The House on Cold Hill

by James, Peter

  Fortinbrass set his mug down on the table and placed the Penguin wrapper next to it. ‘I’m here to try to help you, not to judge you. Would you like to tell me exactly what has been happening?’

  Ollie listed everything he could remember that had happened. His mother-in-law’s first sighting of the ghost. His father-in-law’s encounter with her. Caro’s sighting of her. Jade’s friend’s sighting. The spheres he had seen. The bed rotating during the night. The taps. The photograph of Harry Walters. Parkin then Manthorpe being found dead. The computer messages. The emails to his clients. He omitted only the curious déjà vu he had experienced over the vicar’s arrival this morning.

  When he had finished he sat back on the sofa and stared, quizzically, at the clergyman. ‘It sounds mad, I know. But, believe me, it’s true. All of it. Am I insane? Are all of us?’

  Fortinbrass looked deeply troubled. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I believe you.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Ollie said, feeling a sense of deep relief.

  ‘I’ll put in a request. I’m not sure of the formalities, but I will ask.’

  ‘There must be something the church can do,’ Ollie implored. ‘We can’t go on like this. And we can’t leave – if we could, we’d be out of here like a shot. But there must be something – something you can do to help us, surely?’

  An hour later, as Ollie stood in the front porch watching the vicar’s car heading away, Caro’s Golf appeared.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ she said, as he opened her car door for her. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘The vicar,’ he said.

  ‘And – what did you tell him?’

  ‘Pretty much everything.’

  She walked round to the rear of the car and opened the tailgate. The boot was crammed with white and green Waitrose carrier bags.

  ‘I’ll help you in with everything,’ he said.

  ‘So what did the vicar say? Was he sceptical or helpful?’

  Ollie hefted out four heavy bags. ‘He saw something himself, while he was here.’

  Following him into the house, holding a clutch of grocery bags herself, she said, ‘Did he have a view on it?’

  ‘He took it seriously.’

  ‘Great,’ she said, sarcastically. ‘That makes me feel a whole lot better.’

  They dumped the bags on the refectory table. Ollie took her in his arms. ‘We’ll get this sorted, darling, I promise you. In a year’s time we’ll be looking back on all of this and laughing.’

  ‘I’m laughing right now,’ she said. ‘I was laughing all the way down the supermarket aisles. Just how much fun has our life become, eh?’

  43

  Saturday, 19 September

  Early that afternoon Ollie glanced out of the tower window to the north, and for some moments watched Jade and her friend, Phoebe, standing at the edge of the lake looking playful and happy, throwing something – bread perhaps – to the ducks.

  Throughout his own childhood, which had not been particularly happy, he had longed to be an adult and get away from the dull and stultifying negativity of home. But right now he envied them the innocence of childhood. Envied them for not having to deal with arrogant shits like Cholmondley. He knew childhood and growing up were fraught with their own traumas, but with everything that was bombarding him right now, he’d trade places in an instant.

  What had the vicar’s first appearance been about? He’d seen him, he’d spoken to him, and yet – suddenly he was gone. Then reappeared. He thought back again to his conversation after tennis with Bruce Kaplan, trying to make sense of his theory. ‘We live in linear time, right? We go from A to B to C. We wake up in the morning, get out of bed, have coffee, go to work, and so on. That’s how we perceive every day. But what if our perception is wrong? What if linear time is just a construct of our brains that we use to try to make sense of what’s going on? What if everything that ever was, still is – the past, the present and the future – and we’re trapped in one tiny part of the space–time continuum? That sometimes we get glimpses, through a twitch of the curtain, into the past, and sometimes into the future?’

  Had he been through some kind of time-slip earlier on? Or was his mind playing tricks on him, somehow reversing time inside his head?

  Or was he cracking under the stress of everything?

  Suddenly there was static crackle from the radio, which he had on in the background for company, and he heard the unmistakeable, deep, sonorous voice of Sir Winston Churchill.

  ‘Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be freed and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands.’ The static increased steadily in volume, drowning out some of Churchill’s words.

  Shit, Ollie thought. Was he now inside some weird time loop?

  Then he heard the voice of a radio presenter. ‘Well, Bill, can you think of any UK politician today, in any party, who would have that same quality of leadership that Churchill displayed? Anyone with those powers of oratory?’

  Ollie switched the radio off then turned back to his desk and his most pressing problem. Cholmondley and Bhattacharya must know, like everyone, surely, that there were some weird and nasty people out there on the internet. Trolls. Facebook bullies. Malicious hackers. Did a disgruntled customer have a grudge against Cholmondley? Was a rival jealous of Bhattacharya’s success?

  Or was it someone with a grudge against himself?

  Who?

  He really could not think of any enemies. Everyone had been happy with the sale of the website business. He was treating all the tradesmen at the house decently. He’d never screwed anyone over. Why would someone want to do this?

  He stared, gloomily, at the screen. On it was the screensaver image of a close-up of Caro and Jade’s smiling faces pressed together, cheek to cheek. Normally, seeing it always made him smile, but at this moment he could find nothing to smile about.

  His door opened behind him and Caro stuck her head in.

  ‘I’m just off to pick up Jade and then collect Phoebe,’ she said. ‘Be back in about an hour. Anything you need while I’m out?’

  ‘Pick up Jade?’ he said, puzzled. ‘What do you mean? And Phoebe?’

  ‘Yes, picking Jade up from her riding lesson – then we’re going into Brighton to collect Phoebe from her parents.’

  ‘Riding lesson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He shot a glance through the window towards the lake. There was no sign of Jade or Phoebe.

  ‘You’re taking Jade or you’re picking her up?’

  ‘I’m picking her up.’ She gave him a strange look. ‘Are you all right, Ols?’

  ‘All right? I – yes – about as all right as it’s possible to be at the moment. Why?’

  ‘We talked about it a couple of days ago – I told you I was going to try to book her into a riding school in Clayton, just a few miles away.’

  He swivelled his chair to the left and looked out of the window again towards the lake. Jade and Phoebe had been playing there just a couple of minutes ago, he’d been watching them. Was the start of a nervous breakdown? Or something even worse?

  ‘When – when did you take Jade to the riding place?’

  Caro looked at her watch. ‘Over an hour ago. I’m going to have to rush, I’m late.’

  ‘Drive safely,’ he said, lamely. ‘You’re picking up Phoebe, too?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

  ‘She’s not – already – sort of here or anything?’

  Caro frowned. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’re behaving very oddly. I’ll see you in a bit, OK?’

  He was staring back out through the window at the vast lawn, which he would have to mow tomorrow, and at the ducks on th
e lake. There was no sign of Jade or Phoebe. No children. No humans. Nothing.

  He’d imagined the vicar this morning. Now his daughter and her friend?

  His computer made a barely audible ping. An incoming email.

  He hit the keyboard and instantly held his breath as he saw the name. It was from Cholmondley. Perhaps, he thought, with hope momentarily rising, the classic car dealer had found out the source of the toxic email sent to him earlier, and was writing now to apologize for his outburst? After all, he was a businessman, and however angry he might have been, Cholmondley would know he had to keep his website up and running – and for that he needed him.

  Then, as he opened the email, his heart sank even lower.

  There was a short message from Cholmondley at the top, with a longer one from himself beneath, sent from his personal email address, with his electronic signature, and timed and dated just over thirty minutes ago.

  Sent from this computer.

  Cholmondley

  I imagine you’ve been waiting all day for a grovelling apology. Well, so sorry not to oblige, dear boy, but I just wanted to let you know that I stand by every word in my earlier email. I despise you, you arrogant little shit, with your natty bow tie. Just found out about your criminal record, too. Tut, tut, tut! You kept that one a secret, didn’t you? My oh my, you are a dark horse! Bad boy, you got caught turning the odometers back on second-hand cars. Made to sit on the Naughty Step for that one, weren’t you? Eighteen months in Ford Prison. I’m afraid I cannot take the reputational risk of dealing with someone of your background.

  I have sent you in a separate email all the codes and files you will need for someone else to take over the management of your website in a smooth – quite seamless – transition.

  Oliver Harcourt,

  CEO, Harcourt Digital Solutions Ltd

  Once again, he saw to his horror that it was copied to the same wide number of Cholmondley’s rival dealers. And all the files for the website, which would have been the only leverage he had to get paid by the man, had been handed over. So now he had no hold over him. And reading Cholmondley’s reply, it was even clearer than this morning that he would never see one penny of the money he was owed.

  Dear Mr Harcourt

  This email is outrageous. I will hold you personally liable for any sales I lose through your vile and deeply libellous communications today. For the record I’ve never been charged with, or convicted of, any of the offences you allege. I have no criminal record and I’ve never been to jail. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers on Monday and you will be a very sorry man.

  C. Cholmondley

  44

  Saturday, 19 September

  Ollie sat, stunned, staring at the email. He was utterly bewildered and feeling sick deep inside. And close to tears. Just what the hell was happening? He had imagined the vicar; he had imagined Jade and her friend in the garden. Was he now sending emails that he had no recollection of? Should he go and see a doctor?

  Another email pinged in, and his spirits sank even lower still when he saw it was from Bhattacharya.

  He could scarcely bring himself to open it. His hands hovered over the keypad, his fingers trembling. His whole body was shaking. Normally when he was stressed he’d go for a run or a bike ride. But he felt too sapped right now to do anything other than sit and think and stare.

  Chris Webb would be able to find out where the emails had really come from, wouldn’t he? That would be the solution. Get him to show they were being sent from someone outside, who was using this address, and then he could go back to Cholmondley and Bhattacharya.

  Unless.

  But he didn’t want to go there. Not down that line of thought.

  He did not want to entertain the possibility that he might have been the sender.

  Or someone or something here in his office with him.

  He looked up at the ceiling with a start, as if he again sensed something there, looking down, mocking him.

  Then he opened the Indian restaurateur’s email. It was every bit as bad as he expected. A litany of food hygiene regulations each of his restaurants had allegedly broken. And a livid reply from Bhattacharya.

  For a moment he thought he was going to throw up at his desk. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to think clearly. Then he dialled Chris Webb.

  ‘Chris, I have an absolute emergency here. There have been more emails to those same two clients, and they’ve been copied to other potential clients. You’ve got to help me, we have to do something – my business is being destroyed.’

  ‘More emails?’

  Ollie could hear a roar in the background, as if Webb was watching a football or perhaps rugby match on television. ‘Yes, in the past hour – while I’ve been sitting in front of my bloody computer. I just don’t know what’s going on. You’ve got to help me, please, could you come over?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’d really appreciate that. How soon can you come?’

  ‘I’ll be with you in about forty-five minutes. Meantime, what I suggest you do is disconnect from the internet – or, even better, switch it off completely until I get there. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, right away, thank you.’

  Ollie stared at the keyboard, then at the screen, as if scared something new might have appeared while he’d been talking to the computer guru. He did as instructed, selected Shut Down from the Apple menu and clicked on it.

  He waited until the screen was dark and the machine was silent, then stood up, went downstairs and out into the garden, feeling desperately in need of some fresh air to try to clear his head. The sun in the clear blue sky barely registered, nor the warmth of the air, or anything around him as he walked down towards the lake, his heart like a massive weight inside his chest. He felt as if all the energy had been sucked out of him and he was just a dark, discarded husk.

  He stood and stared bleakly at two mallards, a male and female, paddling seemingly aimlessly across the water. Just what the hell was happening to them all? Had they made a terrible mistake moving here – not just taking on more than they could cope with financially, but coming into some unfathomable darkness?

  Should they just move out and put the place on the market? It was something he had considered several times in the past few days. And yet, it seemed absurd to give in, and give all this up, just because of – if Bruce Kaplan was right – some energy at large in the place. Both Bob Manthorpe and Caro’s strange client who had died, had advised requesting the diocesan exorcist – Minister of Deliverance – to come and clear the house. Maybe that was all it needed. And everything would be OK after that. The vicar had said this morning he would put in a request to the Sussex Minister of Deliverance and get back to him as quickly as he could.

  His phone vibrated in his trouser pocket and began ringing. He pulled it out and saw a mobile number on the display he did not recognize.

  ‘Hello?’ he answered.

  ‘Ah, Oliver, is this a good moment?’

  It was Roland Fortinbrass.

  ‘Yes, it is, thank you.’

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news.’

  45

  Saturday, 19 September

  An hour and a half later Chris Webb was seated in Ollie’s office, in front of his computer. Ollie hovered anxiously behind him, peering over his shoulder at the screen. It was filled with a maze of rows and columns of numbers and letters that were meaningless to Ollie, but Webb was studying them with fierce concentration, emitting a string of comments out loud as he did so.

  ‘What the—? Oh, I see . . . But how the hell did you get there? What? What’s this?’

  ‘What’s what?’ Ollie asked.

  ‘I mean, that just shouldn’t be there!’

  ‘What shouldn’t be?’

  ‘Have you been in here changing any settings?’

  ‘No, why would I?’

  ‘Someone has,’ Webb said.

  ‘Someone? That’s no
t possible, Chris – I’m the only person who would ever touch this computer.’

  Webb grimaced. ‘Could just be a Mac glitch – I’ve got a few clients where something similar’s happened recently on the latest operating system – settings changing of their own accord.’

  ‘Or could this be evidence of the hacker?’

  Webb lifted the large mug of coffee Ollie had brought him, and drank some. ‘Well, this wouldn’t give anyone a pathway in. I think it’s more of an operating system glitch. Jade wouldn’t have been on this?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’m certain.’

  ‘You see, I can’t find any footprints at all. I can see the tracks I left earlier, when I connected through TeamViewer, but there’s no sign at all of any unauthorized user having been here.’

  Distracted by movement through the window to his right, Ollie saw Caro coming up the drive in her Golf, with Jade beside her and a figure, presumably Phoebe, on the back seat.

  ‘It’s a mystery,’ Webb said. ‘I’m sorry, I’m baffled. I don’t know what to suggest. We could put in an extra firewall and see if that stops it.’

  ‘Chris, I’ve got to do something to salvage the situation. I can’t afford to lose these clients.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘OK, I’ve had an idea,’ Ollie said, suddenly brightening up a little. ‘Cholmondley and Bhattacharya aren’t aware of each other. So, how about you write an email to each of them, explaining that you are my IT manager and that these emails have been sent from some malicious hacker who must have a grudge against them?’

  Webb looked dubious.

  ‘I’ll compose it and give you the wording. All you have to do is just sign as yourself, as my IT manager. Then I can follow it up by phoning them, when hopefully they’ve calmed down.’

  ‘OK, sure. But—’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I’ll write it, sign it, whatever, but I’m not sure it’s going to be the end of it.’