Dead Romantic

by Ruth Saberton

  The winter’s morning, which had made London glitter with frost, has iced the hills of Buckinghamshire too; when I step onto the platform I’m struck by just how pretty this part of the world is. Spiders’ webs lace the railings, and the metal seat where Rafe Thorne and I once spent a Christmas Eve sparkles. There’s nothing here but a handful of houses and a picturesque medieval Church where couples clamour to get married, so anyone who alights at Riverside Halt is soon driving away to the villages beyond. Nobody journeys to their destination on foot from here, except me.

  The countryside is just as quiet as I remember. As I walk down the narrow lane the only sounds I can hear are the chirruping of a robin and the thudding of my own heartbeat. It always was an isolated spot. The fields around are white; cows stand in chilly huddles by the hedges and horses are wrapped up in blankets, smoke pluming from their nostrils as they canter across the frozen grass to the gate just in case I have treats. I don’t know much about horses but I can tell these ones are worth a fortune. The station’s in the middle of nowhere – a throwback to the golden age of branch lines – but beyond several fields and a muddy footpath is the Thames, a silver serpent winding its way through three counties. Here the cluster of houses beside the Thames forms some of the most expensive real estate in England: beautiful riverside properties owned by bankers and actors.

  And rock stars.

  Rafe Thorne lives in Mellisande, a thirteenth-century house right next to the river. I remember it from childhood walks along the riverbanks: a mellow grey-stone building smothered in deep green ivy and slumbering behind crumbling walls. Thanks to its status as a listed building, it’s escaped being levelled and turned into a glass-and-chrome modernist creation like some of the other houses here. It’s beautiful but hardly the kind of property I’d have expected a rock star to live in. It’s a house for a poet rather than a pop star. It’s an interesting choice, and one that I can relate far more easily to the sweet guy I met all those years ago than to the brooding man with the dangerous edge that he’s apparently turned into.

  With my rucksack on my shoulders I continue up the lane and climb the stile leading me to a footpath skirting fields of furrowed earth. Crows fly upwards, caw-cawing as my feet crunch across the frost, and in spite of my nerves I enjoy the walk. Or at least, I enjoy it until I find myself in front of the big wrought-iron gates of Mellisande. Then my heart plops into my boots.

  “This would be a great time for you to show up, Alex,” I say hopefully, but there’s no answer, only my breath clouding the air. It looks like I’m on my own.

  The gate isn’t locked and when I give it a shove it swings open soundlessly. The path beyond is overgrown; hedges straggle across it. I wind my way around them, through to the front door. There are no lights on and the whole place has the look of somewhere long shut up. A blackbird flies up with a cry of alarm and the gossamer threads of a spider’s web stretch and break when I push my way through. Rafe Thorne hasn’t been out today then, at least not along this path. It doesn’t look as though anyone’s been this way for a while.

  I climb the three steps into the porch, treading stones smoothed by centuries of feet, and pause. The windows are small and diamond paned, and beyond them all I can see is darkness. Fat spiders scuttle into the corners but otherwise all is completely still. It doesn’t look as though there’s anyone at home. Maybe Rafe’s back in rehab again? From what I read online this would hardly be surprising. I lift the heavy brass knocker and rap it against the door. The noise is shocking against the stillness. For a few seconds I wait, my heart hammering against my ribs, just in case the door swings open – but there’s no response.

  I could give up and walk back to the station, but I hate the thought of coming this far and quitting. Besides, I want my life back and a promise is a promise, isn’t it? I can’t risk Alex and pals never going away, so I’m going to have to find Rafe Thorne sooner or later. I may as well just get it over with. Maybe he’s out in the garden or something?

  There’s a path leading around the side of the house to the lawns at the back. Crossing my fingers that I won’t come across any dogs or security guards, I follow it right the way around until I come to the overgrown formal gardens that roll gently down to the river and the boathouse. There are no footprints on the frosty grass and apart from the chugging of a passing boat everything is still.

  Is he inside? Should I knock on one of the French windows maybe? Or try to peer through? I release my rucksack from my shoulders and abandon it while I decide what to do next. This kind of thing always looks so straightforward on TV, but in real life it’s not so easy gaining access to someone else’s home, especially when the terrace is covered in empty plant pots – over which I trip and nearly go flying. Only grabbing the trellis and ending up with half a tonne of dead Virginia creeper on my head saves me from toppling over. I end up yanking half of the thing off the wall and almost skewering myself on a piece of the trellis. Fan-bloody-tastic. Now I’m not only trespassing but causing criminal damage as well. If only I was back in my office, absorbed in my work. Life was so simple before I had my accident. OK, so it was rather uneventful – boring, even – but at least it was uncomplicated.

  I dust myself off and lean the damaged trellis back against the wall as best I can. I’m pretty certain that this kind of thing never happens in CSI: Miami. Windows are clean and sparkly there, and nobody nearly turns themselves into a human kebab on a chunk of broken trellis. Now I’m covered in leaves and bits of splintery wood and have wrecked the climbing plant as well. I should stick to being an academic; this detective lark is easier said than done, that’s for certain.

  I venture back to the French windows. One heavy brocade curtain has been dragged halfway across and the other has been abandoned as though whoever went to draw them lost heart mid task and gave up. I press my face against the glass but it’s so gloomy inside that it’s hard to discern anything at all at first. I shield my eyes against the glaring reflection of the river and squint; slowly, the room comes into focus. I can just about make out a sofa and a table and possibly the blank screen of a television, but beyond that the room swims in darkness. The house is empty. Wherever Rafe Thorne may be, it isn’t here. There’s a familiar feeling to this place, with its heavy furniture and fittings and its air of abandonment. It’s as though the occupants have just slipped away, leaving behind only whispers and secrets. It may be a beautiful medieval manor house bathed in watery winter sunshine on the banks of the Thames, yet it feels exactly the same as one of the ancient tombs I’ve worked on back in Egypt. There’s the same sense of stillness and expectancy, as though the occupants of the place have only just left…

  I stop myself. Did I really feel like this in Egypt? It’s hard to remember now, but I’m sure this isn’t the way I would have described it at the time; this is far too flowery and fanciful. I’m really not myself – of course I’m not. I’m trying to peer into somebody else’s house because a hallucination told me to.

  What am I thinking? This is insanity. I should get out right now.

  I’m poised to turn around and make my way back to the station, furious with myself for coming out here in the first place, when something in the room catches my eye. Years of looking for details in the strangest places have trained me well and the smallest clues rarely escape me. So when I spot a foot just visible in the pooling shadows in the furthest corner of the room, my stomach lurches. Suddenly all my thoughts of crime shows and CSI dramas aren’t nearly as amusing. With my heart racing, I push my face to the grimy glass, squint into the gloom again and hope that I’m mistaken.

  There’s a body sprawled across the floor. Oh. My. God. There really is.

  I blink just in case I’m having another hallucination, but there really is a man’s body lying motionless on the carpet – and I don’t need to look any closer to know exactly who this is. My every cell is on red alert.

  Rafe Thorne, my Christmas stranger, is lying unconscious on the floor.

  Chapter
16

  “Alex! If there was ever a time I needed you around then this is it!” I cry. I bang my fist against the thick glass with all my might but the figure on the floor doesn’t stir. I can’t even see his chest rise and fall. Oh God, I’m too late. Alex was right all along: his brother really is in a terrible state. No wonder he was so frantic that I should help him.

  “Hello! Rafe!” I hammer again with my fists but there’s no answer. How can there be when he’s motionless? Is he even alive?

  OK, Cleo. Breathe. Think. Use your logical brain, not this emotional one you’ve developed recently. Think smart and think fast. What can you do now to help him? Break the window? Call an ambulance? Fetch the neighbours?

  Ambulance. I need an ambulance. I pull out my phone but there’s no signal. Of course there isn’t: I’m in the sticks and miles from anywhere. Neighbours then? But this is a remote spot and I haven’t got any time to waste. If I’m going to call an ambulance I’ll need a landline. There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to break in.

  Glancing around, I search for something, anything, tough enough to break the glass. Maybe that rusty shovel? Would that do it? Or what about that wooden bench? It looks a bit big for me to shift though. I pause. No! I’ve got it! The stone birdbath is perfect. That’ll make short work of the French windows.

  Just as I’m attempting to drag the deceptively heavy birdbath across the terrace, Alex appears in front of me. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Breaking the window,” I gasp. “Rafe’s collapsed. I’m going to have to smash the glass.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” Alex protests.

  “I do,” I pant. My hands scrabble against the rough stone, lichen gathering beneath my nails. My palms are already scratched, but I’m beyond caring about any of that. All I want to do is reach out to Rafe now he’s all alone and needing help, just as he once reached out for me. “Your brother’s on the floor, Alex! He needs help.”

  “Wait! Don’t smash the window. There’s a key,” Alex says quickly. He steps in front of the birdbath and immediately there’s a blast of icy air as though the sun has slipped behind a cloud. “By the back door there’s a rotting window ledge. The top part will pull off and Rafe always kept a key hidden underneath. Crap place, I know, and bloody obvious–”

  But I’m not waiting to listen to any more from Alex. Where’s he been all morning when I needed his help anyway? Ignoring him I tear around the house to the small back porch where I locate a key exactly where Alex has said I’ll find it. I guess if I was in the frame of mind to be thinking clearly then I’d be able to log this under Proof That Ghosts Exist, but right now I’m just relieved to be able to get inside without severing an artery. For a minute I struggle to get the key in the lock because my hands are shaking so much; then the key turns and I’m inside.

  The house is still. The only sound is the rasping of my breathing. I’ve let myself into the kitchen, a large room with an ancient range cooker and an enormous scrubbed oak table flanked by countless chairs. The table is strewn with sheets of handwritten notes covered in crossings outs, and hundreds more screwed-up sheets litter the floor like angry snowballs. And either Rafe Thorne is running Taply’s bottle-recycling facilities or he’s a man who goes on serious and regular benders. Outside of the booze aisle in Tesco, I don’t think I have ever seen so many bottles in my life.

  So much for all the stints in rehab.

  Beyond the kitchen is a gloomy passageway. Drawn curtains shut out the daylight and the place smells old, of things too long left shut – the smell of absences and despair. I shudder and then force myself to jog down the corridor in the direction of the room where I saw Rafe. Left, I think, then right and maybe through those double doors?

  “This really isn’t a good idea.” Alex is now standing in front of the double doors and he looks alarmed. “Please don’t go in. I’m sorry I ever involved you. Look, go home, Cleo. I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

  “It’s a bit late for that now. Your brother’s in trouble,” I say impatiently. “He’s on the floor and he needs help, Alex. I thought my helping him was what you wanted? He could be dead!”

  Alex gives me a wry look. “I think I’d know if he was dead, don’t you?”

  It’s a fair point. “So maybe he’s not dead,” I concede, “but he’s certainly hurt and he needs help. Now get out the way, Alex!”

  But he doesn’t budge. “Look, this is bloody awkward and I know you’re trying to help – which I totally appreciate, by the way – but take it from me, this is not a good idea. Really, I don’t think that you should–”

  Right. I’ve had enough. There’s no way I’m going to stand here having a conversation with my imaginary friend when there’s a man lying on the floor just the other side of these doors. What Alex Thorne thinks I should or shouldn’t do is irrelevant to me as I charge straight through him, shove open the doors and race to the crumpled figure on the floor by the chair.

  This room is dark and fuggy with the sour taint of sweat and whiskey, and as I crouch down beside the man on the floor alcohol fumes hit me in the face like a punch from a heavyweight boxer. There’s even more paper here – piles and piles of it scrawled all over with notes, both words and music, and scored with furious crossings out. I reach to see if Rafe has a pulse, but my elbow catches several bottles that roll onto the stone flags with a clatter.

  The formerly motionless figure and I both jump. A strong hand clamps down on my right shoulder and immediately I realise my mistake.

  Rafe Thorne isn’t dead or injured or even sleeping. He’s just passed out after a particularly heavy bender and now he’s been woken up, hung over and glowering, by a total stranger who has broken into his house.

  “Who the hell are you?” he snarls. His other hand circles my wrist like a manacle; no matter how I pull and twist I can’t break free. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

  “This is a bit awkward,” says Alex from the doorway. “I did try to warn you, Cleo. But you never listen to me.”

  I ignore him because right now I have more pressing matters to think about, namely explaining to Rafe Thorne how and why I’m in his house – before he flips. His left hand has tightened like a vice on my shoulder. His fingers bite through my coat and into my skin. The smell of stale alcohol makes me gag. Rafe sits up – wincing at the light, which streams in through the unopened curtain – and gives me such a shake my bones rattle.

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, his dark brows meeting in a scowl. “This is private property. I said, how the fuck did you get in?”

  It’s as though a cobra is poised to strike. I shrink back, rifling through all the things I could say but finding that I’m suddenly unable to utter a word.

  “If you’re from the press you can fuck right off. I’ve nothing to say to any of you lot,” Rafe continues angrily. A muscle in his cheek twitches. “I’ll have you for breaking and entering. I’ll sue your filthy little rag for everything it has.”

  His hand is still clamped onto my shoulder and it’s starting to hurt, and I fear my wrist in his other hand will snap like a twig.

  “I didn’t break and enter: I had a key,” I say quickly. “I know this sounds crazy but I saw you through the window and I thought you were hurt, so I let myself in with the key you keep hidden under that rotting window sill.”

  Rafe stares at me. His head is probably pounding and I expect he feels like death. If I drank that much I’d need hospitalising. He frowns, the violet eyes dark with anger. I try to pull away but he still has me in his grasp. There’s a dangerous strength about him that was never there before, the strength that comes with not caring and having nothing left to lose.

  “How the bloody hell did you know a key was there? Who told you that?”

  “Don’t tell him!” Alex pleads. “He’ll freak! Honestly, Cleo! This is not the time to come clean. He’ll never believe a word you say again if you blow it now.”

  For
once I’m in agreement with Alex. Rafe looks like a man on the edge and I’m not inclined to be the one who makes him topple. I shrug.

  “It’s the first place anyone would look. You ought to be more careful.”

  The hands loosen their grip a little. Rafe leans forward and stares at me through narrowed eyes, and as he does so he sways.

  “So let’s rephrase. What the hell are you doing peering in my windows and snooping around the property, if you’re not from the press?”

  I’m tempted to tell him the unbelievable truth, but his hand is still holding my shoulder – and I have a nasty feeling that if I say his dead brother sent me, Rafe will lose the plot entirely and shake me like a terrier would a rat, until my neck snaps. Maybe it’s time to divulge some of the truth, at least the part that won’t make me sound like a lunatic. I’ll just sound like a stalker instead, albeit one who’s ten years late.

  “I’m not from the press,” I say quickly, finding my voice at last. “Honestly, I’m not. I’ve come to see you and when you didn’t answer the door I looked through the window. When I saw you on the floor I thought…” I’m still trembling because I really had thought he was dead. It’s one thing working with the dead of a long-gone culture, but quite another to think you’re about to be faced with a recent corpse. I have a sudden insight into Susie’s everyday working life and am humbled with admiration for her. Then I gather myself and press on because Rafe is still glaring at me as though he’d like to drown me in the icy river outside.

  “When I saw you on the floor I thought something awful had happened,” I say. My voice is as splintered as the wooden windowsills, my confidence flaking away like the paint. “I thought you were dead or hurt and I wanted to help.”

  A frown creases his brow. “Very noble, but that doesn’t answer my question. Why were you snooping here in the first place? This is private property.”