And then I heard it. A soft, scuttling sound coming from above the rough plaster on the ceiling. I’d heard the sound often and explained it away, usually imagining a mouse creeping along the gutter and slipping beneath the tiles. But now, I knew better, oh, so much better than that. It could only be the tiny movements of a remote-controlled camera, hidden in the ceiling. That was how the old man watched me. He must’ve had them installed in every room, every hallway. It was the only explanation that made sense. You see, ever since my first days in the old man’s house, I’d heard noises echoing in its empty rooms and lonely corridors. I’d always dismissed them as nothing more than the common creaks of an old building. But not anymore. Now that I’d had this moment of clarity, so many things fell into place.
No wonder the old man was content to stay indoors and sit by his meagre fire all day. He had all the entertainment he needed in watching my every move. I’d often thought it odd that he kept fiddling with that phone. It was always by his side. That phone was the only modern device in the whole house—or so I’d thought. But now I understood. My every action, my every breath, perhaps even my very thoughts were being secretly filmed, recorded and relayed back to that phone!
A surge of cold anger ran through my veins, and a scream burned in my chest, aching to be loosed upon the world. But I knew better than to let it out. I had to think. Think.
I ran my fingers through my hair and scratched and plucked at my scalp until I broke the skin and it bled. And finally, a realisation crept into my mind. The tables had turned. The old man had mistreated me, invaded my privacy. But I had discovered the truth, and his behaviour would surely cause a great scandal. I smiled. At last I’d gained some small measure of power over him. But I had to be careful how I wielded that power. I couldn’t afford the possibility that my word, the word of a hired servant, would be measured against his. He was, after all, a man of wealth and influence. I needed to plot a new course of action. But while I made my plans, I could at least take some small steps to avoid his prying eyes. And so, my mind a whirl of possibilities, I pulled the woollen blanket over my head, and despite the nagging pangs of uncertainty that still squirmed in my guts, I slept.
I spent the next day trying to track down the old man’s cameras, but I soon realised that it was pointless trying to spot them. He would’ve made absolutely sure that they were completely hidden. And so I paced the hallways, thinking, searching for some clue that I could use as evidence.
And suddenly, I hit upon a simple truth. I would never be able to see the cameras, but with practise, I should be able to hear them. It was merely a matter of mental discipline, of directing the senses. Genius. And once I’d attuned my ears to it, there would be no way of hiding the minute sounds the cameras made as they tracked my movements.
Technology. It’s amazing isn’t it? Did you know that even in this poor place, this so-called hospital, they have cameras that can detect a person’s breathing? They use them to watch over the quiet ones—the hopeless souls with pale faces, dull eyes, and stashes of barbiturates hidden under their mattresses. There are cameras everywhere here, but they are crude and obvious. The old man, with all his wealth, was so much more sophisticated. His infernal devices, I’m sure, were scanning the temperature of my skin, the dilation of my pupils, even the sweat on my brow. And who knows what else they were recording? My thoughts, my dreams—my very soul was laid open to his pernicious scrutiny. And I challenge you: could you live like that? Could you tolerate that level of surveillance, of intrusion?
I see, from the curl of your lip, that you could not.
But I am stronger than you. I simply hid my fears behind a smile and carried on. I cleaned and cooked, I fetched and carried. And I sharpened my senses. Soon, I could hear the susurration of a spider as it wove its flimsy web on the kitchen ceiling. And I could measure out the final rapid breaths of an unfortunate fly as it blundered into the web’s sticky strands and met its doom. I heard everything.
By the time the moon shone bright, and the hour drew close when we would retire to our beds, I could scarcely hear myself think for the nerve-jangling noise that assailed my ears from every angle. I needed a distraction, and so I made myself busy. I checked that the doors were securely locked. I made sure that all the curtains were drawn tightly closed. And I watched as the old man went slowly up the stairs to bed.
I listened. Waited. And then, when I was certain that he’d closed his chamber door for the night, I made myself at home. First, I threw two logs onto the fire. Two! Then I poured a generous measure of the old man’s port into a crystal wine glass, and I sat in his chair. I breathed a deep sigh of contentment and raised the glass in a silent toast to my success.
I see a flicker of concern pass across your face. You’re thinking of the cameras. Wasn’t I worried, you’re thinking, about being caught red-handed in the old man’s chair, drinking his ostentatious wine? Of course not. I’ve explained that the chair by the fire was exclusively the old man’s domain. It follows then, does it not, that this chair was the one place, the only place in the entire house, where there would be no cameras. Ha! At last the light of comprehension dawns on your features. Now where was I? Ah yes. The glass of port.
In truth, the strong port was not to my taste. I wanted nothing more than to enjoy my moment of glory, to soak up every sight, every sound, every touch. But the port dulled my senses and filled my mind with dark imaginings and foolish fears. Nevertheless, I drained every last drop, determined to savour its taste. And why not? After all, I had time to kill.
Later, I was standing over the fire, prodding the embers back to life with the brass poker, when at last, the cogs whirred inside the old grandfather clock. It was about to strike twelve. I turned on my heel and strode across the room. In a heartbeat, I’d opened its case and put my hand inside to stop the mechanism. There would be no chimes at midnight for the old man.
It was time. I crept up the stairs in almost complete silence, being careful to tread only on the edges of each step, where the wood meets the wall. At the top, I did not hesitate, but crossed the landing to his door. I moved like a panther stalking its prey. I was one with the night, slinking through the darkness, like the memory of a shadow. Every footstep was calculated, planned. And how could they have been otherwise, when they had been so thoroughly rehearsed? But you look surprised. Did you think that I would’ve been so foolish as to leave these things to chance? Ha! I’m no fool. I skirted around the treacherous places where the floorboards creaked. And I knew every one of them. God knows, I’d polished them so often that I could recognise every knot, every irregularity in the pattern of the grain.
When I reached the old man’s bedroom door, I opened it without making a sound. And I congratulated myself. The thin layer of oil that I’d applied to the hinges had done its work. I smiled. Preparation is everything.
You understand, I’m sure, my intentions at this point. My aim was merely to give the old man a fright—to find his phone and confront him with the evidence of his loathsome spying. Nothing more. But as I approached, a cloud shifted and unmasked the moon. Suddenly, a stray slice of moonlight slid through a gap in the curtains and fell upon the old man’s face. He woke with a start, and sat up in bed, clutching at his bedclothes.
“Who’s there?” he cried. “Who’s there?”
I said nothing. I didn’t even sigh. I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. It simply isn’t possible to account for every random variable. One cannot plan for the vagaries of the wind and the wandering movements of the clouds.
But all was not lost. Apart from the single, errant ray of moonlight, the rest of the room was in complete darkness, and I stood still, concealed in its generous shadows. I was certain that he could not see me, whereas I, with my finely tuned senses, could see the trembling of his frail hands, his gnarled fingers plucking at the bedclothes. I could hear the rasping of his rapid, shallow breaths as each faltering gasp caught at the back of his throat. And as I waited and watched, he let out a low
moan, almost despite himself. A low, wavering, pitiful moan of raw, unadulterated fear. It was beautiful.
He turned his head and began to fumble among the clutter on his nightstand. And in that moment, in that sudden movement of his head, he turned his face toward the window, and that ice-blue beam of moonlight fell upon the dull, sullen whiteness of his ruined eye. It glimmered in the darkness like the belly of a long-dead fish, and it sickened me. I could not contain my disgust, my complete and utter revulsion. I pressed my lips tight together, but such was my abhorrence that my bile rose in my throat and I gagged.
The old man leaped from his bed with surprising speed and agility. “Murder!” he screamed, the single word bellowed as loud as his ragged voice would allow. “Murder!”
And I had no choice. No choice but to stop his filthy, lying mouth.
I stepped forward and looked him in the eye, the mad, white, corrupted eye, and in that split second of stillness I realised that I had come prepared. Perhaps by some strange premonition, I still had the heavy brass poker, grasped tight in my fist. He opened his mouth to cry out again, and I raised my arm. And when I brought it down, I put out the light that gleamed in that evil, translucent eyeball.
They’ll tell you, if you ask, what they think happened next. All lies. Lies designed to paint me as the villain of the piece—lies to take advantage of my nervous disposition.
But you must know by now, you must understand from what I’ve told you, that I loved the old man. I could not bear to leave him lying there on the cold floor. He’d always been susceptible to draughts. So I wrapped him up in his thick woollen dressing gown and carried him down the stairs to his beloved chair.
I tried, at first, to arrange him sitting upright by the fire, but I had no success. He kept sliding across the smooth leather, slumping sideways or slipping down toward the floor. It was obvious that a more permanent solution was needed.
It was but the work of a moment to shift the chair, and the old man, to one side, and lift up the floorboards. And I laid him down gently in the dark space below. The old house provided more than enough room for him to lie comfortably between the sturdy joists, and he looked quite at peace. It was, I decided, exactly where he would want to be, beneath the chair that he’d loved so much.
I took my time replacing the boards. And when I’d finished, I fancied that no one, not even the old man himself, could tell that they’d been disturbed.
I’d done a good job, and I rewarded myself with a mug of hot tea. But barely had I blown on my drink’s surface to cool it, when a knock sounded at the front door. I looked down at the floor. “Who would be calling at this hour?” I asked the old man. But no reply came from his resting place. And so I put down my mug on the table and went to answer the door.
The police officers seemed to know that I was not the owner of the house. They were brusque, abrupt.
“I’m Sergeant Hardy,” the older one said, “and this is Police Constable Wright.”
I nodded to show that I’d understood, but I didn’t feel obliged to introduce myself to these servants of the law, for I had nothing to fear from them.
“We’ve had reports of a disturbance,” the sergeant said. “Mind if we come in and check that everything’s all right?”
I waved my arm to welcome them in. “Be my guest,” I said. “Though I fear your journey has been wasted. I am here alone.”
“Alone huh?” the constable asked as they stepped over the threshold.
“Yes,” I said, “and I’m afraid that it was I who called out in alarm. I was troubled with a nightmare. Nothing more.”
The police officers stared at me, somewhat rudely in my opinion. But I was not to be unsettled. “That’s why I was already out of bed when you arrived,” I continued. “I was having a hot drink to calm my nerves. Perhaps I can offer you a cup? It’s a cold night, and it must feel even colder when you’ve been forced to venture outdoors for no good reason.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and then the sergeant gave the smallest of nods. “Much appreciated,” he said.
“Please,” I said, “warm yourselves by the fire while I prepare the tea.” I hummed to myself as I left the room. This was a golden opportunity to explain the old man’s absence. And what better witnesses could I have than a pair of serving police officers?
When I returned, the sergeant was listening to his radio, his head cocked on one side as he scribbled something into his black notebook. He looked up as I set the tray down on the table.
“Help yourselves, gentlemen,” I said. “There’s milk and sugar.”
But they did not reply for a moment. They narrowed their eyes and studied my expression as a butcher might weigh up a carcass before he brings down his cleaver.
“You said you were alone,” the young constable said.
I smiled to show that I could not be hurt by his accusatory tone. “And so I am,” I assured him. “The owner of the house is away on business. He’ll be out of town for two weeks. Possibly longer.”
“I see,” the sergeant said, “but we have to check something.” He paused to make a note in his book, then raised his head and looked me in the eye. “You know that he carried a personal alarm?”
I beamed at them and listened, for a while, to the beating of their hearts, to the blood pumping wildly around their eager limbs. “Alarm?” I asked, being careful to keep my tone casual. “Why would he have such a thing? The master of the house does not hold with modern technologies.” With one or two exceptions, I thought.
The sergeant pursed his lips. “I’ve some sympathy for that view myself,” he said, “but I believe the gentleman is partially sighted. Perhaps he felt vulnerable.”
Partially sighted? I thought. Oh, he could see well enough all right. He could see deep into a man’s soul with that wicked eye. But I merely shook my head and smiled. “How could he be vulnerable?” I said. “He has me to look after him.”
The young constable tutted and rocked back and forth on his heels.
The sergeant frowned at him, then turned his eagle eye back to me. “That may be,” he said, “but it seems that your employer paid to have an alarm. Are you sure you didn’t know? He probably would’ve carried it with him at all times.”
I looked down at the floor. There was only one thing that the old man kept constantly at his side. But I didn’t say a word. I didn’t trust myself to speak. My throat was tight, and my mouth dry.
“It doesn’t matter,” the sergeant went on, “I’ll ask them to call it up.”
“Call it up?” I whispered. I looked up. The sergeant took a phone from his pocket.
“Yes,” he said. “For instance, say he falls down. He just activates his alarm, then an operator calls him up, on the alarm itself, and asks him what the problem is.” He dialled in a number. “Clever, huh?” he said. “And expensive too. I wish I’d come up with the idea. I’d be a rich man, maybe have a big house like this one.”
“Indeed,” I said. And while the sergeant mumbled into his phone, my mind wandered elsewhere. I thought of the old man’s dressing gown, and the weight of it as I’d wrapped it around his shoulders. I thought of so many things, of my many blunders and missed opportunities. And I listened, listened, listened to the dust as it spiralled up with every tiny movement of the air. I could hear the gentle shush of the radio waves reaching out to shake hands with the old man’s tell-tale gadget, and from below came the secret pulses of a dead circuit suddenly resuscitated.
And I couldn’t bear it. At any moment, the tiny speaker would crackle into life and blare out its warning. And I could not stand by and wait, not even for a split second longer. I put my hands over my ears. But it wouldn’t be enough. To me, that shrill alarm would be a soul-piercing siren, a deafening klaxon of despair.
“For god’s sake stop!” I cried. “You’re ruining everything with your interference.” I pointed down at the old oak floorboards. “He’s under your feet, you damn fools.”
And the look on their faces
... well, that’s something that I’ll savour for years to come.
***
So now you understand.
You see my predicament. And you’ll agree, I’m sure, that I should not be in this place. I shouldn’t be here at all. Why should I be the one to suffer? I’m the victim here. A victim of my special abilities, my sensitive personality. But I tell you, if you could see and hear as sharply as me, then you’d be nervous too. And I am nervous. I’m really very dreadfully nervous.
But why must they insist on calling me mad?
SWEET DREAMS
“Sweet dreams, my only one,” Mum says as she tucks me in. Always the same words.
But they never work.
He will be here again tonight. His face so like mine—almost a ghostly reflection.
He grins mischievously at first. Then he giggles and laughs, loud and long. He laughs for the sheer joy of laughing, wild and carefree, just like a little boy should be.
But his sweet, wonderful, musical laughter chills me to the bone. Because I know. I know what comes next. And all I can think is that I wish he’d get it over with. But no. The story he has to show me will take all night. It always does.
First, his face grows pale, his eyes dull. Wrinkles pinch the corners of his mouth and crease his forehead. His body fails, grows feeble. His muscles hang slack from his delicate bones. He withers before my eyes.
Then there are plastic tubes in his nose and mouth. His dry lips twitch at the corners as if he’s trying to smile. But he’s too weak. Too weak to do anything.
Soon, the light fades from his eyes. He stares into space, looking at something only he can see.
And then I have to brace myself for the worst part. Because the worst part always comes next. Always.
A Dark Assortment Page 7