Falling Into Heaven

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  The cottage was different. Set at the end of a thin lane, and flanked on either side by similar early century dwellings, it felt like home, even before we had put the deposit down on it. And on removal day, upon crossing the threshold I was struck by a sense of permanence that had so far been missing in my life.

  The car doors opened and Jack spilled out onto the lane, bounding up and down, kicking up the leaves in the carefree exuberance of a typical five year old. Carol followed him, opening the boot of the car and starting to unload. There was no through traffic to worry about so I let Jack have his fun, only cautioning him once when he rolled a handful of leaves into a ball and aimed it at my back.

  ‘You do, sunshine and you’ll be eating them for a week,’ I said, smiling to let him know I was joking. ‘And there’ll be no Halloween treats for you young man.’ He had been looking forward to getting involved in the celebrations. We had promised he could stay up late, even though it would be well after dark.

  Jack grinned and let the pile drop to the ground. He then galloped along the lane to the path that led up to the cottage. He had just reached the front gate when Carol grabbed him by the arm and pulled him, quite roughly, to a halt. ‘Jack, wait!’ she snapped at him. He stared up at her, shocked by the severity of her tone; his eyes wide open in puzzlement. She turned to me. ‘Mark, look.’

  I looked to where she was pointing. The front gate was open, and the leaves on the path looked as if they had been walked over; they were scuffed and disturbed.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.

  She was chewing her bottom lip, a look of uncertainty in her eyes. ‘Can’t you see?’

  ‘I still don’t know what the problem is.’

  Still holding Jack by the arm to stop him scampering off again she said in a low voice, ‘Who’s been up our path?’

  ‘So? It’s probably the postman. Or trick-or-treaters.’ Halloween was tomorrow night. Strangely it was the time of year that had prompted us to move. Last year we were plagued with youngsters determined to trick rather than take treats – eggs and floor was a favourite, although fireworks figured prominently as well. Here in the country Halloween would be safer.

  ‘I think there’s someone in the cottage.’

  The expression on Jack’s face changed. He now looked worried. ‘You’re scaring him,’ I hissed at her. She was unsettling me too. There was a quiet intensity in her manner and her knuckles were white where she was gripping Jack’s arm.

  Unlike me Carol was a townie, and had taken some persuading to give up her urban roots and move to the country. In the few short weeks we had lived here she had spoken several times of her uneasiness about the place - the silence and pitch-black nights, unsullied by traffic noise and light pollution, the fact the cottage backed onto open fields and woods. For a girl born and raised within spitting distance of the city, these were new experiences, and she was having trouble getting to grips with them. She was especially wary about the woods at the back of the cottage.

  The month of October coincided of course with our moving in but somehow seemed to heighten Carol’s unease. The gathering darkness came sooner each evening; the trees began to look twisted and dead. There were great days when the pale sun shone and the clarity of the air was the best of the year. Mainly though she was aware of the leaves everywhere, and the passing of summer heralding the advent of winter.

  ‘Go and check the house,’ she said. ‘We’ll wait here.’

  I sighed. ‘Very well.’ I followed the rough footprints in the sea of leaves up to the cottage. Whoever it was was large. When I set my own size nine into one of the prints it was dwarfed. A size eleven obviously, maybe even a twelve. At the door I stopped. Here were a few more solid clumps of compacted leaves, as if, whoever it was had kicked the mess from their shoes against the engineering bricks of the newly restored step. I turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Reaching down I rubbed my hand over the doormat. Small beads of water covered my palm. There was no doubt the mystery visitor had entered our home.

  The uneasiness deepened and I called out, ‘Hello?’

  The cottage remained silent, filled with the emptiness of a house left vacant for a while. I stepped inside. Everything looked exactly as we’d left it - the breakfast crockery washed up and left of the drainer, covered by a tea towel; the curtains in the lounge drawn tightly shut against prying eyes, giving the room a gloomy aspect. The Halloween pumpkin, heavily decorated by Carol and Jack, brightening one corner slightly. Beyond the doormat the footprints continued, wet ones this time, the tread of the shoes defined by streaks of watery mud. They traced a path across the quarry tiles of the kitchen and on through the dining room, stopping again at a door, but this time the door to the lobby that housed the stairs leading up to the bedrooms.

  I looked back at the lane. Carol and Jack stood at the end of the path, looking back at me, Carol with a worried frown on her face, Jack wide-eyed and uncertain. I motioned for them to wait there and went to search the cottage.

  It was empty as I hoped it might be. The bedroom doors were closed but I checked each room in turn. Jack’s with its clutter of toys, racks of books and a mural on the wall - painted by Carol - depicting a fairy glade, complete with human looking trees and stylised animals and of course the occasional fairy, elf or goblin, peeking out from fronds of tall grass, and from behind those smiling trees. And on to ours, furnished in a decidedly ‘country cottage’ style; chintz curtains and bedspread, pine furniture, and a small upholstered chair teaming with Carol’s cherished collection of soft toys. Both rooms were empty and looked undisturbed, as did the bathroom.

  By the time I returned to the kitchen the wet footprints were drying, the muddy residue becoming dusty and indistinct. I found a floor cloth in the cupboard under the sink and wiped them away. As I was wiping I remembered George. George was our neighbour from two doors away. He had befriended us the day we moved in. A widower in his seventies he had palled up with Jack almost immediately, plying him with sweets - under Carol’s disapproving gaze - and telling him improbable stories of the elves who lived in the woods beyond the field at the back of the cottages. It was these stories that had prompted Carol to paint the mural in Jack’s room.

  George was an old-fashioned, good neighbour type who had told us before we left for Carol’s parents that he would be happy to keep a watch on the place and would check it out from time to time. ‘...And if any plants need watering, then I’m your man.’ Carol had taken him up on the offer and given him a spare key. Usually wary of strangers, a throwback to her urban roots, she seemed happy for George to befriend our son, even if I always made sure one of us was there with them – for my mind he was a little too friendly with Jack a little too quickly.

  As I wiped away the last of the footprints it had fixed itself in my mind that our mystery visitor was indeed George, keeping true to his word and checking out the cottage for us.

  I went to the door and beckoned my family home. ‘Everything’s fine and as it should be,’ I said as Carol, still leading Jack by the arm, stepped over the threshold.

  I told her my solution to the puzzle but she still looked doubtful. ‘I’ll go and ask him,’ she said.

  ‘Carol,’ I said in exasperation. ‘That really isn’t necessary.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I will anyway. You get the kettle on.’

  She was back in less than five minutes. ‘He’s not there,’ she said.

  That evening was spent in front of the television. Jack was on the rug in front of the fire, playing with his toys. At eight o’clock Carol tapped her watch. ‘Right, young man,’ she said to him. ‘Time for bed. Will you bath him?’ she said to me. I put down the magazine I was reading - television invariably left me cold. I couldn’t stand the repeats of films I had seen many times before, or the phoney nature of many of the other programs.

  ‘Come on, sprout,’ I said to Jack. ‘Bath time.’

  The bath went smoothly. Bathing and hair washing was a routine that had
never been an occasion for tears, and as I dried him and got him into his pyjamas he said, ‘Can I have a story?’

  ‘What would you like? Wizards or goblins?’

  He sat in his bed and rested his chin on his fist, thinking seriously. ‘Pooh,’ he said finally.

  ‘As in Winnie?’

  He nodded.

  I pulled a copy of AA Milne from his overcrowded bookshelves, opened it at the beginning and delved into the world of a tubby bear and his friends Eyeore and Piglet.

  ‘How is he?’ Carol said as I came back into the lounge. ‘You were up there ages.’

  ‘He wanted a story.’

  I sat down beside her and put my arm around her shoulder, pulling her into me. I hugged her tightly. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For sharing my dream with me. I know it was a wrench for you to move out here, and I know you’re still not one hundred per cent about it, but I appreciate you indulging me.’

  She took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Love you,’ she said.

  And at that moment Jack screamed.

  Both Carol and I raced for the door. One of the things you learn as a parent is to recognise the different cries of your children. When they’re babies and crying is the only way they can communicate their feelings you start to differentiate between a cry of hunger and a cry of pain, the bellow they give when they’re suffering from colic and the grizzle of discomfort when their nappies need changing. Jack’s cry was none of these. It was a cry of absolute terror.

  We pushed through his bedroom door together and found him out of bed, crouched in the far corner of the room, his knees drawn up to his chest, his hands covering his face. He was shaking.

  Carol got to her knees in front of him and gathered him up in her arms, a protective, maternal response. She stroked his hair, trying to soothe him as his body was racked with sobs.

  ‘What is it, darling?’ she whispered softly to him. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I stood just inside the doorway, looking about the room, trying and failing to spot the cause of his hysterics.

  ‘I don’t like the man,’ he said between sobs.

  ‘There’s no man,’ Carol said soothingly. ‘It was a dream, that’s all. A horrible nightmare.’

  He shook his head vehemently, struggling in her arms. ‘There was a man,’ he said. ‘He had a mask on, a pumpkin face.’

  Carol looked up at me accusingly. ‘Whatever did you read him?’ she said.

  ‘Winnie the Pooh,’ I said and crouched down beside them. I took Jack’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. ‘It’s okay, tiger,’ I said. ‘There’s no man here now.’

  ‘That’s because he’s gone back into the woods,’ he replied, his eyes locking with mine. There was genuine fear in his expression, coupled with a plea that I believe him. ‘He was ugly,’ he said. ‘He grabbed me and tried to pull me in with him.’ He pulled up the sleeve of his pyjamas. The sleeve was wet, with the imprint of fingers in the dampness. I made him take the jacket off.

  On his arm was a line of bruises where strong fingers had gripped him. I remembered Carol’s white knuckles as she held his arm in the lane. I glared at her. She had obviously scared him with her overreaction to the footprints on the path. I said nothing to her about it. There would be plenty of time for recriminations later. ‘Put him in our bed,’ I said. ‘He can sleep with us tonight. I’m going to turn in anyway. It’s been a long day.’

  It was Carol who noticed the fresh leaves on the carpet.

  ‘We know some of the windows are poorly fitting,’ I said.

  Later, with Jack’s hot little body nestled between us we settled down to sleep. As we got ourselves ready for bed a wall of silence had formed between us, and neither of us were willing to breach it. We had a pact never to argue in front of Jack. We were both the product of argumentative parents and knew first hand what an unsettling effect raised voices had on children, often making them feel they were to blame for the disharmony. We had sworn never to inflict that on our child. So silence was the best policy in this case, and we both recognised the fact.

  Outside the night was clear; deeply dark with biting hints of frost floating around. The sky was awash with stars, something that I was still getting used to in the country. October was a month of transition from summer through winter. Fall in the town was sometimes grey and lonely. Here the nights came even earlier, the clean air seemed crisp and invigorating; still cold but brisk – good walking weather. A small wind rustled the leaves and somewhere the last one was being pulled from a tree to join the others on the ground.

  There was no repetition of the nightmare, but I found it impossible to sleep. I slid from the bed and went downstairs to make myself a coffee. I was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping my drink when I heard a stair creak. Moments later Carol came into the kitchen, rubbing tired eyes with balled up fists. ‘Is there another one in there?’ she said.

  I nodded and she sat down opposite me, pouring the steaming coffee. She added milk and two sugars and raised the mug to her lips.

  ‘Is Jack still asleep?’ I said.

  ‘Out like a light,’ she said.

  ‘He’s not usually prone to nightmares,’ I said.

  She stared down at the table. ‘I don’t think it was a nightmare,’ she said.

  ‘So you think a man came, grabbed him and tried to pull him out. Is that what you’re saying?’ I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice and failed miserably.

  She caught the tone and her temper flared. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’

  ‘Then what are you saying?’

  ‘It’s this place... this cottage. It’s got an atmosphere.’

  ‘Oh, here we go.’

  ‘It’s all right for you, but you’re at work all day. I’m stuck here day in, day out, and I can feel it. There’s something not right about the place.’

  I took a deep breath, calming the anger that was twisting like a knot in my stomach. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s accept that for a moment. ‘Tell me what it is that’s not right about the cottage.’

  She took a mouthful of coffee and swallowed. ‘It’s usually when you’ve gone to work and I’ve dropped Jack off at school. I come back here and it’s like... I don’t know... it’s like I’m not alone in the house. I walk into a room and it feels like someone’s just walked out of it. I see things out of the corner of my eye. I can be washing up the breakfast things and I can feel someone, just out of my vision watching me. I turn, catch a glimpse of something, but there’s never anything there. Sometimes I’m sitting in the lounge reading and I can hear someone coming down the stairs. There’s that stair that creaks when you step on it. I swear I hear it creak when there’s just me in the house. Christ Almighty, Tom, I’m not your average nervous housewife. I lived on my own for three years before I met you, and the house in Baker Street was the epitome of what a haunted house should look like, but it never bothered me living alone there. This place is different. Quite frankly it sometimes scares the living daylights out of me.’

  ‘And you don’t think you might have passed on your fear, albeit subconsciously, to Jack?’

  She sighed. ‘Of course that’s a possibility. I’ve been laying awake all night thinking just that... but I’m not sure that’s the answer.’

  ‘Then what is?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s not just the cottage. The whole area, the woods at the back – I keep seeing things.’

  ‘What sort of “things”?’

  ‘All I know is that I’m not prepared to spend my life jumping at shadows.’

  ‘You want us to sell up?’

  Her silence was answer enough.

  I could have spent the next hour explaining the financial ramifications of such a step, but I knew she wouldn’t be listening. Her jaw was set in that obstinate way she had when she had made hr mind up about something, and I knew that any amount of arguing from me was going to change her mind. ‘I’m going to ph
one mum in the morning and ask her if Jack and I can go back and stay with her and dad for a while.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m sure they won’t object.’

  They doted on both Jack and Carol. Of course they wouldn’t object. That only left one obvious question. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Come with us.’ She was watching my face intently, and I couldn’t hide my disappointment. Actually it was more than disappointment. Carol was looking at a man whose dreams had been shattered. Who, up until this moment, was living an idyll he had dreamed about since childhood. ‘You mean it, don’t you?’ I said, quite unnecessarily as I could see from her eyes that she meant every word.

  ‘Uhuh. I’m so sorry, Mark.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said and got to my feet. I felt numb. ‘I’m going back to bed. I’ll get in touch with the estate agent tomorrow.’

  ‘And you’ll come to mum’s with us tomorrow?’

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I will.’ If my time at the cottage now had a limit, then I was determined to spend every possible moment I could there. Besides, living with Carol’s parents would have a detrimental effect on our marriage, and despite this turn of events I loved Carol deeply and did not want to put our relationship at risk. ‘I’ll stay here and organize things. Hopefully we’ll get a quick sale.’

  ‘Mark, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, you said.’

  I climbed the stairs to the bedroom like an old man, my legs weary, my thoughts in turmoil. I felt the stout oak of the banister rail under my hand, only this time there was no sense of solidity and permanence there; only the feeling of something so insubstantial it could have been fashioned from smoke.

  There was only one drawback to Carol’s plan. I entered the bedroom and stared down at the empty bed.

  Jack had gone.

  A thorough search of the house quickly eliminated our first thought, that Jack had had another nightmare and, finding himself alone in the room, had hidden himself away somewhere. We checked under beds and in cupboards with a gradually increasing sense of panic. I looked outside, but it was dark, there were leaves on the ground but apart from movement from the wind there was no sign anyone had gone outside. Anyway the doors were double locked and the chance he had managed to open one was extremely remote.