The House of Mountfathom

by Nigel McDowell

  Dear Luke,

  I write to wish you Happy Birthday! I don’t know how I remembered but I did! When I get myself sorted for a job and I see you next I’ll take you out for a drink or whatever you like. I’m in Dublin for a couple of days just till I can get the fare for the train to Belfast.

  I saw another exciting headline today. Posh fella left it on the bench beside me in the Green. I enclose it here.

  FAERIE RATH APPEARS IN TIPPERARY:

  GARDS SAY “GOOD FOLK” HAVE BEEN SIGHTED AT NIGHT.

  IS ANCIENT MAGIC RETURNING TO IRELAND?

  I can’t tell you how exciting it is to see you doing this work and having these adventures! I hope I can get involved too?

  I’ll try to get some sleep now. I don’t sleep much. I have nightmares. I didn’t even know until Johnny woke me up one night because he said I was making such a racket screaming. He said I was crying too and saying someone’s name over and over. He says to me, ‘Who’s Luke?’ I had to tell him something so I said, ‘He’s my friend. He’s a good friend of mine.’ He sat up with me after that and we chatted but I didn’t tell him much about Mountfathom.

  I’m glad I’m not in Dublin for long. It’s a right tip! Fierce dirty and everyone malingering (do you like that word? I read it in the paper this morning) about everything to do with politics and money.

  But I don’t like the idea particularly of being back in Belfast either.

  I thought I was a city person but I’m not sure I am now – there’s another change, you see! Or maybe it’s not changing and it’s just growing up a bit and realising a few things. I’m not sure where I belong at all but I’ll know it when I get there.

  Now I’m spending the night outside the station. It’s cold and raining a bit but I spent a few hours in the pub this evening so I’m well warmed! I won’t write much because it might come out like bollocks because of the drink. ‘Tis only the drink talking!’ My da used to say that. He was usually talking about himself!

  It’s half three now and it’s cold as sin but I have a blanket so I better go to sleep. I keep writing because it gives me something to do and not sit here brooding. My train leaves first thing for the North tomorrow so I’ll be home and dry! I’ll be in Belfast by midday. And then with a bit of my usual Lady Luck I’ll be in Mountfathom by tomorrow night.

  So I’ll say bye and goodnight for now. I am on my way.

  Your friend,

  Killian (the Lucky)

  Mountfathom

  21st June 1926

  Dear Luke,

  Mountfathom is not the same. I am glad you are not here because you wouldn’t want to see it. I don’t know where in the world you are but I am happy you haven’t come back. I have written these letters this past couple of weeks but I haven’t posted any of them and I’m glad I didn’t.

  I thumbed a lift from Belfast to Bangor and then got another lift down the road. And that’s another thing – any Sean or Paddy can come here now, no bother! Whatever Spells were on the place have gone. I arrived and some wild-looking children were running about in the gardens and swimming in the lagoon. Swinging off the trees and playing catch in the walled garden, no one there to tell them any different!

  Them they saw me and started screaming (probably scared at the state of me).

  I felt like a ghost.

  Then some farmer comes along and says, ‘Can I help you?’

  Apparently he is the owner of the land.

  I asked him how he had come by Mountfathom and he said that when the Lady went missing and the Lord died and their son couldn’t be found, they didn’t know what to do with the place. Then a will turned up that said if no one in the family could inherit the House then it was the rightful property of the staff. And the staff decided to sell the House and split the money between them. He tells me he has bought the whole site and is going to be building houses on it. He says he might rent them to people. And sure enough his two strapping young blond sons were marking out the foundations with string and wooden stakes. The farmer says to me, ‘Do you know the place?’

  I said, ‘No. I just came for a look to see what was left of it.’

  Then the farmer said, ‘Strange, you aren’t the only one. Sometimes there’s some woman who comes to have a look about, goes picking through the ruin, even if I tell her stay away. I do it more for her benefit than mine – could collapse on her and then I’d be in some bother!’

  ‘Who is she?’ I asked him.

  ‘Dunno. Looks like one of these Travellers – hair a mess, long red skirt on her. Earrings like little seashells. Doesn’t say a word though. Just wanders around. Sometimes sheds a tear or two, and then before I know it she’s gone. Who she is – your guess is as good as mine, lad.’

  I don’t know when I might see you, Luke, but I wish it’d be soon.

  Your friend,

  Killian

  Mountfathom

  22nd June 1926

  Dear Luke,

  I don’t why know I am still writing to you. It doesn’t make me feel better or make me understand things more. So I have decided – this will be my last letter.

  I haven’t left Mountfathom. I managed to get inside and there is still a lot of it here. The staircases for one thing, and some of the rooms – The Amazon and Valhalla and I think The Menagerie of the Dead – but I don’t want to go in there. I haven’t gone up to the third floor either. Not yet anyway. And there are lots of other things that remind me of how it used to be. Things no one else would know about.

  I found where the library was but there are no books in there, just the pages. Stories all scattered everywhere. If I gathered them up and put them all together it might make one book and one story, but it wouldn’t make sense, would it?

  I got a shock today – an old friend appeared. I was sitting in the library and the next thing I see a rush like smoke somewhere in the corner and it’s a cat trying to get at a mouse. A battered and bow-legged big cat with turquoise eyes! I was so glad to see her. She’s sitting beside me now as I write this and I’d say she misses you too.

  I saw you today. Or I thought I did. I can’t stop seeing ghosts. I can’t stop myself waiting for someone to appear. I keep thinking I catch you out of the corner of my eye. But then I turn around and you’ve gone. You’re away running into the dark like we did together. I can’t catch you.

  I know you aren’t reading this but I know you’ll return. I will stay here until you come.

  How do I know you’ll return? Because I need you.

  Today I saw a rose. Don’t get the wrong idea – it wasn’t a big deal but there it was anyway. It was yellow and very clean and fierce delicate. Everything is growing whatever way it likes now in the grounds. (Mr Hooker would be annoyed if he could see it!) And then there was this flower. I daren’t touch it. I looked at it and I decided something – I cannot live any longer like this. I would prefer the dark.

  I’ve waited until night and I’ve opened my bag of things I brought and I tore up the photograph of my mother and found some matches to burn it. I tore up the clothes and burned those too. What do I need them for now? I left the copy of Moby Dick. I didn’t finish it. I have put it in the library for someone to find.

  I have my decision made.

  But then a funny thing – I take out the last thing, the only thing I own now apart from the shirt on my back. It is the key your father gave me. It has been dark for years. I’ve tried lots of times, Luke – mightn’t believe me but I did. I have spent so much time thinking of where home might be. But it never showed me.

  Now it does. Now it is glowing.

  Maybe it is because it knows it is back at Mountfathom. And I know now what I have to do.

  Your best friend,

  Killian

  Outside the Dark Door

  23rd June 1926

  Dear Luke,

  I don’t know where you are. I don’t have a clue where I’m heading to either. But that makes no change, does it? I never did know. But I am not afraid. I am exc
ited. It is not such a bad thing to be lost for a while.

  You said to me that one day I would find home. You said it would only happen when I was ready. Now I know where to look for it. I know that it isn’t here or anywhere else – it isn’t always a place.

  What I believe is that when I step into that dark that you will be waiting for me. It has been dark for so long, and now I have this light to lead me.

  I am going to bring Morrigan with me on this adventure – I wonder what she’ll make of it.

  I’ll stop writing now. There’s a time for words and a time for doing.

  I have all I need in the world – a door and a key and the big Unknown!

  And I know what I’ll be looking for.

  I only hope you’ll be there – waiting for me in the dark.

  Nigel McDowell

  Nigel McDowell grew up in County Fermanagh, rural Northern Ireland, and as a child spent most of his time battling boredom, looking for adventure - crawling through ditches, climbing trees, devising games to play with his brother and sister, and reading. His favourite book as a child was The Witches by Roald Dahl.

  After graduating with a degree in English he spent almost two years living and working in Australia and New Zealand with his long term partner, Chris. With him he took a small notebook containing notes about a boy called ‘Bruno Atlas’, and a seaside town called ‘Pitch End’. When he returned to Ireland after his travels, one notebook had multiplied into many, and eventually his notes for Tall Tales from Pitch End filled a large cardboard box. TALL TALES FROM PITCH END was Nigel’s first novel, followed by THE BLACK NORTH.

  THE HOUSE OF MOUNTFATHOM was Nigel’s final novel, before his death in early 2016 at the age of thirty-four.

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  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by

  HOT KEY BOOKS

  80–81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE

  www.hotkeybooks.com

  Text copyright © Nigel McDowell, 2017

  Illustrations copyright © Edward Carey, 2017

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The right of Nigel McDowell to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 9781471404054

  This eBook was produced using Atomik ePublisher

  Hot Key Books is an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre Ltd,

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