by Dave Shelton
“Moved?”
“Yeah. I’d left it all just, y’know, scattered about wherever. Nobody else was gonna be there so I hadn’t bothered clearing up. Now it’s all tidy. Cloths all folded neatly in piles; bottles and sprays all lined up against one wall, evenly spaced, in order of height; vacuum and carpet cleaner look like new; gleaming, they are. I thought maybe the lad had got better and got in somehow, but no, he’s still home in bed. There’s only two keys: I’ve got one, the agency’s got the other, and they swear blind nobody’s come near the place from there. Well, now I’m proper jumpy about it all, so I finish up the work right quick, and I pack up and get out.”
Peter put down his glass with a last mouthful of beer in it. It still wasn’t much of a story. If you looked closely enough there’d probably be a boringly rational explanation. But he’d remembered something that Sally from the news desk had told him about the dead man.
He’d been obsessively tidy.
Properly, clinically obsessive-compulsive. All the tins in the cupboard with the labels facing the same way, all that kind of thing. It’d come out in the trial along with a dozen other odd quirks that had driven his wife nuts. So maybe—if he got an appointment to view the property, and took some sneaky pictures on his camera phone while he was there—he could put together a jolly little two-page spread about it. It was worth a try.
*
It looked ordinary. That wasn’t good.
In fact, it was worse than ordinary. It was nice. And nice was disastrous.
Peter had been hoping that the house might look haunted. He’d imagined something dark, dilapidated, and Gothic; something bleak; something menacing. Window boxes overflowing with perky geraniums really didn’t fit the bill. He thought about not bothering at all, but then he saw a ruddy face at the front window, smiling out through the flowers. He figured this must be the posh-sounding bloke from the agency—Justin or Jeremy or Julian, something like that—and decided he might as well take a quick look around now that he was here.
Three stone steps up to the substantial front door and an old-fashioned bell pull. The red-faced man opened the door, smiling widely. He looked even posher than he had sounded on the phone, dressed in a slightly garish tweed three-piece suit (which was surely too heavy for this warm spring day), a striped shirt, and a flowery cravat.
Who wears a cravat these days? I mean, really?
“Ah! Good afternoon! Splendid! Splendid!”
“Hello,” said Peter. “I’m a little early …”
He offered up his hand, but his host had already turned around and was striding off down the hallway. Peter followed, closing the door behind him. Inside was as disappointing as out: clean, bright walls in good repair, varnished bare wooden floorboards that failed to creak as he walked across them, and no sign of a cobweb anywhere.
“Nice, isn’t it?” said the tweedy man as he stopped at a door on his left.
Disastrous, thought Peter.
The man opened the door and Peter followed him into a depressingly cheery, light, spacious, and distinctly unsinister front room.
“Lovely room, this!” said the man, beaming with irritating enthusiasm and gesturing extravagantly with both arms, as if to emphasize the space. “Just beautiful! All the furniture is Edwardian! In terrific condition!”
“Great,” said Peter.
He showed polite interest as his tweedy host showed him around the ground floor, but his heart sank further with each moment. Brian seemed to have done an unhelpfully thorough job, leaving each room spotless. And not a hint of anything supernatural, though admittedly, he might have struggled to notice such a thing anyway with Mr. Tweedy accompanying him closely at every step, enthusing about each room with as much pride as if it were his own home.
Peter’s last hope was that he could somehow gain some time alone in the bedroom where the murder had taken place, perhaps find some remains of a bloodstain to photograph to add a little spice to his prose. So throughout his tour of the bathroom, study, and guest bedrooms, he tried to think of some excuse to free himself from Mr. Tweedy. But, as it turned out, he needn’t have bothered.
“This is the main bedroom.” A tweedy sleeve indicated the appropriate door, but the man from the agency made no move to go through it himself.
Tentatively, Peter turned the handle and pushed the door open, expecting his host to follow him in. But he only looked away, somewhat awkwardly, remaining shuffling on the landing as Peter entered. A stroke of luck at last, or so he thought. But here again, Brian had been thoughtlessly diligent. There was not the faintest trace of a bloodstain remaining. And still he felt no mysterious presence.
He looked in vain around the room for something, anything, that might offer proof of the murder or, even slightly, support the idea of some supernatural presence, but there was nothing. Of course there wasn’t. What a waste of time! Peter cursed his own stupidity. He should know better than to chase so flimsy a story.
“Never chase a story that starts in a pub,” he muttered. He smiled to himself. What had he expected anyway? To meet the ghost in person and sign him up for an exclusive interview?
“Ha!” Peter laughed at his own ridiculousness.
“Is everything all right?”
Peter turned to face the doorway. Tweedy was still out on the landing.
“Yes, everything is fine. Thank you.”
He had a thought: Tweedy was obviously not coming into the bedroom because he was spooked by what had happened there. But he hadn’t mentioned anything about the murder, naturally. Plenty of detail about the lovely Edwardian furniture and the original architectural features but, oddly, no information about the recent—and very bloody—murder. Typical real estate agent! But if he was spooked about the room then maybe there was a particular reason. Maybe he had seen or felt something in there. Worth asking him a question or two, at least. Give him a bit of a push.
“It’s a lovely house,” said Peter.
“Thank you,” came the reply from the landing.
“But, well”—Peter moved toward the doorway so that he could see out to Tweedy, shuffling awkwardly, his eyes studiously averted—“to be blunt, I’m surprised you haven’t lowered the rent, under the circumstances.”
“The rent? I don’t …” Tweedy looked uneasy, almost confused. Still he faced away from the bedroom.
“It’s just that, well, I would have thought that what happened here might put a lot of people off.”
“ ‘What happened’? I’m sorry, but what do you mean, ‘what happened’?”
Oh, don’t try to play the innocent.
“I mean the murder, obviously. The murder that happened here.”
Not subtle, but perhaps he could shock something out of this odd little man.
“Murder?” Mr. Tweedy half turned his head in Peter’s direction now, and managed a fair impression of dumb surprise.
“Yes, murder. I would have thought something like that might make you put the rent down a bit.”
“Murder?” He was really nervous now, staring down at the floor.
Caught out, thought Peter. You’re not so chatty now, are you? Encouraged, he pressed harder. “Blood everywhere. Throat slit with a cut-throat razor. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
But looking at him closely now, the tweedy man really did seem genuinely shocked, and Peter realized he had pushed too hard. The poor man was shaking now, his eyes wide, his mouth half open, trembling. His fingers nervously fidgeting at his ridiculous cravat.
“Did you say a cut-throat razor?”
An old-fashioned cut-throat razor.
Who uses a cut-throat razor these days?
I mean, really?
The man in the tweed suit—who, now that he thought about it, did not sound very much at all like the agent Peter had spoken to on the phone earlier—was very pale now. He had finally turned his head, with great effort, forcing himself to look into the bedroom.
“I forgot,” he said.
His face qu
ite blank, he shuffled past Peter into the room. There was a dressing table in the far corner and he slumped into the chair before it and stared, horrified, at his reflection in the mirror. Peter watched him, dumbstruck by realization.
His phone rang. Keeping his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the seated figure at the dressing table, he answered it.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Mr. Watson?”
Peter recognized the voice at once. “Yes,” he whispered, transfixed, as the man in the tweed suit, still staring into the mirror, raised trembling hands to his face and gently traced inquisitive fingers across his features.
“This is Jolyon, from Burlingham Real Estate? I was just phoning to say I’m so sorry that I’m not there yet to let you in. I’m afraid I’m stuck in traffic. I do hope you’ve not been—”
Peter ended the call. His hand dropped to his side and the phone fell to the bare wooden floorboards with a thump.
“How could I forget?” said the man at the dressing table. He dropped his shaking hands to his neck and Peter watched his reflected face, his pale fingers fluttering at the cravat, fumblingly loosening it. “How could I forget such a thing?”
There was something dark and wet on his fingertips. His face was a terrible picture of horrified remembrance. The cravat was nearly loose now. He hooked two dripping fingers behind it and began to pull.
Peter wanted to beg him to stop, but he could not speak. Nor move. He could only watch. He knew beyond all doubt exactly what the next moment held.
And he wished that he could look away.
It’s colder now. It’s later in the evening, so of course it’s colder, but that’s not why Jack shivers. His imagination is telling him the story beyond the ending, and he doesn’t like what his mind’s eye sees. His eyes have lost all focus for a moment but then he’s jolted out of his daze by a small, sharp cry.
His eyes focus on the source of the shriek. Something is wrong with kindly, welcoming Frances Crane. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, her head has dropped forward, and she is rocking as she takes in short jabs of breath, each one accompanied by a high whistling sound. When she lifts her head, her handsome face is distorted by distress, her laugh lines full of tears. And then all of those tiny gasped-in breaths are released in one mighty, wailing sob. Her arms unfold and she drops her palms flat on the table, as if she’s bracing herself, and gentle Frances Crane cries out a raw animal sound that rings around the room.
Jack stares wide-eyed at her, scared and upset and confused. Katy Mulligan is staring at her, too, her neatly painted lips parted in alarm.
“Frances,” she says. “Oh my God, what is it? What—”
Then Frances Crane lifts a hand to her head, clamping the palm to her temple, and as she does so her bangles and the wide sleeve of her blouse drop down away from her wrist to reveal an ugly scrawl of heavy, dark scars crisscrossing the skin. Jack gasps at the sight of it—he can’t help himself—and Frances’s reaction is immediate. She drops her hand quickly out of sight, pulling her sleeve back into place, and tries to regain control of her breathing. But Katy Mulligan, at least, has seen the scars, too. She looks horrified.
“Oh God, Frances, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. If I’d known I would never—”
Frances pulls a fragile smile into place and, with great care, wipes tears away. “No, of course not, Katy. There’s no reason you should have known. Don’t mind me.” She sniffs. “Don’t mind me, everybody.” She beams around at those still seated in the light, and those back in the shadows, too. “That just … got the better of me for a moment. So sorry. But it only goes to show what a fine story it was, Katy. You should be proud. Really you should.” She aims her best and bravest reassuring smile over at Katy, whose mouth has clamped shut tight now, her face a picture of tense sympathy. She seems about to say something more, but the pale man cuts in.
“Thank you, Ms. Mulligan,” he says, and there is no drama in his voice, no emotion, no sympathy really, but somehow his blank tone is calming anyway. Katy, after one last glance at Frances, blows out her candle and lifts her chair back into the darkness without another word. Jack is still in shock. He knows what those marks must mean, but he can’t quite believe it. Frances seems so happy, jolly, positive; surely she would never …
And they were livid scars, too, from deep cuts made with force and effort and intent. It’s a wonder that she survived. And now Jack is thinking things he doesn’t want to think again, and as he does so he is staring into space. Only he realizes he is staring into space in the direction of Frances Crane, which must look like he’s simply gawping at her. He turns his head away and finds himself now looking at Amelia, by his side, who is apparently entirely unworried by the sight of Frances’s savaged wrist. She is singing happily to herself under her breath and swaying in time with her own music.
“Amelia,” says Mr. Osterley. She looks up.
“Is it my turn now?”
“Yes, Amelia.”
“Good. Because I have a story to tell that is a true story about me. It is from when I was at school. Before. And it is a good story and I think you will like it and I will tell it to you now.”
And she does.
“Did you see that?”
Charley is talking to me and pointing over to the green wire fence at the far end of the playground. This is strange. Charley doesn’t normally talk to me. Charley is loud and cheeky and funny and popular, and he normally mainly talks to Zack and Kazim, who are also loud and funny and popular, and to Callum, who is loud.
I am not loud or funny or cheeky or popular. I am quite clever and quiet and not cool, and the other children make fun of my glasses, which are held together by Scotch tape at the moment because Dad fixed them with not very good glue in a hurry after Ellie sat on them, and so they broke again really easily when Sam kicked a football in my face, which was an accident again. And Dad is going to get some better glue and fix them better and then maybe, maybe, we’ll see, get me some new glasses soon.
And because I am not popular or cool, Charley does not talk to me. Ever. But Charley is talking to me now and pointing over to the green wire fence at the far end of the playground, but all I can see over there is the fence and some fallen leaves and some rubbish. There aren’t many other children here yet, just me and Charley and Callum and a girl in a red duffle coat. Dad drops me off early on the way to his work so I’m normally one of the first three earliest to arrive out of the whole school.
“Do you mean the potato chip bag?” I say.
But when I look back, Charley isn’t there anymore. He is running off the other way behind Callum, and they are both laughing, and Callum is carrying something. And I look at the ground down to my left and my bag isn’t there, even though that is where I put it down, and I realize that the thing that Callum is carrying is my bag, and they’re running away with my bag with my lunch and my PE clothes and my water bottle and my homework in it.
“Hey!”
I run after them. I am quite good at running and I am not carrying any bags, and Charley is carrying a bag and Callum is carrying two bags (including mine), so I catch up with them.
“Hey! Give it back!”
I am in front of Charley and behind Callum, and before I catch up to Callum, he turns around and throws my bag over my head. Then Charley catches it and stops running and sort of shakes it about in front of him a bit as if he’s dancing with it. I have stopped running, too, and I turn to face Charley, so now Callum is behind me.
“Ha-ha!” says Callum. “Piggy in the middle!”
“Give me back my bag, please, Charley,” I say to Charley—which is polite, even though Charley has not been polite to me, but I am setting him a Good Example—and I walk toward him with my arms out. And Charley holds the bag out straight toward my hands, but when I try to take it, he pulls it back again and then throws it over my head to Callum again. And now I am really annoyed.
“Piggy in the middle,” says Callum. “Oink, oink!”
&nb
sp; And I think this is a very silly thing to say. It is a horrible thing when Callum calls Neelam a pig, because Neelam is a bit fat and it makes her cry sometimes when Callum calls her a pig. But it is not a horrible thing to say to me because I am not fat at all. I am nine years old, but I am small and thin and wear clothes that I get Dad to cut the labels out of so that no one sees that they are meant to be for seven-year-olds.
If Callum wants to try to make me cry he should call me something to do with being little, like “titch” or “stick insect” or something, because that would make more sense (even though it still wouldn’t make me cry because I don’t care about that sort of thing because I have a Positive Self-Image because Dad told me I should). So when I punch Callum hard in the tummy and he throws up onto his shoes (which are those silly sneakers with the flashing lights, which you aren’t even meant to wear at school anyway), it’s not because he has called me a piggy in the middle; it’s just that Callum and Charley are taller than me and could carry on throwing my bag over me for ages and I want it back before my sandwiches get all messed up because Dad made me ham and cheese and tomato ones this morning and the tomatoes get messy really easily if you’re not careful (and Callum and Charley were definitely NOT being careful) so I made them stop.
I walk over to Charley. His eyes are very wide and his mouth is open and he looks funny. I take my bag off him and he doesn’t say anything because I am quiet and clever and he didn’t expect that I might hit anybody in the tummy and make them cry and throw up over their shoes so he is surprised.
I am a bit surprised, too, actually. And when I get called into Mrs. Brock’s office (Mrs. Brock is our headmistress), she tells me that she is surprised, too. She says she is “surprised and disappointed.” She tells me that it is not allowed to punch children in the tummy, even if they are Callum Yates, and even if it is to protect your sandwiches, which have tomatoes in them. She says it in her stern voice that she uses in assembly for Serious Announcements, but she is smiling quite a lot, too, so I think I am not in too much trouble.