by C. S. Kane
“Oh, never you mind.”
We were escorted up the tiled stairs to the mezzanine floor by an efficient maître d. I’d forgotten how much I loved this place—honey-colored walls, beautiful frescos, and a large wood-fired oven. Liam and I didn’t even need a menu as we placed our order with the young waitress, who smiled and turned to fetch our drinks.
“I’m starving,” I said.
“Me too. Long day. Did you do anything interesting today?”
“Oh no, nothing much, other than a run-in with our letting agent, Clarke…”
“Oh right, yeah. He called me today.”
“I know. He took great pride in telling me that my fiancé thinks I’m bat-shit crazy.”
“What? I didn’t say that, Stacey. I just told him you’ve been under a lot of stress.”
“Oh that’s good of you, but I wonder how you would even know that. I’ve barely seen you, and when I do, you aren’t interested in anything I have to say.”
“I’ve been working, trying to make a better life for us. I don’t need this shit. We can leave now if you want.”
I sighed and looked at him. He was angry and I wasn’t going to get anywhere bickering with him. I was too exhausted to argue anymore.
“You would do well to open your eyes, Liam.”
“I know things are tough right now, but things will change for us soon. I promise.” He reached out and stroked my hand.
I pulled it away from him and reached for a bread stick. “We’ll see.”
Our waitress returned to our table with a bottle of red wine.
“I need to talk to you about something,” I said in a bid to change the subject. “It’s about uni…I left. And I don’t know if I’ll be going back.”
For the first time in weeks, he was stunned by what I had to say. “Are you okay?”
I hesitated and decided not to tell him about my visit to the doctor or the pills he prescribed. “My heart just isn’t in it, Liam.”
He reached out and caressed my hand; this time I didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry.”
Those two words were all I longed to hear. The mood lightened after that and we dug into our starters.
“Now, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” Liam said quietly.
“What’s that?” I asked and settled to eating my stuffed mushrooms.
“I won’t be here this weekend. I have to go do training at the yard. They sprung it on us today.”
“Liam, it’s my birthday this weekend…”
“I know. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“I understand,” I said through gritted teeth.
“I leave in the morning.”
“We better make the most of tonight then,” I said glumly.
He smiled. “That’s why I was late—I’ve booked us into the hotel down the road for the night. A little romantic getaway.”
After the meal was finished, we walked arm in arm into the night air. We arrived at the hotel and headed straight to our room. When he pushed open the door, I realized why he was late to the restaurant. The room was covered in flickering tea lights, rose petals adorned the bed, and a bottle of champagne sat chilling in an ice bucket.
He took my hand and led me to the bathroom, where he began to draw me a hot bath. “Tonight is all about you,” he said.
That night, I finally felt like myself again. I hadn’t realized how truly worn out I was, and after Liam and I had become more intimate with each other again, I lay back in the huge king-size bed, my shoulders loosened and my mind went blank. I drifted into a much-needed and peaceful sleep, devoid of nightmares, cold sweats or screaming fits.
* * *
In the morning, Liam packed up his things, kissed me good-bye, and left quietly. The night before had been like a dream, but now Liam was gone and I was on my own again—in that moment, I understood the meaning of loneliness.
24
After I had trudged down The Avenue to Claremont Street, I stopped and looked up at our building—it towered over the street and appeared so dark and unwelcoming that I shuddered within its massive shadow. I gazed up and down the road, looking for any excuse to go someplace else. Suddenly I saw a brief flicker out of the corner of my eye to the left. The curtains of the adjoining house fluttered and I realized someone was watching me again.
I had never noticed before how well-kept the neighboring building was and it was only when I studied it that I noticed how out of place it seemed. The house was just as tall, rising three floors with windows punctuating the roof, dressed with old-fashioned but perfectly white net curtains. Flowerless window boxes adorned the sills, but I guessed they would bloom come spring. The gate was painted black to complement the front door, which was set off by a heavy brass knocker. I decided to finally introduce myself to the house’s owner and see if I could muster up any information about our building.
I walked up to the door and wrapped the knocker as heavily as I could, but no one answered. But after all the furtive glances out the window, the unmistakable feeling that the house’s tenants were secretly watching Liam and me come and go, there was no way I was leaving without some kind of response this time.
Finally, I heard the sound of numerous locks clicking and chains being undone. The door opened a crack, and I saw a pair of pale eyes gazing out at me.
“Excuse me, I didn’t mean to disturb you. My name is Stacey and I live next door.”
“I know who you are. What do you want?” the old lady said.
“I just wanted to introduce myself, and I was hoping to speak to you about the history of this place, you know… Have you lived here for a long time?” I asked as meekly as I could.
The old woman looked at me with unmistakable pity and sadness. I could only imagine what a state I looked.
“I’ve lived here my whole life. My mother and father lived here and my father’s parents as well.”
“Maybe you could help me then?”
“I don’t like houseguests, but you seem to be a particularly determined little madam. Call me Nora. Nora Aiken.” She opened the door wider and invited me to follow her inside.
The house had a similar layout to ours, but it could not have been more different in appearance. The hall was painted in rich ruby red, punctuated by black accessories. A huge Victorian mirror adorned the wall to my left while a heavy cast-iron umbrella stand stood to the right. The floor was made from dark walnut with pale amber stripes between the panels. I gasped at the beautiful crystal chandeliers. The stairs had a polished banister and a neat carpet runner adorned with brass fittings. It was like stepping back in time.
The journey to the past continued as I took the first door to the right and entered the drawing room, which was set off by bay windows framed by thick drapery. The walls were a deep emerald green, and an antique clock sat upon the mantelpiece, ticking away in a soothing fashion. Trinket boxes and ornaments took up every inch of surface space.
I sat on a luxurious gold armchair and sank back into it. I liked the quirkiness of the jewel-colored velvet cushions on the sofa, and smiled as I took in the purples and pinks that added a dash of eccentricity to the room.
“I’ll make a pot of tea,” Nora said.
I sat and waited, listening to the music coming from the old gramophone in the corner.
“Jimmie Davis?” I shouted into Nora, who was clanking away in the parlor.
“I’m surprised you know that.”
“My dad always sang this song to me when I was little,” I explained, then hummed along to “You Are My Sunshine” until it ended and the music of Glenn Miller blasted out, putting me firmly in the mood for afternoon tea.
After a while, Nora reappeared from her pantry with a small brass wheeled trolley adorned with a multitude of treats. There was a gargantuan pot of tea, a jug of milk, a jar of sugar, scones, jam, cream, and buttered pancakes.
I gushed. “Wow, this looks amazing.”
“My mother used to have cream tea ev
ery day. I think it’s the reason she lived so long. God rest her soul,” Nora said before blessing herself quickly.
We sat down and tucked in. Nora watched me intently.
“Why are you here, Stacey?” she asked.
“I was wondering about the house…the house we live in and its history,” I said, adding another scone to my plate.
“Some things are hidden so well they are never found,” Nora said cryptically.
“I’m sorry?”
She paused. “I can tell you what you want to know, but I’m not sure you’ll want to hear it.”
I hesitated for a split second, then said, “Tell me everything.”
Nora sighed but continued. “I better start at the beginning then,” she said. “Ballast in 1940 was a magical time. Our neighbors, the people that lived where you live now, were good, fine folks. Mrs. Fletcher always had time for my mother, who could be quite cantankerous. My father had passed away when I was a baby, you see, and so my mother and I lived in this big old house. She never fully got over his passing.
“Anyway, that summer we lived on pink lemonade and Madeira cake. I played with little Lottie Fletcher, who was about my age. There were also two older boys—twins named Peter and Paul.”
I shuddered, thinking about the dream I’d had, and the apparitions of the boys standing in my kitchen when Hope had visited.
“Mr. Fletcher, the man of the house, used to throw us around and let us ride on his back. He was a wonderful man, and it hit hard when he had to leave for the war.
“Christmas was a grim time. He had been gone for a number of months by then. Winter turned to spring and then the bombing of Ballast began. Not only were the men of our town going to war but the war was coming to us. It was Easter Tuesday when the Blitz came. No one had ever instructed us exactly what to do. In other parts of the country, children had been evacuated but not here. We were left to cope with it all as best we could. I will never forget that night. Mrs. Fletcher and her children had been over for a late supper when it all started, and we cowered in the pantry in here. It was really just potluck that this house wasn’t hit for we would have all been killed. Many others weren’t so lucky.
“Not long after that I remember calling for Lottie. We sat in her front room playing with an old cart and building blocks, making a fortress. A heavy knock came from the front door. Mrs. Fletcher answered it and we could hear the voice of a man. After a few moments, she came back in with a piece of paper in her hand. She looked directly at Lottie and I could see the tears welling in her eyes.
“‘Your daddy won’t be coming home, sweetheart,’ she said in a whisper. We watched her walk into the kitchen, hold a tea towel to her face, and weep. After she had sobbed for a few moments, she composed herself. She never let us see her cry again, even at the memorial. Mrs. Fletcher died in that moment.
“She struggled on although we knew her husband hadn’t left her with a lot of money as my father had done for my mother. We saw the children’s tattered clothes. They came to our house more often and ate our food like it was going out of fashion. Yet my mother knew Mrs. Fletcher was a proud woman and would not accept charity. So, she bought them practical things for birthdays like shoes and winter coats, even during the summer. Finally Mrs. Fletcher realized she had to make money somehow and she set about doing works to the house.
“It was a miserable evening in September when Mrs. Fletcher had asked my mother to come around, and I accompanied her. A short time later, we heard a rapping at the door and Mrs. Fletcher rose anxiously to answer it. The door opened to reveal a very tall and somber man dressed in a black top hat and tails like he was going to a royal function.
“‘Dr. McCabe, I’m so glad you found us,’ Mrs. Fletcher said graciously.
“‘Quite,’ he replied with a terribly snotty accent.
“I studied his bespectacled face, black but graying hair, bushy eyebrows and the wrinkles of a man that scowled a lot. He handed Mrs. Fletcher his cane but clutched tightly onto his black leather medical bag.
“‘Where am I to reside?’ he said as if he were chewing on marbles.
Mrs. Fletcher led him into the drawing room. “‘Your living quarters are in here.’
“We made way for them to pass but Lottie was not happy. She tugged her mother’s skirts. ‘Where do we live, Mummy?’ she asked innocently.
“Dr. McCabe scowled at her—I’ll never forget that look.
“‘We’ll live upstairs in the old servants’ quarters,’ Mrs. Fletcher said.
“After my mother had introduced herself, we went home. My mother was ecstatic she had a proper doctor living next door and not only a doctor but the visiting consultant in charge of the Claremont Street Hospital—”
“There was a hospital here?” I interrupted.
“Oh yes, dear, there are houses there now but when I was a young girl, there was a neurological hospital right here on Claremont Street. In fact, it was the first one in the country. Dr. McCabe came from a long line of medical folk—his great-grandfather helped fund part of the university up the road.”
My mind flashed back to the MCCABE WING plaque. I also remembered the terrible panic I had felt there.
“Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, he was a visiting neurosurgeon while the Trust found a permanent one.”
A sudden knocking at the door caused me to jump, and I managed to spill tea all over my jeans.
“That would be my physical therapist. I can’t believe the time already. Will you be a dear and let her in? We’ll have to finish our history lesson later.”
I hopped up and as I was leaving to answer the door for Nora I began to sing “Did you Ever See a Dream Walking” out loud.
“Why are you singing that?” Nora snapped angrily.
“It just popped into my head. It was an old song in a movie I watched when I was a kid, I think… Why, what’s wrong?”
“It was Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher’s favorite song. I remember them dancing to it in the living room, I remember him singing it to her sometimes when I was playing with Lottie upstairs.”
I stood there speechless.
“Coincidence can be a frightening business and so can influence. Don’t let that place change you… Don’t let it corrupt you.”
I shivered.
“Go on with you then, before that nurse kicks my door down.”
I nodded and did as I was bid, feeling unsettled by how things had ended.
25
The hall looked different as I entered. It didn’t seem as dark. There was a gray pallor to it. Like a touch of light had been cast upon the history of the house.
Laughing, children playing, singing, dancing, friendship is how it had all begun and then the darkness came with the war, and with it loss, death, and poverty. I couldn’t really see how much worse it could have become for the Fletcher family.
I flicked the switch once I entered our flat. Nothing.
“Goddammit,” I muttered as I fumbled for my mobile.
Once more I used the light from the screen to guide myself to the cupboard under the sink. I poked about and found a couple of candles and a box of matches. I struck the match as I raised my head. I gasped. In my reflection I caught a glimpse of something over my right shoulder—a pale white visage enveloped in darkness. I couldn’t make out exactly who I was looking at, but the curve and softness of the face and the dark curled locks seemed feminine. It was just suspended there, frozen, and its presence was enough for me to drop the match and scream. I whipped around and shone the light from my phone into the space where the specter would have been. Nothing. I fumbled and grabbed the candles and the match without turning my back on the room again. As I exited the room with my back pressed firmly up against the wall, I managed to reach out and grab a kitchen knife. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it but the thought of having it made me feel safer.
I moved into the sitting room. For some reason, I didn’t want to go near the bedroom. I was determined to sit up and wait for dawn be
fore going back to see Nora. I sat in the cold. Goose bumps rose all over my arms. I could feel everything. The bumps and noises from downstairs made me jump every time. As the night grew darker, my eyelids grew heavier. My head began to throb worse than ever before. I pressed my palm against my temple as hard as I could. I was exhausted physically and mentally and before I knew it, I began to drift.
* * *
I was crouched down in the dark among a clump of hedges, which ran alongside a car park filled with flashy vehicles. A huge glass-front apartment block sat directly across the street. Most of the apartments had their blinds and curtains closed. Some were in pitch-black darkness. Suddenly, a square in the front of the building lit up. I could make out a fancy interior. A man came into view. He was holding a glass and drinking as he stared out the window.
(I was in a fancy apartment. I could smell new carpet and whiskey. I could hear the clinking of ice cubes in a glass. I was warm. I had some sort of balaclava over my head. I could feel something in my hand. I could see a man. He was standing in front of me looking out the window.)
I looked up from the bushes. I could see someone approaching the man. The figure was wearing a balaclava. Something was clutched in the figure’s hand.
(I reached out grabbed the man’s head with my free arm. Then I took the object in my hand—a knife, I realized now—in my other and stuck it into his neck, dragging it from one side to the other. Blood splattered all over the window, flowed onto the white carpet. He collapsed, and I knelt down beside him, turned him over. I looked at the dying face of Jake Clarke. I laughed out loud and began to cut.)
From the bushes, I gazed in horror at the red streak across the pane of glass and shuddered. The dark figure stood up slowly and faced the window as I looked on in shock.
(I walked toward the window and held the man’s still-beating heart up to the cool glass. I tilted my head to the side and raised my knife. I plunged the knife through the organ, striking the window, where a small crack began to form. Then I pushed it harder and harder into the wall until I was confident it was firmly pinned in place. I released my hold on the knife and looked down across the car park at a figure hiding in the bushes.)