The Stone House

by Patrick Ness

  ‘I should have by this evening. Next question.’ Miss Quill looks towards the window of the staff room.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a question, exactly.’

  ‘What do you want, Tanya?’

  Tanya reaches down and picks up the huge paper cup of coffee. ‘It’s a bribe. I’d like your help.’

  ‘Of course you do. What else do you lot ever want? What if I say no, what’re you going to do then? Sort it out by yourself, that’s what.’ Miss Quill takes a long drink and closes her eyes. After an uncomfortably long time, she opens them again.

  ‘Well go on, then, what do you want?’

  ‘I had a dream last night where the girl in the house told me her name.’ Tanya looks at her shoes, not wanting to look Miss Quill in the eye. She can do without disdain today.

  ‘And?’ Miss Quill says, not a trace of contempt in her voice. Tanya looks up. Not a sign of it on her face, either.

  ‘Amira. She said her name is Amira.’

  ‘Have you checked the missing persons’ register?’ Miss Quill asks.

  ‘First thing I did. There are three Amiras reported missing in London,’ Tanya says. ‘Two of them in their teens, which is the nearest I can guess her age.’

  ‘Followed up on them?’

  ‘One has been missing for a long time, several years. The picture is from when she went missing, so she’ll probably look different now, although I was too far away to get any kind of look at my Amira’s face.’

  ‘Your Amira?’ Miss Quill’s eyebrows lift.

  ‘You know what I mean, the one in the house.’ Tanya blushes but doesn’t know why.

  ‘And the other lost Amira?’

  ‘I found her on Missing Kids. She’s twelve. It may be her, might not be.’

  ‘And you want to know what to do next?’ Miss Quill asks.

  ‘I want to know that I’m not going mad,’ Tanya says quietly. ‘Basing an investigation on something I heard in a dream is not exactly scientific. It’s not something you’d teach in physics, for example.’

  ‘There are lots of things I don’t teach in physics or anywhere else,’ Miss Quill says. ‘We know so little about dreams and how they work, even where I’m from. Nightmares and dreams are a complex processing mechanism, an alchemical composite of memory and emotion. You said, after the last time you went, that you thought you heard her say something.’

  Tanya nods. ‘But I didn’t hear what.’

  ‘Maybe you did,’ Miss Quill says.

  Tanya returns to staring at her shoes. ‘I was wondering whether there’s some kind of connection between us,’ she says. ‘I keep being drawn to the house and seeing her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised. There is something very powerful about that house.’

  ‘Have you felt the same thing?’ Tanya asks.

  Miss Quill drinks more coffee. Looks at her watch.

  ‘Time you went inside, Miss Adeola.’

  ‘But Miss . . .’

  Miss Quill is already hurrying across to the entrance, fingers clamped round her coffee cup.

  Tanya spends the day keeping an eye on the time. The hours pass as if the hands on the clock are coated in blackstrap molasses. Her stomach rumbles. She could do with some of her mum’s molasses-and-ginger cake. She could take some tonight, say it’s for the sleepover at April’s that she’s using as a cover story. They should probably sort out what April’s doing for a cover story.

  It’s alright for Charlie and Matteusz, Miss Quill knows what’s going on most of the time. Mainly because everyone is too scared not to tell her. That and the fact she’s often the one leading them into something.

  Tanya looks back up at the clock. Is it going backwards? Could be. Round here, anything is possible.

  The others aren’t as worried. Ram has already said he’s not coming along tonight and even April said she’ll only come if she’s finished her essay. Matteusz is only going because Charlie is supposed to be working at the house. Miss Quill is going because Charlie reminded her that it’s her responsibility to look after him. The only one who seems bothered is Charlie. He’s sitting in front of Tanya now, checking his watch as much as she is, but probably wishing it would go backwards. That’s probably why it seems so slow: it’s stuck between wanting to please him and her.

  The hand drags forward another tick.

  Tanya knows Amira’s there. Whatever the police say—and she’s bothered them again today—she can feel it in her bones. Bones she’d like to stay wrapped in periosteum and blood and skin and not used to make up the limbs of a monster, if you don’t mind. She had to stop herself going there in the middle of the night by herself, told herself over and over that they would go tomorrow. That the girl in the window would be OK for another day. But what if she isn’t? What if that time before the developers descended was the only window for getting Amira out from behind hers?

  When Tanya went to the stone house in her dream the night before, it was as if she were there. She might as well have been there and seen the nightmares for real, and then maybe they’d be further on.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Adeola. Would you mind joining us for a second?’ Miss Quill is standing in front of Tanya’s desk. Her eyes flash.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Quill,’ Tanya says. She looks down and realises she’s been doodling. The picture is of a girl, standing in the window of an old house.

  ‘I’m sure that whatever you are thinking about is far more interesting than quantum phenomena, but do try and stay with us.’

  ‘Not at all, it’s, er, phenomenal,’ Tanya says, wishing she could either disappear at her own embarrassingness or hit her own head against the desk without it a) hurting and b) looking weird to an entire classroom. She settles for a silent, mouthed ‘sorry’ to Miss Quill.

  The slightest hint of amusement dances across Miss Quill’s face. There was definitely a hint of a twitch of a smile around her mouth.

  ‘See me, afterwards, would you, Miss Adeola?’ Miss Quill says before walking to the front of the class and tapping her hand against the screen. ‘Right. Those who have been paying attention will have no problem answering this past paper question linking the photoelectric effect and ionization, will you?’

  April just about stops herself from clapping her hands. The rest of the class groans.

  Miss Quill’s mouth twitches nearer a smile. ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ she says. ‘Happiness.’

  When the bell goes, Tanya walks up to Miss Quill’s desk. Miss Quill holds up her hand as she marks the paper on top. ‘Why do they always find these topics difficult?’

  ‘Because they link work function to electrons escaping from individual atoms,’ Tanya says, leaning against the desk. ‘It’s a basic error.’

  ‘You may have a firm grasp of physics, Tanya, but you’re not so hot on rhetorical questions, are you?’

  Tanya stares at her, not answering.

  Miss Quill shoos Tanya off the edge of her desk.

  ‘What did you want to see me for? Is it about tonight, because if you think we shouldn’t go, I—’ Tanya asks.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Miss Quill interrupts. Her face is scary without any sarcasm on.

  ‘I’m fine, why do you ask?’ Tanya can’t quite look her in the eye, her gaze fixed on the blunt edge of the Quill fringe.

  ‘You’re distracted in class, you’ve hardly answered any questions, you look as if you haven’t slept since you found the stone house.’

  ‘I have slept. Just not very much or very well,’ Tanya says.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it. If you are connected, with this girl or the house, then maybe you shouldn’t go at all. You are, after all, only fourteen. I sometimes forget that I’m not dealing with soldiers,’ Miss Quill says.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Tanya says, wishing she’d never said anything to Miss Quill.

  ‘The Prince is also sleeping badly, hardly eating. He is far too bothered by something he saw at the house.’

  ‘He saw things from the war, but I
don’t know what it was in particular that disturbed him. It must have been when I went back into the kitchen.’

  ‘And I was busy with the others,’ Miss Quill says.

  ‘Pretty impressive that he’s scared but still going back in as nightwatcher,’ Tanya says. ‘He’s facing something. I don’t know what it is, but he’s staring it down. I wish I could be more like that.’

  ‘You can’t let these things creep under your skin,’ Miss Quill says with disdain. ‘If you do, they start to change you.’

  ‘How do you stop getting involved with things? Your students, for example? Or even Charlie?’

  ‘I never get involved in the lives of my students or my charges.’ Her tone is Brillo-pad brusque.

  ‘Of course you don’t, Miss,’ she says. ‘Can I go now?’ Miss Quill nods, her brow furrowed. ‘See you at eleven p.m.’

  ‘And you’ll have the equipment?’ Tanya says.

  Miss Quill rolls her eyes and waves her away. Tanya looks back to see her holding her head in her hands. She looks tired, as if she’s not sleeping either. Maybe that’s what she was trying to say, in a Quillish way.

  Maybe it’s not just Tanya and Charlie that the stone house has affected after all.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  CONSTANTINE OLIVER LTD

  Miss Quill walks around the reception room of the Constantine Oliver offices. Swiping a finger across the desk reveals not one spot of dust. The espresso machine shines as if never used. A place this clean must have something dirty to wash away. It’s the antithesis of Alan F. Turnpike’s flat, and the worse for it.

  Through the door is, she supposes, Oliver’s office. The blinds are shut. A printer purrs inside.

  ‘May I help you?’ the receptionist asks, looking up from his Facebook page. The name tag on his lapel says ‘Rajesh’. His suit probably cost more than a month’s wages. She was right to wear the power jacket and pencil skirt combination that matches her hair.

  Miss Quill buttons a smile to her face with her dimples. ‘Good afternoon, Rajesh. A pleasure to meet you. Wonderful office,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘It takes a lot of upkeep.’

  ‘I can imagine. I hope your hard work is appreciated.’ Rajesh’s arched left eyebrow shows that it really isn’t.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t go unnoticed by me,’ she says.

  ‘Did we talk on the phone?’ Rajesh asks, looking down at his notepad.

  ‘That’s right, I’m representing Alan Turnpike,’ Miss Quill says. ‘I’d like to see Mr Constantine.’

  ‘As I told you on the phone, Miss . . .’ Rajesh waits for her to tell him her name. She doesn’t. ‘Mr Constantine doesn’t take unsolicited meetings. If I can refer you to our own legal team at . . .’

  The door opens. A man with a young face and silver hair strides through the door. He walks as if his feet have never touched the earth. ‘Is there something I can help with, Rajesh?’ he says. His voice is as smooth as a polished banister. Oliver gives her the eye-flick, up and down, and smiles. Less silver fox than silver piranha.

  Rajesh starts to speak. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Oliver, I was just asking her to—’

  ‘I can take it from here, thank you, Rajesh. Tidy the place up, would you? It looks fit for the wrecking ball in here.’

  Miss Quill and Rajesh exchange glances that Constantine Oliver is too vain to interpret.

  Oliver ushers her through. ‘Sorry,’ she mouths through the glass. Rajesh shrugs and smiles.

  Constantine Oliver’s office continues the sleek and sheeny theme of the reception. Pristine glass shelves feature one item each—a vase with no flowers, a portrait of his family without him in it, a business award in the shape of an iceberg that has been polished so many times that parts of his name have been rubbed off.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Miss Quill says.

  ‘Always happy to help. Our motto here at Constantine Oliver Ltd is “Serving the Community”, and we must live up to our promises, mustn’t we?’

  ‘Mr Oliver,’ Miss Quill says.

  ‘Call me Con,’ Oliver says.

  ‘You don’t think that’s an unfortunate name for a business owner?’ Miss Quill says.

  ‘Not at all,’ Oliver says. His smile doesn’t drop. It’s as if it has been stapled to his face, although it’d be hard to find a stapler or anything useful in here. There are no filing cabinets, no drawers. Even his desk is one sheet of glass resting on metallic poles. ‘I like to think that it conveys informality. I want my business friends to be relaxed.’

  ‘Right,’ Miss Quill says, sitting down on the hardest sofa she’s ever encountered. Her prison bunk was more comfortable. She places her bag on the glass table in front of her. Oliver twitches slightly.

  ‘Now, how can I help you?’ he says as he settles behind his desk and stretches out his legs.

  ‘I’d like to discuss the flats you’re building on the Shoreditch site.’

  ‘Ah, you want to buy one, do you? Well, that’s very good to hear, very good indeed. Getting in early, are you? Very shrewd. It’s a wonderful time to buy. Prices still going up. How can I make this a pleasant experience for both of us?’ he asks.

  She’d very much like to stop him smiling. But not yet. ‘I’d like to see the layout, please. The estate agents said that as the flats weren’t officially on the market, they couldn’t give them to me.’

  Keeping eye contact with her, he presses a button on his desk phone. ‘Rajesh, would you please bring me a copy of the blueprints for the Shoreditch site?’

  The sound of drawers opening comes from next door. Rajesh comes through with a large sheet of paper.

  ‘Lay it out on the small table,’ Oliver says. ‘Thank you, Rajesh.’

  Rajesh moves Miss Quill’s bag to one side then smooths the plans out in front of her. He gives her a bewildered look, then leaves.

  ‘As you can see, we can offer you an array of one- and two-bedroom apartments, all of a very high specification.’

  ‘How many of them are already sold?’ she asks.

  ‘Let’s just say you can choose where you like. I like to give special customers priority.’

  ‘Do you mean that no one else has bought yet?’

  ‘You would be the first to get your hands on the blueprint. We’re in a very exclusive buying period.’

  ‘Then I am so glad I came today,’ she says. She doesn’t know how he manages to look so cheerful. Charming is tiring. And very suspicious in others. ‘What is the timescale for the build?’

  ‘We’ll be pulling down the existing building in the next few days and excavating the foundations by the end of the month. Our intention is to integrate the beautiful and historic stone in the existing house into the new property to give it the authenticity that this company represents.’

  ‘Historic?’ Miss Quill says. ‘Did someone noteworthy live there, or maybe it’s the site of a famous event?’ She opts for the April-esque innocent face.

  ‘Well, it’s old, so it’s certainly part of history,’ he says, faltering very slightly.

  He carries on quickly. ‘We want to get as much built before winter, with a view to opening in spring. This time next year, you could be sitting in your very own exclusive property, courtesy of Constantine Oliver Ltd.’

  ‘May I keep this?’ she says, already folding the blueprint. ‘I’d like to decide which one and need to take my time.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Although I should warn you that the price will be going up in the next few days, once we have broken ground.’ He looks so convinced that he might even have fallen for his own lies.

  She places the blueprint in her bag. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she says. ‘There’s just one potential issue that I can see.’

  ‘One we shall smooth out, I hope,’ he says.

  ‘I hear there has been some trouble on the site. That it is difficult to get staff due to rumours about what goes on inside the existing building?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘None of tha
t is true. No, no.’ He moves the singular piece of paper on his desk half a degree to the left.

  ‘It’s not true that there are rumours?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. And even if there were, which there aren’t, Constantine Oliver Ltd only deals in the very best sites. There’d be no truth to them. You must remember their source: they spring from feverish imaginations and people who have their own agendas. Some people don’t want more expensive flats in the area, they want affordable housing—but that is relative, is it not? The only thing rumours really damage is the intelligence of those who believe them.’ He smiles even wider if that were possible. Not one flaw in his teeth.

  ‘But there aren’t any rumours?’ Miss Quill says.

  ‘No, no. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘With that assurance in mind and on tape,’ Miss Quill says, tapping her bag, ‘I’d like to discuss your letter to my client, Mr Alan Turnpike.’

  No shift in the smile. His teeth could act as a homing beacon for alien civilisations. ‘You said you were here with a view to purchasing a flat.’

  ‘No, you said that, Mr Oliver. Sorry, Con,’ Miss Quill says.

  ‘Mr Turnpike,’ Oliver says, ‘has been causing us significant trouble.’

  ‘And there I was thinking you were causing him significant trouble. Causing him to lose his job in a charity.’

  ‘All we at Constantine Oliver Ltd did was to inform Mr Turnpike’s employers of his activities. What they chose to do with that information is nothing to do with us.’

  ‘His site has been running for years. He hosts ghost stories and urban legends, he’s not libelling you or hurting them in any way.’

  ‘I think you’ll find his scaremongering has led to forty different employees leaving the Shoreditch site. It’s been blacklisted by several agencies. It took long enough to get planning permission, I do not have time to waste on retaining superstitious staff. I have other projects.’

  ‘Will you be able to prove that this is a direct result of my client’s website?’ Miss Quill asks.

  The smile slides a few centimetres.

  ‘Because I’ll be interviewing every single one of them and presenting their evidence.’