The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  My chest tightens. It can’t wait until Friday. It has to be today.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could do it this afternoon?’ I say, putting my head to one side, coquettishly. ‘You see, it’s rather important I see it as soon as I can. It’s a matter of urgency. Er, what I mean is, I really think this is the house for me.’

  I stop, angry at myself for blurting out that it was a matter of urgency, but my passion seems to have an effect on Ed and, with a hefty commission in sight, he picks up the phone.

  ‘Let me see what I can do,’ he says, typing in a number. ‘We may just be able to sort something.’

  I listen as he speaks to the person on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, nodding. ‘This afternoon, if possible. You can? Oh, that’s splendid. I’ll send her along. Thanks so much. Goodbye.’

  ‘We’re in luck,’ he says, putting the receiver down then looking up at me with a broad smile. ‘Mr Rivers is free to show you the property at 1.30. Does that work for you?’

  ‘Mr Rivers?’ I try to disguise my shock. ‘You mean –’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Ed. ‘The vendor.’

  ‘Geoffrey Rivers is going to show me round the house?’ I say slowly, still unable to grasp the sudden turn of events.

  ‘Er, yes,’ says Ed, his smile fading slightly. ‘At 1.30 this afternoon. Is that okay with you? I mean, I know it’s not usual but –’

  ‘It’s great,’ I say, fixing him with my widest smile. ‘1.30 is perfect.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he says, the brightness returning to his face. ‘Now let’s just give you the details you need.’

  I watch as Ed scribbles down directions on a piece of paper and hands it to me.

  ‘It’s very easy to find,’ he says. ‘From the high street head north, then take a right on to Flask Lane, then …’

  His voice dissolves into a kind of aural soup as I sit there, staring into space.

  This is it. I’m going to Holly Maze House.

  Twenty minutes later I’m walking up the cobbled driveway. My heart lifts as I pass the rows of topiary animals that line the path. The cockerel, the squirrel, the frog and the rabbit; they are real after all.

  I stand at the door, which is flanked by two stone griffins – when the dead walk the earth the griffins shall rise – and look up at the crest above, the year 1647 carved in stone.

  This is it, I tell myself as I lift the brass knocker, there is no going back.

  I wait a few moments, then hear footsteps behind the door. It swings open and an old man with thinning white hair, rheumy eyes and a stout belly stands in front of me. He looks startlingly different from the dapper figure with dark curls and piercing blue eyes who had been a regular on the chat-show circuit in the nineties, yet when he speaks there is no doubt that this is the person who enchanted a generation of children with his ghostly tales.

  ‘You must be Iris!’ he says, his voice low and honey rich. ‘I’m Geoffrey. Do come in, dear.’

  I follow him inside and, as I step into the grand entrance hall, the years fall away and I’m ten years old again. Like the driveway, everything in this hallway is just as it had been described in the books. The heavy tapestries hanging on the stone walls with their carefully embroidered winged angels and lean deerhounds, the suit of armour, polished to perfection, standing guard in the centre of the room, the black iron candelabra chandelier on the ceiling with real candles wedged into its spikes. It is comforting and disconcerting in equal measure.

  Behind me, I hear Geoffrey clear his throat then he begins to tell me the history of the house. I turn and give him my full attention.

  ‘This part of the house, and the bedrooms just above where we’re standing, date back to 1647,’ he says briskly. ‘Later additions were made by previous owners at the turn of the last century and then again in the 1960s, though thankfully the older parts were listed and therefore had to be preserved.’

  ‘It’s a magical house,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Or at least it was, anyway. I don’t know whether you’re aware but the house was the inspiration for some books I wrote.’

  He smiles modestly.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘I am aware. In fact, I’m a huge admirer of your work.’

  He nods his head briskly and his smile fades a little.

  I instantly regret my outburst. I will have to be careful or else Geoffrey will think I’m some silly fan girl, a time-waster. I have to think of something to prolong the visit.

  ‘When I say that,’ I tell him, regaining my composure, ‘I mean that it was this house and your amazing storytelling that, er, inspired me to write my own books.’

  He nods wearily at this. He has obviously heard all this before and probably thinks I’m some wannabe hoping for a hand up the ladder. I move on hastily.

  ‘In fact,’ I continue, ‘my books are the reason I’m able to afford this house.’

  Geoffrey smiles politely, though he seems completely disinterested.

  ‘Well done, you,’ he says, glancing nervously at the staircase. ‘Though I must say, I don’t envy anyone getting involved in the publishing industry. It’s a rotten business. Still, a young woman like you shouldn’t find it too difficult to get on. That’s what publishers are looking for nowadays. I’m afraid I’m one of those old, male dinosaurs they want nothing to do with. Now, come this way and I’ll show you the living area.’

  He looks worried all of a sudden and the warmth he had greeted me with at first has faded. In fact, there’s a distinct chill about him as he leads me from room to room, politely pointing out the various features.

  I’m surprised to find that the inner rooms, later additions, as Geoffrey informs me, are pretty dull and nothing like as magical as the main hallway or the rooms in the book. There is a rather dated, nineties-style kitchen with pine cupboards and stained, beige tiles, a living room with faded floral wallpaper, a dado rail and well-worn, soft leather sofas. It’s all so ordinary I might as well be in Dad and Lynda’s new-build bungalow in Reading.

  As we stand at the living-room window, Geoffrey turns to me and asks if I have any children.

  I am rather taken aback by the question and at first I don’t know what to say.

  ‘I only ask because this house has a beautiful garden,’ he says, his voice softening. ‘Perfect for children to play in.’

  I look out of the window and see the dream world I had first discovered in the books. There are the purple, speckled foxgloves lined up against the stone wall. Beyond them the other set of topiary animals: the fox, the hare and the badger. And there, right at the back, the tall holly maze that leads to the graveyard.

  ‘Er, no, I don’t have children,’ I say, my voice catching.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ says Geoffrey, placing his hand on my arm. ‘You look rather upset.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just a bit of hay fever,’ I say, wiping my eye.

  ‘Oh gosh, we better avoid the garden then,’ says Geoffrey, grimacing.

  The sight of the garden brings the story back to me in such vivid detail, my thoughts turn to the boy protagonist.

  ‘I always felt sorry for Angus,’ I say. ‘He seemed so lonely.’

  ‘Lonely? Gosh, no,’ says Geoffrey, shaking his head. ‘How could he be lonely when he had his special friends?’

  ‘But they weren’t real,’ I say. ‘They were ghosts.’

  ‘They were real to him,’ replies Geoffrey softly. ‘And that is all that matters.’

  ‘I bet your son enjoyed growing up here,’ I say.

  ‘Son?’ he says, frowning. ‘I’m afraid you must be mistaken. I don’t have a son. My readers and those funny little ghosts out there were my only children.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, taken aback.

  I’m sure he had mentioned a son in an interview years back, but then everything about those years after Mum’s death is rather foggy. There had definitely been a wife, I remember that, but there was talk of some family tra
gedy in the papers that was never fully explained. Maybe she died. Poor Geoffrey.

  ‘It must be hard to leave somewhere as special as this,’ I say.

  ‘The time is right,’ he replies, his eyes glistening. ‘And I want to spend my retirement travelling. Seeing the world has suddenly become a priority to this old home bird. There’s a sense of time running out for me.’

  I nod my head. That much is true.

  ‘It’s all right for a young person like you,’ he says wistfully. ‘You have plenty of years ahead, but … well, let’s just say I won’t be sad to start afresh. Now, I suppose I ought to show you around upstairs.’

  He gestures to the door but as we make our way out we hear a loud thud. Geoffrey looks startled. He glances at the door then turns on his heels and guides me back into the living room.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he says, regaining his composure, ‘but will you excuse me?’

  He walks out of the room. I hear his footsteps on the stone floor, the slow, laboured gait. I wander into the hallway and see a large walnut sideboard to the left of me. Then something catches my eye. It’s the glass bird, sitting on top of the sideboard. I step towards it, a shiver running through me as I recall how this special talisman, the black glass bird with the yellow bill that the boy, Angus, had to take in his hands to gain entry to the past, has haunted my dreams since I was a little girl.

  As I draw closer to it, the bird’s eyes seem to flash and I feel my skin prickle.

  ‘I don’t think he needs you any more,’ I whisper, taking the bird and slipping it into my bag. ‘Best you come with me.’

  I return to the living room and sit down on the edge of the soft armchair, feeling light-headed suddenly. Seeing the bird has brought it all back: the horror of my mother’s death, those long lonely hours sitting in my room lost in the story of this house and its ghosts.

  Where can Geoffrey have got to?

  I stand up and walk into the hallway and, as I do, a peculiar thing happens: with each step I take I feel myself being drawn further into the story. I’m no longer Vanessa Adams, I am Angus, the lonely, sleepless boy. I gaze at the tapestry. The bloodied deerhounds seem to spring to life. I hear them barking, feel the crunch of leaves under my feet, smell the crisp, winter air. I’m falling under the spell of this house, sinking deeper into its folds.

  Time freezes as I follow the hounds through the woods. I hear shouts and screams, a loud bang echoing through the air. Then, suddenly, I’m crouched at the bottom of the stairs.

  Geoffrey is lying on the floor at my feet. He’s sprawled at a terrible angle and a pool of blood is gathering at the back of his head. My hand is on his neck.

  I leap backwards, my heart lurching inside my chest. What have I done?

  The room starts to spin, the deerhounds snarl at me from the tapestry. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I reach out to grab something to steady myself but there’s just empty space.

  The next thing I know, I’m running down Hampstead High Street, gasping for breath, the glass bird hidden in my bag, Geoffrey’s blood on my hands.

  34. Now

  ‘I thought I’d give you a little private tour. Isn’t that exciting?’

  He bundles me inside the living room. It has been transformed since I was last here. The furniture is covered in plastic sheets, there is yellow-and-black tape stuck to the floor and a layer of what looks like chalk dust clings to every surface.

  ‘As you can see, the police have had a little refurb,’ he says, his hand pressed to my back. ‘What brutes they are, ruining such a literary landmark as this.’

  His voice sounds odd, like he’s deliberately changing it.

  ‘Connor, why are you doing this?’ I say as he takes my arm. ‘How did you even get in here?’

  ‘I thought it would be fun,’ he says, gripping my arm tighter. ‘A little game of make-believe. After all, you like pretending, don’t you?’

  He laughs and it sounds so menacing I shrink into myself. Please don’t let him hurt me.

  We walk out of the living room, back to where we started.

  ‘Here we have the grand hallway,’ he says, sweeping his arms out like some deranged estate agent. ‘Or, as we like to think of it, the gateway to Holly Maze House. The late owner liked to claim that this part of the house dated back to 1647 but that was just bullshit to fool a load of gullible children. The truth is that this house was actually built in 1930, so the chances of it being haunted by a load of seventeenth-century, plague-addled ghost kids are pretty slim. But, hey, never let the truth get in the way of a good story. And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’

  He pauses then and as he stares at me I catch a whiff of cologne. It smells sharp and citrusy and it sticks in my throat.

  ‘Now, this stupendous piece of trash is, if our esteemed late author friend is to be believed, a rare Jacobean walnut sideboard,’ he says, still gripping my arm. ‘Though only for the purposes of flogging books and houses. It’s actually a great big fake, like everything else in this house. You know he actually shipped that maze here from a garden centre? Ha! And the gravestones? He commissioned them from a stonemason and got him to carve the names of the characters on them. Then he told the press he’d “stumbled on them” when out for a walk and the discovery had inspired the books. The truth was he’d written the first book before he even moved here. It was all just a marketing ploy, the lot of it. What a fucking joke. Oh, look though, something’s missing.’

  He pushes me towards the sideboard, holding his hand firmly on the small of my back.

  ‘What’s missing?’ he says, his voice gruffer now. ‘Can you tell me?’

  I shake my head, tears springing to my eyes.

  ‘You don’t know?’ he says mockingly. ‘Oh, I think you’re fibbing. You know very well what’s missing because you came in here and took it, didn’t you? The day old Mr Holly Maze was bumped off.’

  I feel a chill when he says that. How does Connor know about the bird? Did he follow me that day? Did he see what happened?

  He pulls me away from the sideboard and heads for the stairs. I flinch as I recall Geoffrey lying in a heap at the foot of them, the blood on my hands.

  ‘You do realize that all of this is a story?’ he says, pulling me to him. ‘That, like the maze and the gravestones, none of it is real?’

  I am shaking uncontrollably now, fear coursing through me like an electric current.

  ‘The glass bird is nothing more than a cheap ornament,’ he says, his voice getting more muffled the angrier he becomes. ‘It can’t speak. It can’t open up time portals. It’s a fucking inanimate object. Do you understand?’

  He presses his face into mine so hard I can hardly breathe. Ever since the day I left him, one memory has been growing stronger, clearer and more vivid; playing itself over and over in my head. For weeks, when I close my eyes, all I can see is Connor holding me down on that bed, forcing me, subduing me. Just as he is now.

  ‘Right,’ he says, keeping his eyes fixed on me as he mounts the staircase. ‘I think we should go and see the bedrooms now.’

  And I realize, with sickening dread, that the nightmare has just begun.

  35. Now

  ‘No,’ I scream as he hustles me out of the hallway and up the dark, wooden staircase. ‘Please, Connor. Don’t do this. I beg you.’

  He laughs mockingly.

  ‘I guess you remember this bit from your favourite story,’ he says, gripping me tighter as we reach the landing. ‘The hidden rooms.’

  I look ahead of me at the passageway. A shaft of light illuminates the tapestries on the wall, depicting bloodstained deer and men with swords, and I am filled with terror.

  ‘Connor, please,’ I say as he drags me along the passageway. ‘Just stop this. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.’

  ‘But, Iris,’ he says, pausing outside the door at the end of the passageway. ‘This is your home.’

  ‘What did you just call me?’ I say.

  ‘
You always wanted to be part of this story, didn’t you?’ he says, pushing the door open with his gloved hand. ‘And now, thanks to me, you can be.’

  He shoves me into the room, which appears to be a boy’s bedroom. The bed has a Star Wars quilt cover, the shelves are lined with books and action figures. The desk, under the window, is covered with bits of cardboard, pots of paint, glue and scissors. Then I see, sitting on the windowsill, its wings now torn, its paint faded: a model aeroplane.

  All Angus wanted to do was make planes.

  ‘Whose bedroom is this?’ I say, turning to Connor. He is standing by the door, his hands on the frame, blocking my exit.

  ‘A young boy’s,’ he says, staring straight at me. ‘Isn’t that what buyers want to see? A family house, somewhere that’s been lived in, enjoyed. Not some mausoleum.’

  ‘How did you get in here?’ I say, looking around incredulously. ‘How come you know so much?’

  ‘You mean you don’t remember?’ he says, closing the door and coming towards me.

  ‘Remember what?’ I say, my chest tightening as I think of the night of the burlesque, his arms pinning me to the bed. He grabs me and presses his face to mine. ‘Connor, please don’t do this, please, I beg you.’

  ‘Why do you keep calling me Connor, Iris?’ he says, letting go of me. ‘Surely you know who I am? How quickly people forget. One minute you’re a famous author with people falling in adoration at your feet, the next you’re yesterday’s man, forgotten, washed up.’

  It’s then I hear the West Country burr, the sing-song cadence to his voice.

  ‘Geoffrey?’ I whisper, my throat tightening. ‘It … it can’t be?’

  ‘Oh, Iris,’ he laughs, shaking his head. ‘You are so funny. What are we going to do with you?’

  ‘Who –’ I say, gulping down my fear. ‘Who are you then?’

  ‘You really don’t remember?’

  I shake my head. He comes right up to me again, his face inches from mine. Then he takes the balaclava off.