The House On Nazareth Hill

by Ramsey Campbell

  A smell of Amy’s incense troubled his nostrils, and at the same time he heard a scratching at the window. It couldn’t be a branch; none of those came close. His eyes fluttered open and stared at the curtains, the heavy material of which concealed every inch of the glass. When his trapped gaze began to make them appear to shift, he pushed himself reluctantly off the bed and trudged towards “them until he had no option but to grasp handfuls of them. Their softness sent an unexpected shudder through him, and he wrenched them apart to the length of the rail.

  A black fly as shiny as coal was bumbling against the pane. The glow between the gates of the market lent its body an orange outline. It was inside the double glazing, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to hear the small muffled thuds of its body against the glass. As if Oswald’s realisation was a weight he’d loaded onto it, the fly immediately plummeted to the bottom of the sash.

  Its attempts to escape might have caused the noise which had alerted him, but equally that might have been the sound of legs scraping the glass—the legs of the spider that was waiting for its prey to falter. It wasn’t as huge as the one he’d thought was on the rope; perhaps its legs could stretch no wider than his grimace of loathing and panic was dragging his lips. Its elongated slim-waisted body was exactly the dark brown Amy’s hair would naturally be. As it reared up to seize the fly, which it clawed down with its front legs and thrust into its glistening jaws, Oswald saw it raise itself to greet him.

  5 - The rumour of a book

  The day of the photograph was the first and last time Amy met all the living occupants of Nazarill, though for a while it seemed she might never leave the building. Her father made her wait until he’d finished looking dissatisfied with himself in the bathroom mirror, and didn’t even ask for her opinion of his appearance. She was finally in the corridor and about to ring Beth’s bell when Leonard Stoddard poked his head out of his apartment. ‘You wouldn’t like to see if you can hurry Pammy up, would you? Maybe she’ll listen to you, being a girl.’

  Amy had no idea how he meant that, and told him so with her eyebrows. ‘I’ll see you down there, dad.’

  ‘Here’s Amy,’ Leonard Stoddard called along the panelled corridor. ‘Don’t keep her waiting or she won’t be your friend.’

  His wife Lin and a mixture of scents emerged from the bathroom. Her hooded track-suit was much like his, except mauve rather than dark green. ‘She won’t sit, your father means,’ she amended with a frown at him which tugged her red curls lower on her forehead, and having stooped past Amy to the outer corridor, raised her voice. ‘If you’re really set on wearing that, Pammy, just be sure you bring a coat to put over it while we’re waiting to be snapped.’

  The door truncated the start of a conversation in which Amy heard her own name, and then the youngest Stoddard called it. Amy strolled along the hall to the equivalent of her bedroom. From her previous visits she knew there were almost no books or magazines in the main room and altogether too much lace, but there was even more of the latter in the girl’s room: bordering the counterpane, worn by the three dolls lined up at the foot of the bed and the one reclining against the pillow, extending the hem of the curtains white as an underskirt—curtains which were only pretending they had a window. As in all the windowless rooms, the hinges of the door were visible on the inside, an attempt to render the room less like a cell. The twelve-year-old was letting down her long auburn hair to brush, having apparently decided it needed the blue ribbon which went with the bridesmaid’s dress. She waved at Amy over her shoulder, a gesture which sent her hamster scurrying into the depths of its elaborate cage in a corner of the room. ‘It’s all right, Parsley,’ Amy murmured.

  ‘He knows you. He’ll come back up in a bit,’ the younger girl said as though the animal’s flight had been Amy’s fault. ‘Will you look after him at Easter?’

  ‘I may be on a school trip too, Pammy. Aren’t you Pamelah any more?’

  ‘It got boring.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  The girl lifted her hair with the ribbon and peered at Amy in the mirror. ‘Thought you weren’t going to Spain.’

  ‘Someone in my class had to cancel, and I want to go now. My tongue’s hanging out for a bit of time away.’

  ‘You’ll be old enough to move somewhere of your own soon.’

  ‘Next summer.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I mean I’ll be old enough. I don’t know yet if I want to get a job so I can move out of this old place or wait till I go to university.’ Being taken to be more in control of her life than she was made her feel even less so. ‘I’ll decide after Spain,’ she said.

  ‘Would your dad see to Parsley for me?’

  ‘I expect so. I don’t think he minds furry things. I’ll ask him when I tell him about the trip.’

  ‘Haven’t you asked him?’

  ‘He was in bed when I got home last night. I went with Rob to hear Perfection Kills in Manchester,’ Amy said, and as the younger girl jumped up, having tied the bow in her hair: ‘Don’t forget your coat.’ She didn’t like telling people what to do, Rob excepted, but it worked. Pam, as Amy was determined to think of her, draped a hooded coat over her shoulders before hurrying out of the apartment, leaving Amy to secure the door.

  They weren’t alone in being late. As they reached the ground floor, where the daylight at the far end always seemed brighter for not having been able to penetrate the upstairs corridors, Mr Roscommon was pushing his father in a wheelchair towards the entrance. Both men wore dark suits, white shirts and ties; the old man was tugging the knot of his tie up as though to support his faded drooping face. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he wheezed at each of the girls when they held the glass doors open, and Amy felt like a nurse letting a patient out of a hospital.

  The air was prickly with the imminence of snow. Beyond the two gateways the marketplace was full of Christmas. Fairy lights deadened by daylight festooned the shop-fronts, and every one of the dozens of stalls which had sprung up for market day appeared to have something to celebrate. Some of the shoppers had abandoned fingering the goods to watch the activity in front of Nazarill, where Teresa Blake was helping organise the composition of the photograph while Dominic Metcalf finished setting up his three-legged camera beside the oak. ‘There you are, girls,’ he said, mopping his forehead. ‘If you could go and stand with your—’

  ‘Stand with your parents, there’s two dears.’

  For an instant, until she hardened herself to give the thought no chance to touch her. Amy heard the magistrate telling her she had two parents. Teresa Blake’s gaze had already moved on. ‘And where will you have Mr, both the Mr…’

  ‘Would you and your father like to go in the middle, Mr Roscommon? Between Miss Braine and Mrs Goudge.’

  ‘Don’t ask where I want to go,’ the old man grumbled, but discovered some gallantry within himself as he was wheeled into place. ‘Harold Roscommon,’ he told the women. ‘I don’t mind being set between two such lovely jewels.’

  ‘Watch out or you’ll be sharing me,’ Donna Goudge said to Dave.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  This provoked several sounds behind hands from the rest of the party, who otherwise concealed their awkwardness by making room for the newcomers. As Amy’s father took hold of her shoulders to move her into the gap between himself and Ralph Shrift, Teresa Blake said ‘Are you keeping your gloves on for the photo, Ursula? You’ll show the rest of us girls up.’

  ‘It’s either that or have my scabby hands spoil the picture,’ the florist said.

  Amy’s father put his hands behind his back as the magistrate paced along the line-up. She’d suggested this photograph for printing in a Housall brochure to advertise the empty apartments of Nazarill. Amy shrugged her shoulders to rid herself of a shiver at the chill in the air, and the photographer called ‘If you’re ready, Miss Blake…’

  ‘No panic,’ said Max Greenberg, covering up his watch. ‘She’s seeing we’re presentab
le. It must come with the calling, that kind of an eye. I wouldn’t want to look less than my best for her.’

  ‘We need to be quick,’ Dominic Metcalf protested, ‘if we don’t want the shadow.’

  A trough of darkness was widening on the border between Nazarill and its tenants as the sun sank towards the moor. Amy thought she saw her shadow and the others lengthening in front of her, and had a momentary impression that they were straining to creep away from Nazarill. ‘I think everyone’s as correct as they’re likely to be,’ Teresa Blake said, but had scarcely taken her place next to Amy’s father before she stalked towards the photographer. ‘Go away,’ she shouted. ‘Go along. Just go.’

  She was addressing three girls of about Pam’s age, who had advanced to the end of Little Hope Way and were posing in imitation of the subjects of the photograph, giggling and pointing as though everyone who’d emerged from Nazarill was mad, redoubling their efforts now the magistrate had encouraged them. ‘Ignore it, Pammy,’ said Lin Stoddard as they spotted the bridesmaid’s dress.

  ‘It’s the market that attracts them,’ Peter Sheen declared with all the conviction of one of his newspaper columns.

  ‘The quality of the goods is to blame,’ Paul Kenilworth said.

  ‘Spoken like a guardian of culture,’ Ralph Shrift told the violinist, and Amy thought he was being ironic until he added ‘We might wonder how much that’s undesirable can be laid at the door of the shop that’s jeering at the law.’

  ‘Which shop are you saying ought to be shown it isn’t wanted?’ Max Greenberg enquired.

  ‘Heads and whatever the rest of the name is that’s trying to be clever. The place that promotes putting things in one’s head.’

  Amy felt betrayed. ‘Don’t you think some of your artists may have?’

  ‘If any have they’d better keep it to themselves. Art should be a way of controlling the imagination, not indulging it. I’m very much opposed to anything that threatens the mind.’

  ‘Maybe living here does, living in a dead place like this.’

  ‘It’s not so bad as small towns go,’ said Beth.

  Harold Roscommon gripped the wheels of his chair. ‘I’d not have rushed if I’d known there’d be so much sitting around. Tell him when you’re ready and he can bring me out again.’

  ‘Stay there, Mr Roscommon,’ Dominic Metcalf pleaded, drying his forehead anew. ‘We’re ready now.’

  ‘Not till whoever’s stopped in there comes out you’re not.’

  ‘We aren’t waiting for anyone. We’re all here.’

  ‘We’re not,’ Harold Roscommon said, hitching himself around to jab his knuckly forefinger at a window. ‘I just saw someone poke their head up in there.’

  ‘You couldn’t have, Mr Roscommon. Especially not there.’

  ‘And why not, pray?’

  ‘That’s the apartment next to mine. Nobody’s living there. I expect you saw a bird, the reflection, I mean. If everyone’s set…’

  ‘I thought you said we were,’ the old man complained, and with even more venom ‘A bird.’

  ‘What did you think it looked like, father?’

  ‘Worse than me.’

  ‘Smile,’ the photographer called. ‘Let’s see some teeth.’

  There was a belated flurry of activity as, having set the camera’s fuse, he ran to join the other subjects; Pam gave her father her coat to hold, and he almost knocked Alistair Doughty backwards in his haste to conceal it behind him. The three spectators at the railings yelled with laughter as Dominic Metcalf arrived panting at the right-hand end of the assembly, and he gave them a rueful smile in time for it to be caught by the camera. ‘We’re done. Preserved for posterity,’ he said.

  ‘Should you take another to be sure?’ Peter Sheen said, clicking his ballpoint for emphasis.

  ‘I can if you like,’ the photographer said, though his panting sounded more enthusiastic than he did. He tramped to the camera, sending the three girls towards the marketplace, where they scattered as uniformed Shaun Pickles approached them. Metcalf rejoined his fellow tenants and held a smile just long enough for the camera to record it, then rubbed his chest while he gave in to a bout of puffing. ‘That’s done it,’ he eventually said.

  ‘And very well done too,’ Alistair Doughty told him. ‘How about some words to go with it? A picture’s only half of one without a caption, and I don’t say that just because I’m a printer.’

  ‘“There’s a refuge for you in Nazarill”,’ Ralph Shrift suggested as he cloaked himself with his overcoat and made for the doors, letting the Roscommons precede him with a squeak of wheels. The Stoddard family followed, having raised their hoods against the wind, and as Amy saw the hooded figures enter the building she shivered without knowing why. Rather than take refuge inside, she veered to the window the old man had identified. Resting her hands on the stone sill, which was as cold as she imagined the bottom of a well must be, she hoisted herself up.

  Reflected branches crept ahead of her and reached into the largest room. They had to be the reason why she felt that something beyond the window had stopped moving as she’d focused on the interior. The room looked more than newly decorated, it looked unentered, but could this be why she had the impression that its appearance was not its true nature? Before she had a chance to decide, her father grasped her by the elbows and lifted her down, and steered her firmly towards the doors. ‘Don’t start that, Amy, please.’

  She freed herself and folded her arms fiercely, squeezing her breasts. ‘Start what?’

  ‘Nothing if you say it’s nothing. The poor old chap was confused, that’s all.’

  She wasn’t going to argue when her eyes were growing heavy with the threat of angry tears. She rubbed them hard as she ran into the building and up to her floor, where Peter Sheen’s and Ralph Shrift’s doors were closing opposite each other, while beyond them Leonard Stoddard was ushering his family into their apartment. ‘Leonard?’ Amy called.

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘Did you have a chance to look up what I asked you about?’

  ‘Whoops.’ Apparently that meant no, since he continued ‘Remind me. I’ve had to be the complete librarian these last few weeks, not just setting up word processors for library users who want to try and write, exhibiting their work for the public to read.’

  ‘You said you’d see if you could find the story about Nazarill.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think there’s much of one.’

  ‘I’m sure I saw it in the library once, in the fiction part.’

  ‘Is it quite an old one?’ Lin Stoddard asked over her husband’s shoulder. ‘When did you see it, do you think?’

  ‘When I was little, and I remember it was a bit dusty, or I might have had a look in it.’

  ‘We wouldn’t have it now, I can tell you without checking.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you keep it when it’s about somewhere local?’

  ‘Not a novel, no. Maybe not even a history if it’s just about a building this far out. It’s all to do with balancing the books,’ Lin said. ‘If we didn’t sell the old stuff we wouldn’t be able to afford the things I’m sure you like, videos and music tapes and discs.’

  ‘I thought libraries were meant to be for books,’ said Amy, and knew she had partly because her mother would have.

  Amy’s father moved her out of his way and jangled his keys. ‘Amy,’ he warned her.

  ‘Do you think it’s fair of libraries,’ said Leonard, ‘to just be for people who can read?’

  Amy gave up, not least because the phone had become audible as her father opened the door. She waited while he ran to grab the receiver, into which he gasped their name. ‘It’s “Can I speak to Amy?’” he found more breath to announce.

  ‘Don’t you know who it is?’

  ‘Whoever’s red and comes bobbing along.’

  She’d liked his singing that to her when she was little, but now he’d robbed the words of their appeal. She didn’t look at him as he passed her the receiver. ‘Hi,
Rob.’

  ‘Have you finished posing?’

  ‘Do I ever?’

  ‘Does anyone? What are you doing now besides that?’

  ‘I’ll meet you in the market if you want. I’m going down to ask about a book.’

  ‘I’ll see you at the stall then, shall I?’

  ‘You won’t see me in one,’ Amy said, and hooked the receiver into its niche.

  Her father had closed the fish-eyed door and was leaning against it. ‘Before you fly the coop, Amy, I must say I sometimes think you might behave a shade better.’

  ‘Like when?’

  ‘Flouncing into the house as you just did, for instance.’

  ‘Because of how you were going on at me in front of everyone.’

  ‘Nobody would have noticed if you’d restrained yourself from making such a fuss.’

  ‘What do you expect when you were talking to me as if I was her age next door?’

  ‘You aren’t so much older. Do remember I’m the adult and you’re the child. Forgive me, but I still have to be in charge.’

  ‘You won’t be for much longer.’

  ‘Calm yourself. Amy. Don’t just babble. You’ve more control over yourself than that, or you used to have.’

  ‘Soon I’ll have all I want.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me on what that’s meant to mean.’

  ‘It means next summer I’ll be able to move out and live anywhere I want and you won’t be able to stop me once I get to be sixteen.’

  ‘I very much hope you won’t,’ her father said, and held out his hands, revealing the scratches he’d told her he’d suffered while trying to rescue the magistrate’s cat. ‘I hope we’ll stay together as I know your mother would have wished.’

  Amy blinked hard and swallowed the taste of tears, and felt as though all the eyes on the walls were scrutinising her. ‘You aren’t expecting me to live the rest of my life with you, are you?’