Back home after her adventure the shock sets in, leaving her shaky and shivery, and it takes a full bottle of Australian shiraz to put a soft and fuzzy edge around the day.
“You okay? Ye look like yer cat’s left a jobbie in yer shoe,” says Colin as he hoes industriously at the rose bed.
“I found a body yesterday,” Grace says.
Colin stops and stares at her. “A body? A deid body?”
“Of course a dead body. What other sort is there?”
“Where?”
“At the Larches.”
“What were you deein’ theer? Didn’t ye say it were derelict and falling doon dangerous?”
“I had a point to prove and I was curious. It looked so much like this place that I just wanted to have a poke around … make comparisons.”
He stares at her. “Ye broke in didn’t ye?”
“I didn’t break anything. Didn’t have to. Not my fault they left a window open.”
“Aye, that’ll be shining. So what did ye find?”
“Apart from spiders, pigeons, mould, oh, and a body? Nothing. The place is a wreck. I expected it to be run down, but not quite that bad.”
“No like our own splendid edifice, eh?” He hoiks his thumb over his shoulder, toward the big house out of sight beyo
nd the hedge.
“I haven’t been inside this house yet,” she says. “I’m saving that treat for when I have the nerve. I want to, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to do it. It’s like there’s a barrier up, stopping me.”
“Aye,” he murmurs. “I ken fit ye mean.” He clears his throat. “Any idea who the deid man is?”
“Not yet. I called the police and they came, saw, and took him away. I did ask them to keep me informed, but I won’t hold my breath. Some poor homeless alcoholic dying in a derelict house isn’t going to impact on their Home Office crime busting targets is he, so why bother? Would have shown more compassion if I’d found a dead dog.” Sigh. “Nobody should have to die like that, alone, cold, with only the rats and pigeons for company. Somebody has to know who he is and claim him. Take him home.”
“It’s really affected you, hasn’t it?” says Colin.
Grace looks at her shoes, then at the sky, fluffy white islands of clouds sailing through a sea of cobalt blue.
“Want to hear something funny?” she says. “For a minute, just one minute, when I saw the pants he was wearing, corduroy ones with a hole in the knee, just like the one’s you’re wearing now, I thought–” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “No. Forget it. It’s silly.”
“You thought it was me?” says Colin.
She nods slowly. “Yes.”
“See. I’m getting to know how your mind works.”
“You want to be careful where you tread,” she says. “Inside my mind is dangerous territory for the uninitiated.”
“Not dangerous, Gracie. Just a wee bit mixed up. So, you want to tell me why ye thought it might be me?”
Grace puffs her cheeks and blows out a breath. “I thought maybe that’s what all this means–” She waves her arm, taking everything in. “That … that you were dead out there in the real world, and the only place you exist is here because you’re … nothing but a ghost.”
“You’re right,” he says. “It is silly.”
“Maybe, but how do I know for sure? I’ve never seen you in the flesh. I have no proof that you’re–”
“Alive, if no quite kicking?” He takes her hand and presses it against his chest. “Then ye’ll have ta come out ta Pelham and visit wi me. See fer yerself. I meant what I said. I want ta see ye. Come here.”
He puts his arms around her and pulls her to him, resting his cheek on her hair, and she slips her hands around his waist to nestle her face against his rough sweater, feeling him breathe.
This Colin is no ghost. He is solid and warm, and very much alive.
Chapter 21
Until now Grace’s forays to the garden have delivered her to the wrought iron gate almost hidden in the ivy and brambles in the wall. She lets herself in and then takes the short pleasant stroll through the gardens to the cemetery and Colin’s rustic hut.
More than a dozen times she has visited his ramshackle yet homely bolthole, walking straight past the path leading up to the big house. Once or twice she has stopped and looked at it, thought about paying it a visit, to have a look around to satisfy her curiosity, yet the moment she takes her first step on the path, a feeling of such intense apprehension and dark portent descends on her that she has so far kept her distance.
So why now has that self same barrier suddenly disappeared, allowing her to stand only feet away from the house’s front door? Has her visit to the Larches and finding the tramp’s decomposed body had something to do with it?
Sometimes death means the end of one thing and the start of something new.
“There’s only one way to find out.”
She makes a tour of the outside of the house. Up close it is nowhere near as splendid as it is viewed from the far side of the lawns. The paint is peeling, some of the bricks are chipped and the pointing crumbled away.
No wooden panels, no metal shutters, just naked brickwork and glass, bleak and brooding, oozing foreboding from its very structure, the deep red of the setting sun painting it in blood and shadows, blank windows staring out empty and black like the pits in the dead man’s skull.
Grace treads her way carefully along the frontage of the house, rounds the side and continues through a rough wooden gate into a long uncared for garden where the grass has grown tall and tangled.
Docken spears and rosebay willow herb proliferate, and sharp prickly thistles are almost waist high. A tree stands in the centre of a square of grass, a frayed rope and a piece of broken wood hanging from a long low branch. A child’s swing?
Through a small kitchen garden and she has reached the rear of the house, the point of access for servants and tradesmen, the front entrance forbidden to them by social convention, and the threat of a horsewhipping.
Virginia creeper grows unchecked here too, green leaves tinged with autumnal red and yellow. Grace looks for the place where she found the small window at the Larches, the one she prised open and wriggled through, narrowly avoiding falling head first into a filthy stained lavatory.
If there is one at this house, she can’t see it.
She cups her hands over her eyes and strains to peer in through the kitchen window.
“Ye’re a nosey wee bugger aren’t you?”
Grace whirls around, hand to the base of her throat, eyes wide, a squeal of terror erupting from her.
“Hell’s teeth Colin, you scared me half to death. Make more noise when you sneak up on someone will you?”
Colin is leaning on the handle of a tall stick shaped like a shepherd’s crook. “I’ll put on ma squeaky boots if it’ll help. Fit ye deein’ here?”
“Just looking around. How did you know I was here, because I hadn’t planned on coming today. One minute I was thinking about what to have for lunch, the next … poof.”
He frowns, opens his mouth, closes it again, shrugs. “No idea. Just … did.”
“Your barrier came down too?”
“Must have. Why did ye no want ta come?”
She grins. “Thought I’d give you a rest from my continual yammering. Let you have a bit of peace and quiet for a change.” She waggles her eyebrows teasingly. “Give you a chance to miss me.”
“I would have. I’ve got sort of used to you chunnering on in the background while I work.”
“Really?”
“Aye. It’s like having tinnitus. Ye really notice when it stops.”
“Charming.” She returns to peering in the window. “Have you seen anyone around who might live here?”
“Can’t say that I have, then again I stay well away.” He affects a shudder. “It’s like ye said, there’s something aboot it that gies me the willies.”
“I wonder which one of us made it then … you, or me. Bit of a conundrum don’t you think? Oh, something here.”
She nudges the back door with her toe, popping it free from the warped frame. “If nobody’s been in here, why is the door open?” She gives the door a harder push and it creaks on rusted hinges, breathing a wave of damp, clammy air into her face. “Creepy.”
“Ye think we should go inside?” says Colin, peering over her shoulder.
No answer.
“Grace?”
She pushes the door wide and steps over the sill into the similar rustic kitchen within. “You don’t have to,” she says. “But I think I do.”
Inside is cool and dark, the air thick with the musty stale smell of abandonment and neglect. All too familiar.
A layer of dust and cobwebs coats every surface, little drifts of fly corpses piled up on the window sills. Something crunches underfoot, and with every step she and Colin take as they tread across the room, the sticky floor clings to their shoes. The silence is as oppressive as the atmosphere.
No question about who made it now, Grace thinks.
“This way,” she says, startled by the sound of her own voice, and heads for a door at the far end of the room.
“Fit makes ye think so?” says Colin, hanging back.
“Because I’ve been here before
.”
“But you said ye hadn’t. Barrier, remember?”
“That was before I came inside. If this is not an exact reconstruction of the Larches, right down to the pattern in the wallpaper, I’ll eat a live frog.”
“Dinna be sa daft. Similar sure, but no the exact same place. How could it be? I’ve never seen the Larches–”
“But I have,” she says. “This has been plucked straight from my memories. Remember we are both making contributions now. This is mine.”
“Prove it.”
“Okay.” She looks around and up, to the plaster ceiling and its single naked bulb dangling at the end of a length of electrical cable. She won’t look for a light switch. There would be no point.
“We’re in the kitchen,” she says. “So …” She points at each of the closed doors. “That’s the room where they did the laundry, and that one’s a walk in larder.”
Colin opens each one in turn, gives the interiors a cursory glance, closes them again. “Even I could work that out,” he says. “What’s that one?”
“Door number three? The boogeyman’s lair, aka cellar.” Grace puts up her hands. “And before you ask if there’s anything down there, I have no idea and I’ve no intention of looking. I’ve seen the movies. Even if it’s stuffed to the roof with fine wine and chocolate, I don’t care. You want to go down, please yourself.”
“Ye ken I’m gain ta have ta be the man here and see fer maself, don’t ye?”
“Be my guest.”
Colin takes a deep breath and grabs the handle of the door to the cellar, pushing on it. “Ah, can’t. It’s locked.” He almost sounds relieved.
“It opens outwards.” Grace pulls back the barrel bolt and heaves the door. “And mind your step, it’s a long drop.”
Colin steps inside, vanishes into the gloom, steps out again. “–Break ma bloody neck,” he says as he pushes the wood firmly back into its hole. “Okay, it might be three for three so far, but I’m still no convinced. Where to now?”
Grace indicates the door at the far end of the room. “Through there is a passageway, the servants’ route, off to the right of which are some smaller store rooms, to the left a sort of washroom with a loo. The passage itself takes you to a short flight of steps up to a door which comes out under the main staircase close to the dining room.”
In The Garden Of Stones Page 14