The House of Ashes

by Stuart Neville

  The phone was three generations out of date, but she had no need to upgrade it. The only person who ever called or texted these days was her husband.

  A thought occurred to her, and she hesitated for a moment. Should she? She should.

  Sara sat on the edge of the bed and opened the phone’s web browser. She searched for the words “care home” and “Morganstown.” They still lacked an internet connection at the house, and the 4G signal was patchy at best out here, so it took some time for the results to load.

  The first was Greenway Care and Convalescence Home, Morganstown. Next to it, a blue icon of a telephone handset, with the word “Call” beneath it. Without considering her actions, she thumbed the icon and brought the phone to her ear. The dial tone chimed twice.

  “Good morning, Greenway, Margaret speaking, how can I help?”

  Hang up, Sara thought. Hang up now.

  Instead, she asked, “Do you have a resident called Mary?”

  The question felt blunt in her mouth, tumbling gracelessly out.

  A pause, then, “Who’s calling, please?”

  Sara closed her eyes tight, swallowed, gathered her words. “Sorry, my name is Sara Keane. A woman came to our house this morning. She’d wandered off from a care home nearby, and my husband brought her back. He didn’t tell me which one, and I wondered if it was yours?”

  “Mary Jackson,” Margaret said, her voice officious. “Yes, we must apologise again. We’re still looking into how she managed to find her way out during the night. We’re very grateful to Mr. Keane for bringing her back. I can assure you, this sort of incident is very rare. We take the security of our residents very—”

  “Is she all right?” Sara asked. “She had a cut. And she was so cold. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “She’s fine,” Margaret said. “One of the nurses on staff is looking at the cut, and we’ve a doctor coming out to check on her later.”

  “Good,” Sara said. “It’s just, I was worried for her.”

  She heard Margaret’s exhalation, an easing in her tone.

  “We were worried too,” Margaret said. “The police were out looking for her. I’m sure they would have tried your place before too long, but we didn’t think she could have got that far. It’s what, two, three miles away?”

  Sara pictured Mary’s bloody foot.

  “She must be exhausted.”

  “God love her,” Margaret said. “We’re very fond of Mary here. She gets confused sometimes, but she’s an awful sweet soul. Wee Mary, everyone calls her. It’s a wonder that woman has any sanity left, everything she’s been through.”

  “What do you mean?” Sara asked.

  “Well, the fire for one, but all that business when she was a child. Such a thing to go through.”

  Sara’s throat tightened.

  “What business? What happened?”

  A pause, then Margaret asked, “You don’t know?”

  “No,” Sara said.

  “Oh. When I heard someone had taken over the house, I wondered. I thought you would’ve known.”

  “Please tell me,” Sara said.

  “The killings. It’s more than sixty years ago now, maybe sixty-five, long before my time, but it was a terrible thing. Her just a child and all. I don’t remember how many died, four or five, maybe, the whole family wiped out. A terrible thing. You really didn’t—?”

  Damien’s footsteps on the stairs.

  Sara hung up, found the call-history list, the care home at the top. She swiped left with her thumb, hit the red delete button, returned to the home screen as Damien entered the room.

  He stopped in the doorway. “Who were you talking to?”

  “No one,” she said. “I was just reading the news.”

  Damien approached the bed and held out his hand. He didn’t have to ask. Sara gave him the phone. He studied the screen, as he thumbed through menus.

  “I thought I heard you talking,” he said.

  “Just to myself,” she said.

  He stared down at her for a moment before handing back the phone.

  “You embarrassed me in front of my father.”

  “I was just asking a question.”

  “Don’t do it again,” he said. “Time you were dressed, no?”

  Sara nodded as she took the phone from him, cradled it in her lap. She held back the tremors until he left the room.

  4: Mary

  If the weather was good, and if they were in decent form, the Daddies would let us all out into the yard on a Sunday afternoon. Behind the house, with the auld cowshed at the far end, the stone buildings on either side. The lane cut down the back to the fields, with a gate across. I wasn’t allowed over to the gate, none of us were, we had to stay near to the house.

  Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, if Daddy George was watching us, he’d let me go over to the cows and say hello to them. I liked that. The way they’d all crowd together when they saw me coming. The way they’d sniff at my hand and lick my fingers, their tongues rough like wet sandpaper. The way their heads felt all hard and warm under their coats.

  Daddy George was better than the other two, I suppose. He never struck me nor the Mummies. Not like Daddy Ivan, he’d give you a hiding for no reason at all. And Daddy Tam, he was the worst when he was thran. Most cribb’d auld hoor you ever met. But Daddy George wasn’t as bad.

  Anyway, some Sundays, after the Daddies came back from church and they’d let us upstairs, we’d be allowed out into the yard. Mummy Joy and Mummy Noreen would just walk in circles around it, sometimes not even talking much to each other. They could talk all they wanted downstairs in the house, but outside, they just walked and walked. And I just ran and leapt about the place. Sometimes I chased the chickens. I had to be quiet, though. There was no shouting and getting on, oh, no, Daddy Ivan would never tolerate that.

  I used to wonder what was outside the yard. I could see the hills and the fields and the trees and the sky, but that was all. I knew there was roads and towns and cars and other people, even if I’d never seen them. Mummy Joy telt me about them. Her and Mummy Noreen weren’t born in the house, not like me, they hadn’t always lived there. Mummy Joy was from Armagh, and Mummy Noreen was from Belfast. I’ve still never been to them places. I’ve never been anywhere. No call to, I suppose.

  I’m not sure, but I think Mummy Joy was my real mummy. Both of them were awful good to me, but Mummy Joy was the one who coddled me the most. She was the one who looked after me if one of the Daddies gave me a hiding. Aye, I think she was my real mummy.

  You know, I don’t mind awful well, but sometimes I think there was another mummy about the place, older than the others, but sometimes I think that was just a notion I had. But I do know there was a wee boy at one time. It must’ve been when I was very wee because I can’t mind what he looked like, just that he was small, and he didn’t be well. He stayed in bed near the whole time. Then he wasn’t there any more, and Mummy Noreen wasn’t at herself for a long time after. I mind that more than I mind him. Her staying quiet for weeks and weeks and her crying at night after the lamps went out. And there was the time Mummy Joy’s belly got big like she had a baby in her and then she got a hiding from Daddy Tam and she got awful sick and was bleeding and I had to stay downstairs while Mummy Noreen looked after her upstairs.

  Things like that all run together in my head. I couldn’t tell you which was when, what came first or came last. Not really. Time doesn’t work the same way when you’re older than it did when you were a wee’un. And every day was like the other, no difference between them at all, except for Sundays, if the weather was good.

  I mind this one Sunday we were out in the yard, I was maybe nine or ten at that time, I don’t know, but it was me and the Mummies, and Daddy George, and I was skipping and dancing around and the Mummies were walking in circles, their heads toget
her, talking. I mind the sun was out, and it was warm in the yard. I could hear the birds all around us. Daddy Ivan used to put food out for the birds and I watched them whenever I could. I never learnt the names of many of them, except the crows and the magpies, and the big fat wood pigeons. Daddy Tam would go hunting the wood pigeons and bring them back for us to pluck for his tea.

  But here, this one Sunday, we all heard something. Me first. An engine. Except it wasn’t all rattly like the tractor Daddy Tam drove around the farm. This was different. Not as loud, not as hard sounding. It was a nice sound, even if it wasn’t natural. I stopped skipping and froze to the spot. I saw the birds, over the roof of the house, all flutter up into the high branches of the trees. Then the Mummies heard it too, and they froze as well. Daddy George just stood there, looking at us. He hadn’t heard it, I don’t know for why.

  Next thing, the back door flies open, and Daddy Ivan’s there telling us to come on, get inside, now, now, now, come on! Nobody moved, so he comes out into the yard and grabs me by the arm, and Daddy George gets a holt of the Mummies, one hand each, and we’re all dragged inside.

  When we were in the kitchen, on our way to the door downstairs, I looked out the window to the front, and I saw the car. I’d seen a car before, Daddy Ivan had one, but this wasn’t like his auld thing. This one was new and shiny. And here, didn’t a man get out of it? Right in front of the window where we could all see him. He had this uniform on him, dark green, and a tie. And he lifted a hat out of the car and put it on his head. I mind it had a peak to it. I’d never seen a policeman before, but I knew that’s what he was. And he was awful handsome. The only men I’d ever laid eyes on before was the Daddies, and they was all big auld lumps, but this man, he was beautiful. I thought he was, anyway, and here I froze to the spot and I wouldn’t move because I wanted to watch this man.

  And Mummy Joy, she wanted to see him too. That’s what I thought at the time. I know that’s not true now, but sure, I didn’t know any better. I mind she opened her mouth and breathed in like she was going to shout hello to him, only Daddy George took holt of her and put his hand over her mouth. She tried to shout anyway, but he helt her so tight she couldn’t make a sound.

  And he leans in, and he says to her, They’ll kill you. They’ll kill him and they’ll kill you and the wee girl, they’ll kill all of yous, so, for God’s sake, be quiet. And she was. She went still and quiet and she took me by the hand and we all went downstairs into the dark and Daddy George closed the door behind us.

  That wasn’t the last time I saw thon policeman. I wish it was the last time, for I still have dreams about thon man. About what they did to him.

  5: Sara

  After she’d showered, while she dressed in the newly fitted bathroom, Sara heard a raised, angry voice from outside. She knew it belonged to Francie. In the bedroom, she went to the window and looked down at the front of the property. A man stood by a van, his head down, looking at his feet. Francie, a good six inches shorter, stood so close his belly pressed against him, his forefinger stabbing at the air an inch from the man’s face. The man wore a tool belt. The electrician, she thought.

  She could hear snatches of Francie’s words now.

  “A week ago . . . get the fuck in there . . . get it finished . . . I’ll knock the shite out of you.”

  Sara went to the top of the stairs. From there, she could see the open front door. The electrician stepped through, carrying a toolbox. He noticed her watching and froze for a moment. She saw the shame on him, knowing she’d witnessed his humiliation. He got himself moving and disappeared from her view. She had the urge to call after him, but Damien entered and jogged up the stairs. He brushed past her on his way to the bedroom. She followed him.

  “Your father told me about that woman,” Sara said.

  Damien peeled off his T-shirt and selected a fresh shirt from the wardrobe. “Aye?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought I had,” he said, feigning a thoughtful look. “Yeah, I’m sure I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he said, his voice firmer now. “When I first told you Da had bought this place. I mentioned it then. Remember, I told you, that’s why it was so cheap.”

  “I don’t remember,” Sara said.

  That conversation seemed clear in her mind. A fortnight after she’d got out of hospital. There’s this house, Damien had said over dinner. And he told her about it, out in the country, by a river, peaceful and quiet, just what we need to get things back to normal. To get your head straight. There had been a fire, yes, she remembered him saying that, but she couldn’t recall mention of the woman having to go to a care home.

  But maybe she was mistaken. Certainty had become a stranger to her. Damien often remembered things she didn’t. Things that had happened or hadn’t happened. Words spoken or unspoken. She had learnt to distrust her own memories.

  “Was there anything else?” she asked.

  He paused buttoning his shirt and studied her more intently. “What do you mean?”

  “About this house,” she said, holding his gaze.

  “What are you getting at?”

  “It’s an old house. It must have a history. I just wondered about it.”

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” he asked.

  She looked down at the top she wore, simple, short-sleeved, light cotton, with a V-neck. “What’s wrong with it?” she asked, aware that he’d sidestepped her previous question.

  “Just, with the electrician around the house . . .”

  He let his words trail away, knowing his meaning was clear. He reached into the wardrobe, found a faded old hoodie. She took it from him and slipped it on, went to ask him once more about the house, but he was already heading to the door.

  “I need to go,” he said, nudging her out of his way. “I’m running late.”

  The idea of being alone in the house, even with the electrician, caused unease in her.

  “Can I have the car?” Sara asked, knowing she was on the edge of angering him.

  He paused at the top of the stairs. “What for?”

  “Just so I can get out for a while,” she said, scrabbling for a reason to give him. “Your father can give you a lift, can’t he? I don’t want to hang around the house all day while the electrician’s working, and besides, we need some bits and pieces. I could go into the village to that little grocer’s shop we saw.”

  “No, he’s already away,” Damien said. “We’ll see about a car of your own once we’re settled. I need to get going.”

  He descended the stairs and closed the front door behind him. Sara hesitated, considered locking herself into the bedroom and remaining there for the day, but she would not let cowardice guide her. She went downstairs and found the electrician in the living room, on his knees, working on a power outlet. He did not acknowledge her presence, though she knew he was aware of it. It was her natural inclination to leave him, pretend he wasn’t there, but she decided to attempt an interaction.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked.

  He didn’t look up. “No, ta.”

  “It’s no trouble. The kettle’s not long boiled.”

  Keeping his attention on his work, he said, “Look, I just want to get my work done and get out of this house, all right?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Sorry.”

  He glanced up at her, and she sensed his shame at having snapped at her. She left him alone and entered the kitchen. The emptiness of the space surrounded her, and she felt small in this room, engulfed by it. She went to the island at its centre and placed her hand on its polished granite surface. The cool stone against her palms, the chill rising up through her arms.

  The killings, the receptionist at the care home had said. Four or five dead.

  Sara felt the hollowness of the basement below, felt it like a vacu
um that wanted to swallow her whole, a bottomless pit waiting for her to stumble into its mouth. The urge to leave, to get out of the house, grew stronger. She went to the back hall, through to the door that opened out onto the yard. Opening it, she stepped outside onto the loose stones and gravel. The warmth of the autumn sun touched her, washed the chill away.

  The shell of the extension stood to her left, larger than the original house, all glass and stone cladding. The sliding patio doors opened out onto what would some day be an impressive expanse of garden. For now, it looked like a battlefield. The old concrete yard had been dug up, rubble piled at the far end where a cowshed had once stood. Topsoil would be laid over the exposed earth at some point, with paths making channels through it. Damien had promised her flower beds and herb patches to look after, despite her having no interest in gardening.

  Not mine, she thought. I shouldn’t be here.

  I’m walking on graves.

  That idea formed in her mind, unbidden, and it swept away any warmth she had found out here. She tried to push it back down, but it lingered like a shameful memory.

  “Stop it,” Sara said aloud, and she stepped back inside the house, closing the door and locking it. She walked through the back hall towards the kitchen, arms wrapped around herself. In the kitchen, the shape of a man startled her, and she gasped.

  “Sorry,” the electrician said, his hands up and out. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Sara placed her palm against her stomach to quell the fluttering things the fright had stirred. “It’s okay,” she said.

  The electrician shuffled his feet, looked at the floor, looked at her. She sensed the fear in him, though why he should be afraid of her, she could not fathom.

  “I came in to apologise,” he said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was out of order. I’m sorry.”

  Sara shook her head, forced a smile. “It’s fine. No need to apologise.”