The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  He shifted his grip and got hold of Frank by both sides of the collar and pulled him up close. His breath was strong in his face and Frank could see the rheumy rims of his eyes and the veins threading through his skin.

  ‘Now see ’ere,’ the man said. His voice was throaty and each word was accompanied by a gust of that bitter smell. It made Frank want to wrinkle his nose but he didn’t dare. It was odd, though; the man didn’t sound angry any longer, just tired, really tired, as if he didn’t want to be saying these things but felt he had to. ‘See ’ere. Just you see he keeps away. I don’t want ’im ’ere. You tell ’im. Tell ’em all.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Your little friends – stop sodding about. Keep ’em away and it’ll be fine wi’ me and fine wi’ you. See?’

  Frank didn’t see but he nodded himself and he felt his top loosen as the man relaxed his grip. It had ridden up, exposing his ribs.

  The old man pointed towards the door, though his eyes still looked unfocused. ‘Get out.’ He gave Frank a push that sent him slithering backwards. ‘I said get out.’

  Frank didn’t move, then he heard a distant shout, almost a shriek – Jeff, he thought – and he started to run. He expected a meaty fist to land on his collar and snatch him back, but it did not come; his fingers brushed the side of the door as he passed and then he was on the stone steps and the day was too bright but the air was blessedly clean and he welcomed it in, running freely now across the lawn and into the lane. When he reached the road he doubled over, gasping in more of that clean air. He could still smell the old man’s breath – he could almost taste it on his tongue. He rubbed his fingers against his trousers, brushing away the feel of those dirty clothes, seeing as he did how filthy his own clothes were – but this was new dirt – and he saw the back of his hand was grazed from where he’d brushed against the door and the knees of his corduroys were scuffed from falling in the hall, and red had smeared through where the skin had broken underneath. Suddenly he wanted to cry. He looked up the lane and saw no one; they had run away again, run off and left him, and then a shape emerged from the hedge and he realised they were waiting after all, Sam and Jeff, and he sniffed back the tears.

  He looked around once more, and saw another dark shape, this one standing in the doorway of the fine old house, watching him as he tried to walk in a dignified way up the lane, doing his best to hide the way his legs were shaking.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There had been someone else there. Frank couldn’t banish the thought as he stared down at the thing Sam held in the palm of his hand. It was making him feel sick, not just the sight of the thing or the knowledge that Sam had stolen it but the smell. It was the same stench the old man had breathed into his face: the foulness of his breath and the trace of whatever sad meal he’d last eaten. Sam was holding the old man’s pipe.

  He took another breath and closed his eyes. When he did that, the smell wasn’t so bad: it was burnt, but also rich and spicy. He opened his eyes and found he’d actually begun to reach out as if he was going to touch that slender smooth stem that had been in the old man’s mouth. He snatched his hand away and Sam laughed, though it wasn’t his usual laugh. Mossy laughed too. They’d found Mossy waiting for them. He’d been told to fetch Frank in for his dinner – they were waiting to eat – but he hadn’t dared go past their own gate. Now his eyes were fixed on the pipe and he didn’t blink.

  ‘Get rid of it,’ Frank said. ‘You shouldn’t ’ave tekken it.’

  ‘I din’t mean to. If ’e ’adn’t come down t’ stairs …’ Sam said this as if coming downstairs was the old man’s fault, as if they hadn’t been trespassing. Frank swallowed and looked back down the lane. He kept expecting to see the old man marching after them, brandishing his stick, but there was only the lane, banked by tall hedges thick with wiry hawthorn, grown about with dog roses and underpinned by stinging nettles. Sam sighed and tightened his grip on the pipe – Don’t touch it, thought Frank – and drew back his arm as if to throw the thing away.

  He gasped and reached out and grabbed hold of Sam and everything stopped. Their eyes met. After a moment, Sam lowered his arm.

  ‘’Ere, then. ’Ave it.’ He thrust it towards Frank and Frank slowly shook his head. ‘Tha’ll take it or I’ll wang it.’

  Frank knew that was true but somehow he still couldn’t reach out and take hold of the pipe. It was as if it carried something of the old man with it, as if he would be tainted by his touch, but from the corner of his eye he could see Mossy looking at him, wondering what he would do. He reached out and took the pipe. It was slippery-smooth under his fingers – odd that it should feel so clean – and he shoved the stem into the waistband of his trousers and pulled his top down so that his mum and dad wouldn’t see.

  ‘What’re you goin’ ter do wi’ it?’

  Frank ignored Sam’s words. Mossy was pulling on his arm and part of him wanted to tell him to stop but he didn’t. He just nodded and took his brother’s hand and started to walk away. He felt better as soon as he entered the farmyard.

  ‘What you goin’ ter do wi’ it?’ Sam’s voice called after him, louder this time, but Frank didn’t take any notice. Mossy’s hand twisted in his but he gripped it tighter and kept them both walking towards the house where his mother was standing on the step, her pinny on and her face red and her eyebrows drawn down like thunder.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The pipe lay where Frank had hidden it, on his shelf at the back of a pile of books, with a stack of bubblegum cards on top of them. It would have been easier to slip it under his old teddy bear, but he couldn’t bear the thought of the bear ending up smelling like the old man, and anyway, it wasn’t as if he had any use for the books. Downstairs, he could hear his mother clattering pots onto the table for everyone else to have their dinner. He wasn’t allowed any; he’d been told to go to his room and not come out and the first thing he’d done after he’d slammed the door shut was hide the pipe. Now he worried that he could smell it in his room, that his mother would. He screwed up his face and rolled over onto his back and the bedsprings creaked under him. It wasn’t fair. He’d only been late and now he was being punished as if the old man had actually caught him. His arm hurt where he’d gripped him and that wasn’t fair either. He rubbed it, staring up at the ceiling.

  There were voices downstairs too. They did not sound happy.

  He closed his eyes and wondered what the old man was doing now. Perhaps he’d be sitting in his chair again, staring into space, his hand reaching for his pipe; he’d be frowning when he realised it had gone. Frank felt anger nestle sourly in his stomach. He needed food to settle it, but thanks to Sam there wouldn’t be any. He could smell it, his mother’s chops and gravy, and saliva flooded his mouth. He gathered it on his tongue, wondering if he could spit it clear of the bed, then he swallowed it down. He could just imagine the old man marching up the lane towards the farm, each step stomping so hard it left a perfect imprint in the road. He shook his head. Surely it was more likely he’d think he’d mislaid his pipe, put it down in one room instead of another. His mum did that all the time, losing her knitting or her book, huffing and puffing while she looked for them. She never thought to blame him or Mossy or burglars, so why should the man? There was no reason, after all, for children to steal a pipe. He thought of Sam again, no doubt tucking in to a big plateful of food, and he pulled a face. The least he could have done was to keep the pipe himself, not pass the cursed thing – yes, cursed – on to him.

  He slipped off the bed and went to the shelf and picked it up. It was so smooth it made him think of the old man’s hands, strong and rough, holding it. The smell really didn’t seem so unpleasant now. It was still an old man smell but somehow it made Frank think of his granddad, who had died a few years ago when he was really small. It was funny: he hadn’t thought of him in a long time. He looked again at the pipe. If he was old, would he treasure something like this? He almost thought he would. It didn’t look cursed. He felt another spike of anger towards
Sam. Why couldn’t he have taken something the old man wouldn’t have missed? It wasn’t just unfair, it was stupid.

  He turned and went to the window, pulling the net curtains back and pushing it open. He could see the spire of the church and it looked bright and peaceful in the early afternoon sunshine. The air was at once sweet and warm and he longed to be enveloped in it, not thinking about anything else. And then it struck him that his parents would be at dinner for an hour yet.

  He could put the pipe back.

  The old man wouldn’t be angry any more. Mossy needn’t be frightened. Sam would see he had more sense than him, and his parents would never know.

  Once he’d had the thought, he didn’t stop to consider. He slipped the pipe back into his waistband, pulling a face at the coldness of the wood against his skin. He pushed aside his Airfix models from the broad windowsill – he’d abandoned the Spitfire when Sam had told him he’d stuck the wings on backwards – and he pulled up his chair. He stepped onto it, the seat sagging beneath his weight, and clambered onto the sill. It was awkward and it dug into his sore knees. He peered out to the side. He knew that the drainpipe was there because his mum had read him a story once about someone doing this very thing and she had caught the look in his eye and glared at him. You mustn’t, she’d said. Such things is only for stories. Anyone else and the drainpipe’ll come right off t’ wall and tek you wi’ it.

  He didn’t think the drainpipe would tek him wi’ it, though. It was a big old chunky thing, topped with decorative ironwork. It was fixed to the wall with solid-looking brackets. He’d examined it before and he thought it would do, although he’d never actually tried it. He saw now that half the trick would be shifting from where he sat and getting a grip on it. He managed to get both legs onto the sill and he reached out and wrapped both palms around it, then felt himself slipping before he’d even thought to let go.

  For a moment his stomach fell away. He could picture it perfectly, dropping all the way to the ground and landing with a thud on the paving beneath. It would crack his skull. There would be blood. He wasn’t sure how he would hide that from his mum. It was only as he realised there might not be any need, that he might never have to face her again, that his grip tightened and he swung around and his toe caught in one of the brackets. His cheek jarred against the metal and it hurt and he closed his eyes. It was a few seconds before he realised he was motionless, just hanging there, and that his arms were getting tired.

  After that it was easier. He let himself down hand over hand, thinking about the bruises he would have after this. He decided he would show them to Mossy. He could already imagine how wide his little brother’s eyes would go when he told him the tale, and then there were flagstones under his feet and it was so unexpected, the solid ground under him, that he staggered and had to steady himself against the wall of the house.

  He straightened his clothes and got moving, trying to walk quietly across the rough surface of the yard.

  *

  Mire House stood with its back to the sun and its face in shadow. Frank had intended to walk straight inside without giving himself the chance to pause or let his nerves prickle but he stopped at the gate anyway. There seemed to be something different about the house. It took him a moment to realise what it was, and then he had it: it was waiting.

  Although the day was warm, the air was harsh in his throat. It was impossible to know where in the house the old man was. Frank pictured himself walking up to the door and knocking and handing over the pipe. Perhaps that would be the best thing – but there was no way of knowing how the man would react; he might be marched home after all, or worse. And he could imagine his mother’s face if he appeared, being dragged by the ear, when all the time she thought he was upstairs. He frowned. If she’d relented by now she might have filled a plate and carried it up to him, only to find the room empty. But it couldn’t be helped. The only way was to keep doing what they’d started – sneaking about and trespassing. It was funny how one thing led to another. That was something his dad always said when the horse threw a shoe just as the blacksmith put his prices up, or when the rain came down just before harvest and the tractor went on the blink. There’s always something. He looked up at the house, wondering what was going to go wrong this time.

  The pipe was digging into his skin. He wanted to move it but he didn’t want to touch it again, not before he had to. Better, if he got caught, that the old man didn’t see it; better he didn’t have anything that could show Frank was nothing but a thief.

  He pursed up his lips. He wasn’t a thief. He’d pinched some of Mossy’s toys before, but that didn’t count; it wasn’t anything Mossy hadn’t done back. He took a deep breath. As before, there was no point in waiting. Waiting meant his mum and dad finishing their meal and going to find him. Waiting would make everything worse. He stepped out onto the driveway just as sunlight speared from behind the building, making him squint. Now the house was a dark shape. He told himself he hadn’t been able to see anything anyway and started to walk.

  The door handle was cool under his fingers, almost cold, and when he tried to turn it he had the awful thought that it was locked, but no: it turned and the catch clicked and he froze, listening. There was no sound until he stepped into the hall and then he heard the rhythmic scraping of a spoon against a pan. If the old man’s dinner was ready, he might come out at any moment. Frank hurried, trying to walk quietly, and saw with dismay that he had left new muddy footprints across the tiles. He looked up just as a door at the back of the house creaked. He had to hide. He looked towards the man’s sitting room. That was where the pipe belonged – but what if he got trapped in there? That only left the stairs.

  He knew it was a bad idea even as he started up them. The treads were made of dark wood and they let out tired, airy squeaks as he went up. He kept to the edges, knowing from all the times he’d crept up on Mossy that was the best way to stop stairs from creaking. He found himself at a corner, edging around it with his hands spread against panelling that felt sticky under his fingers. He saw there was a passageway all around the top of the stairs and there were a lot of doors. He snatched the pipe from his waistband and stared at it as if it could tell him where to go. He walked to one of the doors and pushed it open.

  The bedroom was bright after the hallway. It was painted blue and yellow curtains with little white flowers swayed at the open window. There was a narrow fireplace that didn’t look as if it had been lit in a long time. It wasn’t until he’d stepped inside that he caught the stale scent hanging in the air. It smelled as if someone had slept too long and without brushing their teeth, a smell that the open window had failed to freshen, and he knew at once he’d made a mistake: this was the old man’s room. If he came upstairs, this is where he’d head. The candlewick bedspread was rumpled and grey-looking, obviously used; he should have seen it at once.

  There was little else but a dresser with a record player sitting on the top and a few other items squeezed in next to it: a chipped crystal vase, empty; a picture in a frame; a button with a cluster of threads attached; a comb, and an ashtray. That was where he would leave the pipe. He padded across the carpet and put it down, gently, so that it scarcely made a sound, and then a noise came from the landing and he realised it was too late; he was trapped after all. His heart thumped in his chest. He glanced at the window but it was too small to climb out and anyway, it was far too high, and he didn’t even know if there was a drainpipe. And then he noticed, close to the door by which he’d entered, another door, narrower than the first. He had no time to consider where it might lead before he rushed towards it and pulled it open and closed it again behind him.

  It was dark inside. He knew without being able to see that he was in a small space. He could sense the walls, close and pressing inwards, and it was stuffy and too warm. The soft bulk of clothes pressed against his side.

  He heard footsteps moving about the bedroom. A narrow crack of light penetrated the door frame and he thought about pre
ssing his eye to that gap, trying to see through, but he daren’t move. He’d only knock into something or make a noise, and what happened then might be terrible.

  More footsteps came, just two or three this time, and a harsh scratching, so loud that Frank jumped. Then, starting faintly and building in volume, there was music. Frank realised it was the same that he had heard before. The steps multiplied, quick and light, as if the man was tiptoeing around. Suddenly he had the image of not just one person out there but two, dancing together while Frank cowered in the dark.

  It stopped and the footsteps became louder again. They were heading straight towards him. Frank caught his breath and edged backward, and the handle on the other side of the door rattled before falling still. Frank’s throat was dry. He licked his lips and found they were parched too. He was cold all over. It was as if the dark was touching him with its indifferent hands. He felt a long way from home and he thought of Mossy and then his mum and dad and he realised with a lurch in his stomach that they didn’t even know where he was.

  He closed his eyes. It didn’t make any difference. He could hear a voice under the strange crackly music that went on and on; it was his mother’s voice. He couldn’t remember when she’d said the words, probably because she had repeated them so many times: Don’t talk to strangers. Stop, look and listen before you cross the road. And most of all, every time they went anywhere: Never wander off without saying where you’re going. And then she’d rub his head, so hard that sometimes his hair pulled and it hurt, and he’d duck away and squirm. He would do anything now to feel her hand in his hair. He silently swore that if he could be somewhere else and have her with him he wouldn’t pull away again; he wouldn’t even complain.