Downward

by White, Bethan

  ‘Mr and Mrs Mitchells?’

  ‘That’s right. But please, call us Matt and Polly. Mr and Mrs Mitchells are my mum and dad as far as we’re concerned.’ He smiled, his teeth as perfect as the rest of him.

  ‘I won't show you round,’ Chris said, although walking around in the waft of gentle perfume Polly gave off with every move would have been nice. ‘Everything is in very good order, I think you’ll find. The house is let unfurnished, but the few small pieces that are here are yours to use if you want or we will remove them to storage if you’d rather. The white goods are included.’

  The perfect pair walked off in the direction of the kitchen and Chris could hear them murmuring to each other, cupboards opening and closing. Then their voices got more distant as they went out into the back garden. The garden was one of this property’s little secrets, secluded, tidy, low maintenance – in fact no maintenance, as a non-negotiable weekly gardener was included in the rent. They passed him in the hall and went upstairs, where more cupboard-opening went on. Mr Perfect even flushed the loo – perfect and pernickety, a combination which would usually get right up Chris’s nose but wasn’t bothering him at all this afternoon for some reason.

  They came back down the stairs, the wife giving a little start when the stair sounded behind her like a gunshot in her ear.

  ‘What do you think?’ Chris asked hopefully. If they took this one he would have a few hours to kill and he could go and get Megs some flowers. Some chocolates, even. Spoil her a bit.

  ‘We like it, Chris. But we’d still like to see the others, if they’re still available. This is perfect as far as storage goes and of course the garden is lovely. But it’s the location in general, isn’t it, darling?’ Polly turned to her husband and flashed him a look of such intensity that Chris felt himself get a little hot. He suddenly had a flash of his dream of the night before but this couple wouldn’t be standing staring at the wall in a cupboard, he didn’t think. He made a mental note to knock first if they were in a room with the door shut. ‘And I can’t remember what the details said about pets,’ she went on. ‘Are pets allowed?’

  ‘What pet do you have?’ Chris asked, sweat prickling under his arms. Say ‘black lab’ and he would be out of there like a rat up a pipe.

  ‘A cat,’ she said. ‘Older, well trained, no trouble.’

  ‘Cats are fine at all the properties you are viewing today,’ he said. ‘They all have cat flaps even, as memory serves.’

  Her face lit up. ‘Oh, that’s lovely. We couldn’t do without Mortimer, could we, darling?’

  Her husband gave her a peck on the cheek but didn’t reply. Chris had the feeling that Matt could do without Mortimer only too easily.

  ‘Well,’ Chris tried not to sound too like a used car salesman, ‘shall we go on to the next property? It’s a little smaller than this, but is in a very quiet road and backs on to a small park. Ideal for Mortimer, I would imagine. Would you like to come in my car? I could drop you back here later.’

  ‘That would be perfect.’ Polly seemed to do most of the talking. ‘It will save looking for spaces. Do the other houses have a drive, Chris?’

  There was something about the way she said his name that made Chris putty in her hands. The houses did all have drives as a matter of fact, but if they hadn’t, he would willingly have dug one with his teeth.

  House number two was too small. House number three was too big. But house number four was just right. Feeling a little like Goldilocks, Chris pulled the final front door shut behind him and gave them the relevant paperwork, to be dropped in to the office the next morning. They would need guarantors – although they looked all glossy perfection he was a part-time model (surprise, surprise) and she worked in an office. Rent wouldn’t be a problem, they assured him, but it would sometimes be paid by her mum and dad. He didn’t care if it was paid by the Aga Khan as long as it hit the agency account on the right day, but he just smiled encouragingly and drove them back to their car, which he now saw was a rather elderly Clio with one bashed in wing. He felt a little better seeing that. His car might be a company car, but it was immaculate and he had never had so much as a near miss in his life. Matt Mitchells might look like a film star, but he was clearly a crap driver as well as a rubbish breadwinner. Chris was humming happily to himself as he drew up outside number forty three.

  He was about half an hour early, which was a bonus. He could go in and open the doors and windows, try to get rid of that awful smell. He could have kicked himself for not getting an air freshener spray at Mark’s pharmacy. They had some little pocket-sized Febreze canisters on the counter, no doubt aimed at the town’s student population trying to damp down the smell of trainers before going out on the pull. Never mind, too late now. His mother had always said that running the cold tap in a room would freshen the air, but he had never found it worked. Striking a match was supposed to work as well, or was that just in the loo? It was a bit immaterial, as he didn’t have any matches with him. He tried the tap thing anyway – who knew, sometimes these old wives’ tales had something in them. There was a faint whiff of chlorine as the water ran, but still the sprouts and old fish prevailed.

  It was probably because the tap was running that he didn’t hear the woman come in. Or it could have been Mark’s Marvellous Medicine. Whichever, he jumped a mile when she tapped him on the shoulder.

  It would have all been too much if the woman standing there had been even more beautiful, even more fragrant than Polly Mitchells. She wasn’t, but she wasn’t at all bad. She was also vaguely familiar. He held out his hand. ‘Chris Rowan,’ he said, smiling his best rental agent’s smile. ‘Miss Taylor?’

  She looked at him with a quizzical smile, one eyebrow raised. ‘Please call me Louise,’ she said. ‘I’m a little early. Is that all right?’

  Chris smiled again and edged out into the room. She had come up rather close and had him trapped up against the sink. He didn’t like having his space invaded and he could feel the heat off her body all down the front of his. He found it both vaguely erotic and a little threatening. The weather had grown more thundery over the course of the afternoon and there was a strange stillness in the air. Even the birds had gone quiet, as though they were listening out for a distant storm.

  ‘Early is good,’ he said. ‘I like early.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember that.’

  ‘Pardon?’ He opened his eyes wide and turned to face her. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Early. You’re an early morning kind of guy, as I recall. Although it was just the once, so it may have been an aberration.’ Her face was straight, she was giving away no clues. She laughed, not very pleasantly. ‘You don’t remember me, I can tell.’

  ‘You are kind of familiar,’ he said, thinking furiously. ‘I thought I knew you as soon as you walked in.’

  ‘Was that in the Biblical sense?’ she asked. ‘Or from the checkout in Asda?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Let’s set the record straight. We met at a company dinner, back when you worked for …’

  ‘I remember!’ He clicked his fingers. ‘We went to that restaurant where the food was so rubbish we all got absolutely bladdered. And we …’ He stopped.

  ‘Indeed we did. Four times, in fact. I was impressed. I remember wondering if you were that good when you were pissed, what would you be like sober.’

  He laughed uncertainly. ‘Nothing like as good, I would imagine,’ he said. ‘Too inhibited by half.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice you remember me,’ she said, a little tartly. ‘You lost my number, I expect.’

  ‘Umm …’

  ‘Don’t answer that, Chris. It’s best we just put this behind us, don’t you think?’

  He didn’t like the use of the ‘we’ and ‘us’. We and us was him and Megan, not this woman he had shagged after a works’ do. But she was a client now, and so he didn’t walk out, which his gut was telling him to do.

  ‘There’s a bit of an odd smell in her
e, don’t you think?’ She was suddenly all business. ‘Kippers, is it?’ She sniffed again. ‘Sprouts?’

  ‘We’re having it investigated,’ he said, lying shamelessly.

  ‘Hmm. I hope so. Would you like to show me round?’

  ‘I find most clients prefer to wander round by themselves.’

  ‘I prefer to be shown round,’ she said, firmly. ‘Then I can ask questions as they come to me. That way nothing gets missed.’

  He shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said. He did, after all, know this house almost as well as he knew his own. He’d certainly been in it often enough. ‘Let’s start in here, since we’re …’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Exactly. Well, as you see, the kitchen isn’t absolutely new, but it is in good order, with all white goods included. There is a small utility room off to the rear and I know previous tenants have used it for a freezer, which isn’t included in the fitted items. The back garden is well-kept at the moment and there is a clause in the contract requiring it is kept in a neat condition. Which isn’t to say,’ he said, turning to her, ‘that we expect you to be Capability Brown or anything. It just means the landlord likes the lawn mown regularly, that kind of thing.’

  She nodded, but said nothing. He could feel her eyes burning into him whenever he turned his back, so he ushered her ahead of him, to stop the staring. His Capability Brown crack usually got at least a smile, but from this woman – nothing.

  Into the lounge and at least here the smell was less all-pervading. A desperate colleague had put a bowl of potpourri on the mantelpiece on some far distant showing and it lent its own faint, musty aroma to the mix. But the room was large and light and the woman nodded, looked out of the window and stepped back, looking at the open plan stairs that went up one wall, expecting him to lead the way.

  A thought occurred to him. ‘Why have you come to us?’ he asked. ‘Why don’t you get something through …?’

  ‘I don’t work there any more,’ she said. ‘I left. After our little dalliance, in fact. I wasn’t well.’

  His heart lurched. What was she not well with? Nothing catching, surely. He would have to see if he could find out. But, wait … Megan had had all kinds of tests when she had Kyle. If he had given her anything, they would know, wouldn’t they? The thoughts might as well have been on a rolling LED sign above his head.

  ‘Nothing catching,’ she said, her voice harsh. ‘I had a breakdown, if you must know. But I work for a nice place now. The GP practice in the High Street. Do you know it?’

  ‘We go there.’ He didn’t know why he found all this a little threatening, but he did.

  ‘Really? I don’t have much to do with patients. I am the practice manager, bill paying, HR, that kind of thing.’

  He smiled. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was not really an answer, just something to say. ‘It pays well, I’ll give it that.’

  ‘Ah. Right, shall we go up?’ He ushered her ahead. He really, really didn’t want her behind him. She stepped onto the bottom stair and turned to him, but didn’t speak. This was really awkward. He was beginning to think he should just give her the key and leave her to lock up. She had worked as an agent, after all. If she couldn’t turn a key, it would be a sad thing. She went up the stairs, testing each tread as she went. He waited at the bottom until she was well ahead of him and got the full view of her rather nice arse as she stamped on each step. A nice little jiggle, not too much, not too little. He compared it to Mrs Pugh and also to Polly Mitchells and gave it an eight, with Pugh equalling zero, Mitchells ten. He gave a little chuckle to himself. This wasn’t so bad.

  The landing was long and dark, with the bedrooms at one end and at both sides. The bathroom was in a dead end behind them. It wasn’t very big, but there was a small ensuite in the end bedroom, so it would suit two people sharing okay. She turned and went in, checking the bath for worn enamel, the loo for limescale, the sink for cracks. It passed muster and she went through into the bedrooms, one by one. He hung back. She seemed to have found her pace and the smell up here was hardly noticeable, so he didn’t need to talk it up. If there was one thing that could sell number forty three to a potential tenant, it was the master bedroom, which was big, airy and had a stunning view. It was just a shame that so few people got round to coming upstairs. Most of them did a runner after the kitchen.

  She went into the biggest bedroom and he could hear the usual doors opening and closing. What was it with women and fitted wardrobes? What did they expect to find in there? A small shiver went through him. The dream cast a long shadow.

  ‘Chris?’ She seemed to have got over her earlier snit. This sounded more positive – perhaps forty three was let at last. ‘Chris? Could you come here a minute, please?’

  Bugger. What was it now? Damp on the ceiling? Woodlice under the carpet? He pushed open the bedroom door and couldn’t see her for a minute. ‘Louise?’ The name came naturally. Miss Taylor would be a bit too formal, after what they had apparently shared.

  ‘In here.’ She was in the small ensuite. ‘Hang on, it’s too small for two. I’ll come out.’

  He walked over to the window and looked out. The view was lovely. The house looked out over the Downs and although this meant it was out of the centre, it still had good access to public transport. He stopped himself; he was even enjoying the view like a letting agent now. He really had to get out more. He leaned his head on the glass but it wasn’t much cooler than the hot, humid air in the room. If only the thunder storm would come, freshen things up a bit.

  Again, he didn’t hear her come up behind him. It was just her hand touching his that let him know she was there at all. He tried to turn round, but she held his left arm firmly with her left hand and pulled his right hand round behind him. His breath caught in his throat and he felt a hammering in his head, not his headache coming back, but the hammering that comes with panic and the feeling of impending doom. He had heard the phrase ‘rabbit in the headlights’ but he hadn’t understood what that felt like until now.

  He could feel her heat against him, but this wasn’t like downstairs. This was different and he thought he knew why. He looked into the window, trying to see a reflection, but although the distant sky was dark with thunderhead clouds, he couldn’t see the room behind him at all. She was pulling his hand and he pulled back but something inside him stopped him trying too hard. Finally, with the inevitability of a train crash, his fingers met, not her workaday suit but wetness and he knew she was standing behind him, pressing against him now, without a stitch of clothing.

  His throat was tight and dry. When he spoke, it sounded like someone else. ‘Louise,’ he croaked. ‘Please … I don’t do this kind of thing any more.’ It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it was all that came to mind.

  ‘What? Never?’ She pressed his fingers tighter against her. ‘I don’t believe that, Chris.’

  He turned, against the pressure of her body, against her clutching hand. ‘No,’ he said, holding her arms and pushing her away. ‘Never. Except in my bed at home. With my lovely partner, Megan. With my son asleep across the landing. So, please, get dressed. I won't ever mention this to anyone, so don’t worry.’ He didn’t like the wild look in her eye. But another part of him liked the rest of her very much.

  She hadn’t missed his eyes flicking down her body and she relaxed into his grip. She said nothing, just stood there, letting him admire her; she kept herself in shape and didn’t mind his scrutiny. She let the moments pass, her eyes downcast. Then she chose her moment. ‘I don’t mind who you tell, Chris,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell people as well, of course. How you took me upstairs in an empty house and ripped my clothes off. How you had a hard-on you couldn’t control. I won't say you raped me, that wouldn’t be fair. Shall we settle on “took advantage”? I think that sounds alright, don’t you? Because you do have a hard on, Chris, don’t you? Why don’t we do something about it, because you certainly can't go outside like that. It literally is showing through your clothe
s.’

  He knew that. He wanted … not this woman, although she looked the part and was certainly ready for it. He wanted … he wanted it to thunder. He wanted his head to stop spinning. He wanted his cock to go down and leave him alone …

  She looked up at him, smiling.

  He bent his head and kissed her, hard, and she melted into his arms as if she had never been away.

  The black dog, already enormous, was growing bigger. Could dogs grow like that? Should dogs grow like that? It was rearing up now, its breath hot and rank, its mouth wide to take his throat in just one bite, to shake him, and shake him, and shake him, until …

  The peal of thunder woke him and for a long moment he couldn’t work out where he was. It was dark, but not the dark of night, just the dark that comes with the mother and father of all storms. He looked around and saw that the window was lighter against the dark of the room, with thin threads of sun coming through the clouds. He was lying on the floor, on his own clothes, his jacket under his head. He couldn’t remember anything for a minute, then it came flooding back in a torrent that made him groan aloud. Louise. Naked. Under him, over him, God alone knew what she hadn’t done. He hadn’t remembered her being quite that limber when they had had their one night stand. How he had let himself be conned into this, he couldn’t imagine. Because he had been conned, that much he was sure of.

  He turned his watch to the window. Seven o’clock. Oh, God! How was he going to explain this away? He rolled over onto his hands and knees and got up, gingerly. He remembered biting. He went into the ensuite and switched on the light over the mirror. There didn’t seem to be any marks, at least. He stepped back further to get a longer view and nearly threw up in horror. There, low on his stomach, was the biggest bite mark he had ever seen. It pulled no punches. It couldn’t be hidden. It was there, like the mark of Cain. Stupidly, helplessly, he rubbed at it but it wasn’t going anywhere. As someone who never wore pyjamas and indeed often wandered the house naked, this was going to be hard to explain. Harder to explain than getting home as late as this. He splashed cold water on his face and got dressed hurriedly. He’d think of something. He would have to think of something. He clattered down the stairs and out to the car and drove through the teeming rain towards his home, his home with Megs and Kyle. He was almost crying in panic. But he was a salesman. He would sort it out. He would say he had walked into a desk. A doorknob. Something. He would tell her about Mark and his potion. Yes, that was it. He felt woozy and fell over. Hurt himself that way. He felt better. He smoothed down his hair and started to hum something that sounded pretty much like Pink Floyd from his side of things. It was all going to be fine.