‘It’s nothing,’ she told herself.
All the same, she put her phone on charge, to make sure it was fully topped up, and decided against wasting the battery on games any more.
It was getting late, and she was tired.
She couldn’t have a hot bath or shower until the electrician came to fit a new boiler tomorrow. She would have to make do with cold water, baby wipes and body spray until then. And she had no mirror, except the tiny one in her compact! Why had she not thought to bring one?
Her makeshift bed felt cold, but at least it was dry. Tomorrow she would get some wood for the big fireplace; she’d have to buy it, since everything in the garden would be soaked and pulpy. She had practical matters to concentrate on. So much to do. No time to think, to mourn, to languish.
No time to dream …
But she did dream.
Footsteps overhead, creaking on the boards. A white smoke, ectoplasmic in appearance, filling the room and hissing into her ears. How cold it felt, filling her lungs, choking her, pressing down on her chest. She tried to kick, to fight it off, but her limbs were weighed down and even her lips would not move to emit her silent scream.
After what seemed like hours of struggle, Jenna’s eyelids opened and she was able to move her trembling arms. She lay still for a while, catching her breath, waiting for reality to chase the horrible traces of her dream away. It took a while and it still lay lightly upon her when she sat up and looked around her, identifying the dark shapes in the room one by one.
It was all right. She was in bed, in Harville Hall, in the front parlour. Outside, a wind blew, sending cold blasts down the chimney at intervals. It was late – when she checked her phone, she saw that it was five past three.
Lawrence’s words about the place being haunted came back to her. She wondered what form the hauntings took.
But you don’t believe in ghosts.
Easy enough to say so in the bright light of day, but now it was dark and late and lonely. She was far from home, she thought, and yet she wasn’t.
I have no home.
It was a melancholy thought.
Don’t start crying, not now. You’ve been so strong.
She thought about Deano, in bed with that girl right now, no doubt. Or was he? What was the time difference?
The calculation kept her level-headed, made her think that Deano was probably sitting down to eat, now, or in make-up for a personal appearance or interview of some kind. Or he might be in the pool. Or the gym.
He’d probably ditched her already.
How, she asked herself, already kicking herself for going down this well-worn, emotionally flagellating path, could Deano have done it to her? How could he have cheated on her with that … OK, she was younger, but she was fat.
She got that he had cheated on her. He was rich, famous, magnetic, attractive – temptation did more than get in his way. It literally climbed into his bed, on more than one occasion. So that hadn’t shocked her as much as it might have done.
She got that he had cheated on her with a teenager. It was a rock star cliché. Boring, trite, predictable, unworthy of him, but … She could have forgiven it, in time.
But to cheat on her with a fat girl! It was an insult. It was beyond the pale.
You used to be the same size as her, he’d said.
‘I was never that big!’ she protested, but actually she had been. A British size 12 when they met, three sizes bigger than she was now.
‘It’s not even big!’ Deano had said. ‘It’s a healthy size. Jesus, Jenna, you’re as bad as the rest of them.’
She didn’t know who ‘the rest of them’ were, but she wasn’t sticking around to take the blame for her own husband’s inability to keep his dick in his pants.
She ran her hand along her arm, checking for spare flesh. Nothing to pinch. Nothing but firm, taut, brown skin. Breasts, small but still high. Thighs supple and yoga-flexible.
If she was awake at this time of night, she might as well make use of it.
She stood by the window and began to warm up, jogging on the spot in bare feet.
Nothing stops me. I am unstoppable. One thing marks out the success from the failure, and that is how much they want success. Make it your hunger, make it your thirst, make it your lust, subvert all your appetites into this one drive.
The mantras calmed and focused her.
She worked out until she was dizzy and her head pounded, then she fell back on the mattress and took a long drink from her flask.
Still only 4 a.m.
She was physically tired, but her brain ticked on. What would trick it back into sleep? What could she think about?
Lawrence Harville. She thought of that creamy-coffee voice telling her to do things. ‘Take off your clothes, Jenna.’
He would be sitting, legs astride a wooden chair, shirt undone, tie loose around his neck, looking louche and lecherous after perhaps a couple of brandies. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his face a mask of sensuality and desire.
He would make her take off her cocktail dress, and underneath she would be wearing something daring. What would it be? Stockings and suspenders, and a tight bustier that lifted her breasts almost into her face. A tiny wisp of a thong. He would be able to see through the sheer lace triangle and, when she twirled for him, her bare bottom would be exposed, bisected by taut black elastic.
‘Come and stand in front of me,’ he’d say, and she’d pose, hands on hips, feet planted wide on the floor, trying to look insolently insouciant while his gaze raked her up and down and side to side.
Without warning, he would clamp a hand between her thighs, smacking down on her sex lips, holding them in an iron grip.
‘What’s this?’ he’d whisper.
‘None of your business,’ she’d say, defiant, pretending not to want it.
‘No? What if I pay for it?’
‘You couldn’t afford it.’
But he’d take a roll of banknotes from his inner jacket pocket and stuff them into the cups of her bustier.
‘Now?’
Her knees trembled at the thought of being bought, of being property to be used.
She nodded, looked down, instantly humbled.
‘OK,’ she whispered.
‘Money talks,’ he said, pushing stubby fingertips inside the gauzy thong to rub at her clit. ‘And money gets you wet, doesn’t it?’
She nodded, all her defiance knocked out of her by this accurate assessment of who and what she was.
‘What kind of woman gets wet when she thinks about money?’ he asked.
She knew the answer that was required of her.
‘A whore,’ she said.
He laughed, running his fingers steadily over her nub, to and fro. With his other hand he reached behind her and smacked her bum.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Get on your knees, whore.’
She obeyed, regretting the absence of his touch at her most intimate spot.
‘Earn your money,’ he said gloatingly, opening his trousers. ‘Get that mouth to work.’
She reached for his cock and warmed it between her palms, breathing down on its tip. It was big and firm, ready to do all kinds of things to her.
She took it in her mouth and he held her hair and told her over and over that she was a cocksucking whore who lived to suck cocks until he filled her mouth with bitterness and she swallowed it down.
But Jenna couldn’t come. The fantasy left her feeling desolate and empty and more than a little dirty. Was that what she was? Was it what she wanted?
Deano had said that money was her only true love. He had been wrong, of course he had. She loved music, she loved the cut and thrust of business life, she loved the moments of glory and the little luxuries of her daily existence. And she had loved Deano, once.
It did seem a long time ago now, though.
She stiffened.
Another noise – a muffled thud, two storeys up. It had to be coming from the attic or the roof. What was it?
Whatever it was, she didn’t want to go up there. Every frightening urban myth she had ever heard crowded into her brain. Psychopaths on roofs, in adjoining rooms, making phone calls from feet away.
She lay utterly still, barely breathing, her ears listening for something to break the rush of black sound around her. No creaks, no taps, no footsteps came.
That’s it, she thought. This was a terrible mistake. Tomorrow she would call the estate agent and put the place back on the market. Go to the London office. Forget about the sabbatical. Try and work through the humiliation of being left by her husband and biggest client until everyone was too intimidated and too polite to ever mention it again.
The room was not as dark now. Dawn wasn’t quite breaking, but it was on its slow way. It wasn’t too early to get up, she thought. She had got up at five for years, drunk a glass of wheatgrass juice, done an hour in the gym or pool before taking her calls. There hadn’t been enough hours in the day, then. She strongly suspected that there might be too many, now.
She drew back the heavy, dusty curtain and looked out into the wet, dark garden. It was overgrown and needed a lot of tender care. She would have to hire a gardener.
But what was she thinking? She wasn’t staying. She was going to pack up and get out of here, as soon as possible. The split with Deano had infected her brain. What on earth had made her think this was a good idea?
She pulled out one of the bottles of water from her bag and drank it on the mattress, letting its cold clear stream flow down her throat and revive her. She would have bags under her eyes. She needed to apply some gel. God, she needed a shower. This was just dire.
She put her head in her hands and began to sob.
Three hours later, she woke again, having cried herself into an exhausted sleep. Now it was light, quarter past eight by her watch, and things looked slightly less desperate, in that odd way they always did once the darkest hours were past.
She’d call the estate agent at nine, as soon as they opened.
She put on the same pair of 7 jeans and cashmere hoodie she’d worn yesterday – perhaps the first time she’d worn the same outfit twice in a row this millennium – and sauntered, barefoot, into the front hall.
Nothing was disturbed. Everything was as it had been the last time she saw it.
So what had caused the noise up above her? She peered up but the staircase held no clues. Harville hadn’t shown her the attic. He hadn’t even mentioned it.
Perhaps she ought to check it. Or perhaps she should just leave its rats, or birds, or whatever were up there, for the next lucky owner.
She sat down on the bottom stair, overwhelmed by a need for some human contact – a voice, a word, anything. Before she could stop herself, she was keying in Lawrence Harville’s number.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, God, I’m sorry, I forgot it was before nine, have I disturbed you?’
‘No, no.’ But he sounded as if he was still in bed, with that thick, slightly drugged tone to his voice. ‘Sorry, who?’
‘Jenna. Jenna Myatt, the new owner of the Hall.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, forgive me. Brain hasn’t kicked into gear yet. More coffee needed, I think. What can I do for you, Jenna? Is everything all right up there?’
‘Oh, fine, I think. Just wanted to ask you about the attic space.’
‘The attic?’
‘I don’t remember looking around up there. Is it boarded? Insulated? Is there a step ladder anywhere so I can go up and look around?’
‘The attic? You know, I really couldn’t say. I don’t think I’ve been up there in my life. It used to be servants’ quarters, years ago, so I suppose it’s got flooring.’
‘It’s just there were … funny noises. They seemed to come from there.’
‘Oh, dear. How unnerving. I hope they didn’t keep you awake all night.’
‘No, no.’ Jenna wondered why she needed to give the impression that strange noises in a strange house in the dead of night when completely alone were no big deal. His voice, alone, seemed to make everything all right, and convince her that she had been fussing over nothing. ‘But I did want to check. Could be a family of squirrels or anything.’
‘Squirrels! They’d be company for you. Must have been rather lonely in that rattling old place on your own.’
‘Well …’
‘Listen, would you like to meet up for lunch? There’s nowhere much in Bledburn itself, but some smashing country pubs in the area.’
Jenna didn’t want to bite his hand off but she couldn’t keep a note of almost hysterical relief from her voice when she said, ‘That might be nice – thank you.’
‘Shall I pick you up at twelve?’
‘Perfect.’
Lunch, then London, she thought. The attic could go fuck itself, along with the whole of Bledburn.
She put on socks and boots and climbed the stairs to the first floor, walking through each of the bedrooms in turn. Her visions for the rooms came back to her and she began to regret that she would never see them transformed. She had been full of plans. Renovate the house then turn it into an exclusive boutique hotel and five-star restaurant. Put Bledburn on the map. Perhaps make it the first of a chain, buy other property in the Nottingham and Sheffield areas.
She looked up at the ceiling, but she couldn’t see a hatch or any obvious access point. There was clearly a room, or rooms, up there, but how the dickens did one access them?
But, then again, she didn’t want to. It was pointless, after all. She was going to go downstairs and call the agent.
She could hear the chirrup of her phone from the parlour. Probably one of the offices, unable to cope without her, already. It was a strangely cheering thought, and she headed back to the stairs. But before she could take the first step, a huge clatter from overhead was succeeded by what sounded like a cry of pain.
A voice. It sounded very like a human voice, or that of an animal that counterfeited human voices exceptionally well. An adult male voice.
She could run down to the phone, but instead she ran back until she was standing beneath the ceiling and shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ Instead of fear, she felt a sudden and growing outrage that somebody was in her house, ruining her sleep and her nerves. That somebody needed to know who he was dealing with. He needed to know that she was furiously angry with him.
There was no reply, so she shouted again. ‘Who’s there? Answer me or I go straight to the police.’
Again, silence. The clatter and cry had been accompanied, now she thought about it, by a huge thud. Perhaps whoever it was was hurt. Or perhaps he was lying in wait for her, and when she went downstairs he’d creep out, find her and clobber her.
She had to call the police. It was the only option. Whoever it was had no business there – probably just some old tramp with nowhere else to shelter, but all the same, she wasn’t the Salvation bloody Army, was she? There was a hostel in Bledburn, surely.
She was on her way to the stairs yet again when she was surprised by the unmistakable miaow of a cat. There was a cat up there! Was it possible that the cry had been of an animal? Sometimes she had heard cats making the most remarkable noises, like children crying. That was it. Relief showered down upon her, drenching her. It was just a silly cat, or cats. Maybe kittens.
They couldn’t stay there – they’d starve. She would have to let them out.
She began a close examination of the landing, thinking as she did of Lawrence’s assertion that he had never been in the attic. Well, clearly someone had, or how had the cat got up there? Perhaps the estate agent or the surveyor?
She pushed and thumped at the wood panelling until she felt something give beneath her hand and a section of wall was revealed to be a hidden door. It opened, without grinding or creaking, to reveal a small dark staircase. Even now, her heart was thumping wildly and she half-expected to be coshed by an unseen hand, but there was nothing looming overhead when she got to the top and peered ahead. It was too dark t
o see much, but a smoky grey cat ran over quickly and stood miaowing at her head with an air of righteous indignation.
‘All right, kitty,’ she said, lifting the animal down and letting him jump on to the landing. ‘I expect you’re starving, aren’t you? Have you been mousing up here? Are there any more of you?’
She made a kissing noise with her lips, but no more cats appeared.
Now the attic was attained, she wanted to investigate. She went to get her phone and put on the torch app, returning to the attic. The cat bounded around her feet, still mewing, in a fury.
‘I’ll feed you in a moment,’ Jenna promised, although she didn’t think she had anything a cat might be interested in. She’d have to nip to the shop for some tins, unless the remains of the Thai takeaway were acceptable.
She climbed the hidden stairs again and shone her torch into the big dark space.
‘What the fuck?’ she breathed, staggered by what met her eye. The wall in front of her was painted as intricately and beautifully as anything she had ever seen on her trips to Italy. But instead of cherubs and saints and churches the scenes were of local landmarks and people, the hills outside and the mineshaft, the high street and the working men’s club. They were executed by the hand of a master, and Jenna could not do anything but haul herself up, into the attic to look more closely.
‘Harville Charity’ read the title of the closest panel, and on it were painted scenes of the Victorian bigwigs of the town cutting the ribbon in front of the old workhouse – now a sheltered housing development. All around the well-dressed, well-fed men in top hats were thin men, women and children holding up wooden soup bowls. Many of the men had coal-blackened faces along with crutches or bandaged heads, indicating that they were workers fallen on hard times. And the Harville version of charity had been to send them to the workhouse, where they would be separated from their wives and children and set to harsh, futile labour for the rest of their days.
Jenna brushed a tear from her eye at the image of the queue of hopeless, helpless people. She had studied local history at school, but care had been taken not to point any fingers at the Harvilles, even though it was open knowledge that they had never done a working man a favour in all their lives.
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