Falling Into Heaven

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  A middle-aged couple were standing on the other side of the counter. The man smiled. ‘Phillips,’ he said. ‘We have a nine thirty appointment with Mr Gideon.’

  Marie smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid Mr Gideon’s been called away. I’m his assistant.’

  ‘Are you a photographer?’

  Marie nodded. ‘Come this way,’ she said and led them through to the studio.

  It was late afternoon before she got another chance to enter the darkroom, but this time she found what she was looking for almost immediately. The negatives from the shot Gideon had taken on the Sunday were in an envelope buried under a pile of wedding proofs. She turned on the red light and started to work.

  Back in the office she ran her hand through her short mousy hair and stared at the print in her hand. She’d printed the image of the Hammond farmhouse, but it was very different to the one Gideon had shown her the day before. This photograph showed the farmhouse, but it was a derelict wreck. Roof timbers showed through the collapsed thatch and on one side of the house the wall had fallen down, exposing a ramshackle and dilapidated interior.

  She dropped the photograph to the desk, grabbed her camera and left the shop, locking the door behind her.

  The sun was a fierce red ball hanging in the sky to the west as she took the lane that cut around the bottom of the tor. She parked under the shade of some trees and started to climb the hill. A few ramblers passed her on their way down to the bottom, looking at her curiously as she strode upwards, her mouth set in a thin determined line.

  Two thirds of the way up she shielded her eyes against the dying sun and looked about her. It was all so familiar, the view over the town, the plastics factory beyond it, blighting the landscape with its crude industrial architecture. Slowly she worked her way around to the other side of the tor where the scenery was mostly rural, a patchwork of fields, stripped bare now by the combine harvesters; raw earth ploughed into dusty furrows, separated from each other by green strips of hedgerow.

  Through a gap in a line of poplar trees she saw the ruin. It was just as it appeared in the photograph she had printed earlier. A dilapidated building, deserted and unloved, awaiting the re-developers bulldozer. She fished in her camera bag and took from it a telephoto lens. She fixed it to the camera and raised it to her eye. Twisting the focus ring she brought the image of the farmhouse to crystal clarity. Then with a cry she dropped the camera. The strap caught the camera mid-fall and jerked against her neck, jarring it and making a friction burn on the soft skin of her nape.

  Slowly she raised the camera to her eye once more.

  There in the centre of the focusing screen was an image of the farmhouse, pristine, newly thatched, with stout, well-built walls and woodwork that looked freshly painted. When she took the camera away from her eye and looked past the row of poplars she saw the ruin again.

  A thin bead of sweat trickled down her back and she shivered.

  Back in her car she laid her camera on the passenger seat and gripped the steering wheel to stop her hands from shaking. What she’d seen was impossible. The rational part of her mind told her that over and over again. But a darker part of her mind urged her on. She started the car and eased out slowly onto the lane. Somehow she had to find Gideon. And there was only one place to look for him.

  She found his car halfway along a rutted track blocked by a five bar gate. In the russet glow of the fading sun she could just make out the outline of the house a quarter of a mile further on. She picked her way through the mud and potholes, following the path Gideon had taken earlier. By the time she reached the house her feet were soaked and her arms and legs were scratched and bleeding from countless thorn-sharp brambles that spilled out onto the overgrown path.

  The house was as she’d seen it from the tor – a ruin of a building, ravaged by age and neglect. The door was hanging askew from one hinge. She pushed it to one side, peering into the gloomy interior. There was no sign of life, and certainly no sign that anyone had come through this way earlier.

  Inside the short hallway the floor was littered with broken crockery and cracked tiles that had lifted from the concrete base beneath. She crunched over the remnants of a dinner service, trying to adjust her eyes to the gloom within.

  ‘Gideon! Ray! Are you here?’ She stopped, listening, but the house was silent. She pressed on past the rickety-looking staircase and on through to the downstairs rooms.

  The first room she tried was empty, stripped back to the bare boards. Wallpaper peeled from the walls, once patterned with roses, now mottled with mould and scabbed with birdlime. There was a patch against one wall where a dresser once stood, the outline of it marked by a brightening of the paper where it had been protected from the sun’s bleaching rays. A doorway led through to a large kitchen, but opportunists had stripped it. There was a large hearth and evidence that a range cooker had once stood there.

  She shook her head sadly. She could almost picture what the house had been like, in happier times. Meals eaten around a large refectory table; laughter and conversation bubbling like the cooking pots on the range. Children perhaps, running in from the fields, spreading their muddy footprints on the terracotta tiles that made up the floor. It was really quite sad that a house could get to this state, and she felt for the people who had once considered this their home.

  There was nothing here. No sign that Gideon had even come here.

  Apart from his car, parked carelessly on the track.

  She called again.

  This time a sound answered her.

  Above her head something scraped across the floor of one of the bedrooms.

  She ran to the stairs. ‘Gideon? Are you up there?’ She tested the tread of the stair with her foot. The banister looked shaky but the risers appeared solid enough. She could imagine him coming here now. Perhaps he, like she, had decided to explore the place. Perhaps he’d had an accident. Maybe some floorboards had given way. Had he fallen and broken a leg or something? Was that him dragging himself across the bedroom floor?

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Gideon, answer me!’

  She climbed the stairs gingerly, trying each step before settling her weight on it. If it should give way and she fell then they would both be marooned here. She couldn’t imagine the place was much visited. It could be days before they were found.

  She reached the top of the stairs and stopped on the landing. Ahead of her, at the end of the landing was a large rectangular window. The top rim of the setting sun could just be glimpsed, slipping slowly under the sill. She hadn’t much time before it disappeared altogether, and she didn’t want to be here in the dark.

  To her right was one of the bedrooms, its door open and empty apart from a couple of wood pigeons that perched on the remnants of a chest of drawers. They watched her impassively, cooing softly as she walked past their room to the next. The door to this room was closed. She tried the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. ‘Gideon? Ray, are you in there?’ She put her ear to the door.

  Sobbing, a low, desolate sound, muffled by the stout oak of the door.

  She hammered on the door with her fist. ‘Ray! What’s happened?’ She took two steps back and kicked at the door with the sole of her foot. The door shook in its frame but remained solid. She kicked again.

  Slowly, with a groan of protesting timber, the door swung open.

  The light that poured from the room was fierce; so fierce she threw up her hand to shield her eyes. It was like staring directly into the beam of a slide projector. Dust and debris from the room hung in the light, billowing like a mist, and through the debris something moved. Something with a black face, pale hair and brilliant white, piercing eyes. It was a man, moving slowly through the light towards her. It was a man she recognised as Raymond Gideon. But a negative image of Raymond Gideon, unformed, ill defined. He came towards her; his arms open for the embrace.

  ‘So lonely. So terribly lonely,’ he said as Marie started to scream.

  DEAD MEN’S SHOES
r />   At first he thought the soft, papery rustling keeping him awake was the sound of the crisp, white, unsullied linen sheets of the hotel bed. He lay there listening to the gentle susurration, watching the night receding, any romantic notions of watching the dawn rise lost in a pounding, wine-induced headache. The Chablis had been excellent, although perhaps the move onto the Merlot less wise. Melanie lay beside him, still, breathing deeply, not moving at all. The noise wasn’t coming from her. Not from his newly betrothed, not from his beloved. Nor was it coming from him. He made sure of that, lying rigid in the bed, not daring to move, even to the extent of controlling his breathing, making it as shallow as possible so he didn’t disturb the sheets. But the noise continued, regardless of whether he moved or whether he didn’t – a feathery whisper that seemed to fill the room with its intensity.

  Finally he could bear it no longer, threw back the bedclothes and climbed out, flexing his toes in the deep-piled carpet. The price for the suite was astronomical, but he hadn’t wanted to leave her any room for doubts. Her day, their day, had to be perfect, and that included the honeymoon.

  The sound stopped instantly.

  Melanie stirred, mumbled something in her sleep but didn’t wake. He stared down at her, at the pool of dark hair on the pillow, her face floating in the middle of it. Asleep she looked little more than a child, innocent and peaceful, and his mind was filled with guilt that he had stayed on the balcony - ‘just taking in the sea air, love. I won’t be long.’ – long enough to ensure she was asleep under the effects of the bottles consumed.

  He sighed and went through to the en-suite bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped under the fine spray.

  He nearly cried out as the needles of water hit his body. The pain was excruciating and he moved back, grabbing for his towel. As he wiped the water from his skin the pain eased but the sound started again, louder this time, hissing and crackling. He looked down at his chest, alarmed to see wheals rising from his skin, long streaks of red bordered by white-bubble blisters. Even as he watched more wheals were forming, striping down his legs, criss-crossing his feet.

  Something close to panic started to swamp him. Staggering back, he collided with the toilet bowl and sat down with a thump. He was finding it difficult to get his breath, and he sucked hungrily at the air in the room, but couldn’t get enough to satisfy his lungs. He leant forward, trying to calm himself, trying to breathe steadily.

  Gradually the attack passed and he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the towel. The door opened and Melanie came into the bathroom, rubbing her eyes sleepily, yawning. She barely glanced at him as she went to the sink and poured herself a glass of water.

  ‘What were you doing in here? You woke me up,’ she said accusingly as she sipped the water and switched on the shower.

  ‘It’s very hot,’ he said. ‘Be careful.’

  She ran her fingers under the spray. ‘Rubbish,’ she said. ‘It’s barely warm.’

  ‘But...’ He wanted to scream at her, ‘But it is! Look what it did to me,’ He glanced down at his body but the wheals had vanished without a trace. His skin was slightly mottled, faintly blotchy, but the pain had gone and he looked more or less normal.

  He watched her step under the shower, take the shampoo from the shelf and massage it into her hair. Her nakedness was clean already, the act of washing merely adding to her flawless perfection. Almost, really almost, he considered joining her in the shower and consummating the marriage. He got to his feet and left the room. The whispering sound accompanied him.

  The Point Hotel stood at the far reaches of a peninsula that jutted out into the sea and formed one of the more dramatic features of the Cornish coastline. Battered by rain and squalls during the winter months, scorched by wind and sun during the summer, the hotel’s white painted walls were cracked and peeling, and, despite the five star rating, looked in need of serious attention in places. Likewise the hotel’s gardens were a casualty of the extremes of weather, with all but the hardiest shrubs, perennials and a few twisted, wind-bent trees managing to eke out a modicum of survival.

  The day before, when Sean and Melanie Hamilton pulled up on the gravel forecourt, they temporarily failed to notice the hotel’s decorative shortcomings. Instead they were immersed in a disagreement that had occupied them for the final quarter of the journey down from their Hertfordshire home. Only an argument for fifty of the three hundred miles, not too bad, Sean rationalised later.

  This week was to be her second honeymoon, but his first. That’s how they were both referring to it to family and friends, and anyone else who attended the wedding reception at the local hall. Her second because of course, as they all knew, she had been married before. ‘No, he died. Poor thing.’ Sean was embarking on the experience for the first time, the only time as he insisted to his cynical group of mates at the club.

  The argument on the journey down – a petty dispute about map-reading that had failed to escalate, but instead had quietly simmered without ever reaching the boil - did not bode well for the following seven days. Actually, as they both knew but tried to ignore, it was because she had, for the first time ever he had to admit, called him ‘Phil.’ Of course Phil was dead, but even if he wasn’t it couldn’t be polite to call your husband of less than twenty four hours by your previous husband’s name. Sean was certain it hadn’t mentioned the scenario in the How To book he had bought to get speeches and things perfect.

  They checked in, were showed to the Honeymoon Suite – very lavish but comfortable – and unpacked in a wary atmosphere of trying too hard to be pleased with everything in the room. The TV controls in the headboard were novel but…and the bath was spectacularly large by normal standards.

  That evening over a meal of baked ham and charlotte potatoes Sean enthused about the hotel, and Melanie rallied behind him. They ate quietly, the ambience in the dining room was quite formal, and his mind had too much opportunity for deviation. He was determined to be a good husband, just as he knew Phil had been. He had known Melanie for years, before Phil in fact, although gradually Phil became a friend as well. If Sean had a girlfriend, which he did occasionally, for a while, they would go out on a foursome, perhaps to the Chinese in the town centre, or once, disastrously, to a dinner party at Phil and Melanie’s after they married. The girl Sean took was ill over the sorbet course and had to be taken home in a taxi.

  Sean was suddenly aware that Melanie had laid down her knife and fork and was staring at him.

  ‘Why can’t you just eat your food instead of dissecting it?’ she said.

  He stared down at his plate. The food was largely untouched except for the potatoes. These he had carefully peeled with his knife, exposing the creamy white flesh, leaving the skins in a pile at the side of his plate. He never ate like that normally. He hadn’t realised he’d been doing it. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’

  Her expression softened and she reached out, taking her hand in his. ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, smiling slightly. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I shouldn’t have made that stupid mistake…you know the name thing in the car.’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said defensively. ‘Could happen to anyone, slip of the tongue. After all you went on honeymoon with Phil – process of association.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sean! It’s not the occasion; it’s just…well I suppose sometimes inevitably I’ll think about him. Anyway I’m sorry. Come on, we should be talking about us.’

  He conceded the point. ‘Quite right, it doesn’t matter at all.’ But of course it did, to him. He was so determined to be a better husband than Phil in every way; because when it came right down to it she hadn’t left Phil for him, and Phil hadn’t volunteered to leave her. He’d died, and if he hadn’t he would still be married to Mel, and Sean wouldn’t be. It was a fact, but it wasn’t a problem.

  The waiter who wheeled the dessert trolley to their table was young, with a good-looking, smooth face. No lines or wrinkles in his skin. Life hadn’t yet
had a chance to etch worry and frown reminders into the bland features. He smiled as he ran through the litany of the sweets and gateaux on offer. His false foreign accent making them sound like Kama Sutra positions.

  ‘I’d like to try the tiramisu,’ Melanie said. ‘But with my waistline I daren’t.’

  ‘Spoil yourself,’ the waiter said. ‘Besides, I wouldn’t say you had anything to worry about.’

  Melanie’s cheeks coloured and she looked down coyly. Bloody hell, Sean thought, she’s starting to blush. ‘You’re very kind. Okay, I’ll have some.’

  ‘He fancies you,’ Sean said when the waiter went back to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m old enough to be his mother. He can’t be more than eighteen.’

  ‘You’re only thirty-two. He still fancies you.’

  She grinned at him in delight. ‘Eat your cheesecake,’ she said.

  As they finished their coffee and made for the lounge area Sean noticed a table set for one near to their table. The debris of a single meal was strewn over the pale pink cloth but he couldn’t remember anyone sitting there. It bothered him for the rest of the evening.

  That night they should have made love with a passion that had been missing from their separate lives for years. Their meeting in marriage should have been symbolised in a union of bodies. Instead Sean went into the bathroom after Mel and had an upset stomach. It wasn’t very pleasant, he wasn’t used to rich food, or the quantities of wine they drank. He intended to make an effort, at first, but once he was on the balcony getting air, he began to think about how athletic Phil was, compared to him. Sean’s exercise routine was strenuous if he used the stairs instead of the lift at work. Phil ran marathons, and probably made love with skill and precision as well. Sean would wait until the moment was more conducive. When he went inside the room she was virtually comatose and didn’t even stir when he got in beside her.

  At about four in the morning the papery whispering started.