Cuckoo

by Sophie Draper

  His little voice was thin and reedy. Gratingly childlike.

  I didn’t reply. My eyes were fixed upon the pear drum on his lap. It swamped him. One hand was clasped around the handle. He started to wind it slowly. As it moved so did the wheel beneath the strings. At the other end of the pear drum his fingers pressed upon the keys, his arm impossibly long, fingernails overgrown and peeling. The keys hit the side of the box, clacking as the whole thing began to drone. The air hissed around him, the handle rhythmically rotating as the drone slowly took over, the notes long and low, rising in tempo, a thrumming that filled my ears and wrapped around my throat, squeezing the air from my lungs.

  There was a hammering at the front door.

  ‘Caro! Where are you? Are you alright?’

  Was that Craig, his voice hollow in the distance? My mind was buzzing, my chest tightly constrained, the blood roaring in my ears.

  Caroline – is that you?

  My head swung back to the boy. He was speaking to me, and he knew my name.

  ‘What?’ I croaked.

  He looked at me, his head tipped to one side like a bird, his eyes wild and vacant.

  I couldn’t see his face. Yet I knew him. The memory was getting clearer. It felt as if I was playing out an old, favourite script.

  Caroline … He spoke again.

  I couldn’t drag my eyes away. No one called me Caroline. Only Elizabeth. My mouth moved but the whisper was voiceless in my head.

  ‘No!’

  The drone got louder, almost drowning out his quiet little boy voice.

  Caroline …

  The boy moved his head. The shutters and the window gave a shake, the light flashing across the room. His face blurred in and out of focus and the ground seemed to leap up towards me then rear back. I thought he had pale lips and white cheeks, or was it pink and grey? Grey like a pair of old net curtains draped across his face, torn and shredded to bits. No, that was his skin. I gasped.

  Have you been bad enough?

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘Caro! Caro!’

  Someone stormed up the stairs.

  I ignored the words, staring at the empty space in front of me, the drone of the pear drum still filling my head.

  He’d gone. How could he just disappear? I took an unsteady step. The door behind me crashed against the wall and a blast of cold air shuddered up my back. A pair of hands pushed down upon my shoulders, spinning me around.

  ‘Caro!’

  It was Craig, his voice louder.

  The drone dissipated, like a tight cloud of brown butterflies bursting apart in my head, flying in all directions, fluttering across the shafts of winter sun until they were gone. I felt weightless. It was Craig that stopped me from falling.

  ‘For God’s sake, Caro, what’s wrong with you?’

  I didn’t answer. The boy had gone, not even a mark upon the floor in the dust where he’d been sitting. And no sign or sound of the pear drum. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the thin lines of silver moonlight streaking out across the room from the cracks between the shutters. It was moonlight, not sunlight. I threw a confused look at Craig. The cut on my head was throbbing, the skin swollen, more blood trickling over my eyes. What had happened? What had I seen? Had I been hallucinating? The pain in my head was getting worse.

  ‘Come away, Caro. What’s got into you? Why did you run off?’

  Craig’s voice, coming at me from a distance.

  I felt his breath upon my skin. I almost flinched. But the spell had broken. I let him draw me from the room. He shut the door behind us, leading me down the stairs into the kitchen. He pushed me onto the hard, wooden seat of a chair and I heard the banging of kitchen cupboards. A minute later, he was thrusting a mug into my hand.

  ‘Here, drink this!’

  I took the mug, expecting scalding coffee, but no, it was cold and the liquid burning my throat was whisky, more of Elizabeth’s whisky. I spluttered, pushing the mug away, but Craig forced it back, holding my hands around the mug, lifting it to my lips.

  ‘Drink it. Just a little. It’ll do you good.’

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to drink alcohol. I remembered what had happened the last time I drank. By now, though, I hadn’t the energy to say no. I let him pour the liquid into my mouth and it scorched a trail into my stomach, leaving me unable to speak.

  Craig watched me, the beam from a single torch lying on the table splayed across its surface. It was unnerving now that I was back inside myself, those eyes of his holding mine, probing. They were no longer black. Why on earth had I thought they were black? I pulled away, looking at the mug instead.

  Craig sat beside me. As the whisky warmed my belly, I realised I hadn’t been afraid of him. My response to the pear drum, the summerhouse, had overwhelmed everything else. What had I been thinking of? What was wrong with me?

  ‘What’s going on, Caro?’ Craig’s voice was softer.

  I coughed, pushing away the whisky-tightness gripping my throat. What should I tell him? That something was haunting this house? That I was having hallucinations? That I was haunting this house? Or that memories were returning I couldn’t bear to face. Pour out the entire sorry tale of my childhood.

  Tell him, a voice was whispering in my ear, just tell him.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Something’s wrong. You come bursting into my workshop in a right state. Having run, it seems, all the way from your house to mine.’

  ‘It’s not that far!’

  I nodded towards the back door. It was far enough in this weather. My eyes drifted towards the windows, the shutters firmly bolted from the inside. Craig followed my gaze.

  ‘And what’s going on with the shutters?’ Craig seemed too close. ‘Why have you bolted them all?’

  ‘I thought it would help, you know, keep the house warm. There’s another power cut.’

  All these power cuts. Was that normal? How could I possibly explain what I’d just seen? Or heard? What I’d thought. And everything else that had been going on since I’d got here.

  I sipped the alcohol. It kicked in a little more, relaxing my limbs. Had it all been in my head? Was I going mad? Or were memories that had always been elusive, inhabiting the unused rooms of the house, re-emerging in fits and starts now that I was back in the place where I grew up?

  No, it was concussion from the knock to my head in the summerhouse, or shock, or something like that, a physical thing manifesting as visions and hallucinations. And my overactive imagination reacting to the stories of the commission. It seemed downright daft now, thinking about it, things being moved around by some unknown force, noises in the attic and a broken window. I didn’t believe in ghosts and all that stuff.

  Stupid lone female too scared by her own imaginings to cope without a man in the house, that’s what Craig was thinking, wasn’t he?

  But what about the boy? He’d been so …

  ‘And that’s why you came all the way to my cottage? Because of a power cut? Through that weather?’ Craig asked.

  I dragged my eyes back to him. Was he like Paul? Not all men were like Paul. One minute I was running to Craig for help, the next minute I was running away – what must he think of me? The whisky must be doing its job: I felt the fog clear, the life slowly seeping into my body, my brain kicking back into focus. I took another gulp.

  ‘Slowly, Caro, not too much.’ Craig tapped the mug away from my lips, looking amused.

  ‘I’m sorry. I only went for a walk, to the bottom of the garden. I went inside the summerhouse, it’s a wreck. I think I bashed into one of the panes of glass. They’re broken. Cut my hand. Must have been what cut my head too.’

  My lips were struggling to form the words. I’d begun to shiver.

  ‘Then I was running across the field until I found your workshop. I wasn’t looking for your house, you know.’

  I was keen for him to understand that. I hadn’t been searching him out. I wasn’t interested in him. L
ike hell.

  ‘Hmmm.’

  There he was again, watching me.

  ‘So, you were in a panic?’ he said.

  That made me sound like a foolish idiot.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  Even to me, my explanation sounded pathetic. Why had I run from the summerhouse? Why had I run from Craig? I knew why. My eyes were caught up by his. Rabbits and car headlights, I was thinking now. Perhaps if he thought I was stupid …

  ‘And you came looking for me?’

  ‘No.’

  I tried a smile. I barely noticed him taking my hand, the fog was there again. I shook my head.

  ‘It’s alright, Caro, I don’t mind,’ he said.

  His thumb was rubbing the inside of my wrist as if to warm me. I watched it circling my skin, sending trails of fire along my arm, like the whisky down my throat.

  ‘Can you stop that, please?’ I said.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘That thing you’re doing with your thumb.’ I nodded towards his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He looked at his hand as if he hadn’t realised what he was doing and let it drop.

  He stepped away from me and for a moment I felt bereft, as if I really wished I hadn’t said that.

  CHAPTER 16

  I awoke on the sofa. Someone was moving about the kitchen. My body tensed. I could hear music, the radio, a song playing out against the sizzle of breakfast, a buzzer jarring into life as the timer went off. Nothing unusual about that. Except it wasn’t me. Then I remembered – Craig had said he would stay the night, to keep an eye on me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  I stood up, heading for the cloakroom. My head hurt, pain stabbing behind my forehead, but the cut had dried up. Craig had washed it the night before and found a plaster. Gingerly I peeled it off. I peered in the mirror. My face was pale, my hair tangled from the night, my eyes staring back at myself like an animal seeing its reflection for the first time.

  I could remember Craig leading me into the sitting room, pushing me down onto the sofa and pulling a blanket over my shoulders.

  ‘Sleep,’ he’d said. Like a parent to a child. ‘You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  But I didn’t. I felt awful, not my head or the cut, but the embarrassment of my behaviour, bursting into his workshop, running off, drinking myself into a state whilst he watched me. What must he be thinking?

  Craig was still here. Why?

  ‘Caro!’

  He must have heard me. He called again and I walked into the warmth of the kitchen.

  ‘Good morning,’ Craig said, smiling as the fridge door swung shut with a clunk.

  The room was toasty from the Aga and Craig was in corduroys and a well-fitting T-shirt, a jumper thrown onto the seat of one of the chairs, his feet bare against the stone floor. I swallowed.

  ‘Morning,’ I replied, unwilling to commit my emotions one way or another.

  ‘How’s your head?’

  Was he asking about the cut? Or my state of mind?

  Or do you mean after all that whisky you poured down me? I thought. But I’d chosen to drink it, hadn’t I? Why did I do this with people, think the worst? Push them away in my head. He was trying to look after me, wasn’t he?

  ‘Oh, I’ll live,’ I said. I gave a watery smile and my hand reached up into my hair, fingers pulling on the strands in a useless attempt to pat them in place. ‘Electricity’s back on, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Come on, I’m guessing you haven’t eaten properly for a while.’

  He slapped a plate of eggs, bacon and fried bread onto the table, pushing a knife and fork into my hands. Where had all that come from? He must have gone home to change and brought the food back. We sat on either side of the table and ate.

  After a few moments, I saw his eyes drift across to my artist equipment, the paint brushes propped up in a jar, bristles neatly smoothed, the lines of coloured tubes perfectly placed in order of shade in their box.

  ‘You paint?’

  ‘Yes. I’m an illustrator.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, children’s books mostly, you know.’

  ‘Of course, the art shop.’

  The one in Ashbourne, he meant, where he’d rescued me from Angus McCready. I nodded. I eyed the empty whisky bottle on the floor by the kitchen bin.

  ‘Do you have children?’ I asked.

  I bit my lip. He smiled and shook his head.

  ‘God, no – I’m not currently attached, if that’s what you wanted to know.’

  ‘Did you know Elizabeth well?’ I rushed the words. ‘I mean …’

  Oh, Lord, what did I mean? My mind was drifting to the night before … My eyes flashed up at Craig and my teeth caught on my lower lip.

  ‘Not really, I’d see her every now and again. You know, when I was driving by or in town. She used to walk Patsy past my house most days. I’ll need to go home soon and take her out.’

  I nodded, pushing the food around my plate.

  ‘Where did you sleep?’ The words burst from my lips.

  ‘Hmmm?’ He popped a chunk of bread into his mouth.

  ‘Last night, where did you sleep?’

  His growing smile broadened.

  ‘Upstairs, in the big bedroom at the front.’

  Elizabeth’s room.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And you slept downstairs on the sofa.’ He was laughing at me now, wasn’t he?

  ‘Oh.’ I busied myself cutting a piece of bacon.

  We both ate in silence. I could feel him observing me though. I felt warm and shuffled in my seat, reaching out for a glass.

  ‘Want some water?’ I said, standing up to fill my glass at the sink.

  ‘No thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks for cooking breakfast.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘You should know that Elizabeth and I didn’t exactly get on.’ I pulled my eyes up to his face.

  ‘I know that. It’s not for me to judge your relationship with your mother …’

  ‘Stepmother.’

  ‘Families are complicated, I know that.’

  He stabbed a piece of bacon, not looking at me.

  You’re telling me.

  The bacon gone, he stood up, gathering his plate and then mine, carrying them over to the sink where he left them on the side. Not a washer-upper then.

  ‘Caro, you were frightened last night.’ He swung towards me. ‘Properly frightened, up there in that bedroom. What was it? What did you see? What did you hear?’ He leaned against the table, his face close.

  Hear? What did he mean by hear? Had he heard it too? The boy? Now my heart was hammering in my chest.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said. ‘It was nothing. There was a broken window in the attic and it’s been banging on and off since I got here. I thought I’d fixed it, only then it started up again. It gave me the creeps, that’s all, you know, big house, on my own. It was just my imagination. And … Elizabeth, she … she died here, in the hallway. There was a splinter on the banister, I didn’t see it at first and then it came away in my hand, exactly where she must have fallen, and you can still see the blood on the floor underneath. I can’t help thinking about it. How she …’

  My voice tailed off. I was annoyed with myself. I sounded like a complete wimp. That wasn’t me, was it?

  ‘I can fix the banisters for you, if you’d like?’ Craig obligingly picked up on the hint. ‘It won’t take much. A bit of wood filler and polish and that mark will be gone. But I can’t change what happened, Caro. You can’t undo what’s been done.’

  What on earth did he mean by that?

  ‘What—?’

  I didn’t get to finish my sentence. He’d reached out and taken my hand and I was caught unawares by his touch.

  ‘Show me, Caro. I’ll see what I can do.’

  He’d left. I stood at the front door watching as he strode down the drive and onto the road towards his cottage.
At least that damn scratch on the banisters was gone. He’d returned home and found what he’d needed, coming back to spend more than half an hour sanding and polishing it away.

  I looked out at the snow. It was even deeper than before, totally impassable by car. I was stuck, when all I wanted to do was jump in the car and drive back to London. Away from … what? I flung the door shut, bolting it top and bottom. I turned around to face the hall, stairs and landing, and the banisters.

  It was just me now, alone in the house.

  CHAPTER 17

  The sound of my mobile made me jump.

  ‘Hiya, Caro!’

  It was Steph, her voice smooth and round with that now familiar nasal New York twang. I wanted to paint her voice, like steam rising from the vents in the pavement, and the gentle shuddering of subway trains beneath your feet.

  ‘What is it?’ I snapped the question, rubbing my hand across my eyes. Why hadn’t she Skyped? Then I remembered, my laptop was still missing. I groaned.

  ‘Caro? I can’t hear you right – hold on, I’ll try again.’

  The phone went dead. Then it rang.

  ‘That’s better. I was hoping I would catch you. Got some news.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that, then?’ I took a breath, willing myself to sound cheerful.

  ‘It’s the lawyer, he rang me late yesterday.’

  Briscoe? Hadn’t I spoken to him only two days before?

  ‘He wants to meet with both of us. Says it’s important.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I spoke to him myself and he said we just have to wait for probate. Why does he want to meet with us?’

  ‘There are papers we have to sign, he said your call reminded him. So it’s got to be in person.’

  ‘Oh. But you’re in the States and I’m snowed in here in Derbyshire and it’s Christmas soon.’

  Fortunately, my sister either didn’t hear my irritation, or was too distracted. I realised my ‘best behaviour’ manner, since we’d been reconciled, was starting to slip.

  ‘No, I think he understood that. We’ve arranged a meeting in a few weeks’ time, after Christmas, on the twenty-fourth of January at his office in Derby. Can you make it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’