Chapter Text
The Tube had been a health hazard, predictably. I’d spent half my journey in the armpit of a backpacker with a rucksack the size of Bengal and the other half crammed between two chattering ladies fanning themselves (and occasionally batting me) with folded up copies of the Metro. The headline ARE THE DEAD RISING? slapped me twice in the face before I wrenched the newspaper out of her hand. A pale woman with a gamine haircut screamed up at me from the front page. I rolled my eyes and tucked her story under my arse; England had enough issues to deal with without posh girls making up more.
Twenty minutes later I surfaced at Marylebone tube and sprinted the ten-minute walk from station to destination, meaning I was still late but now puffed out, sticky and annoyed. I checked my scrumpled print-out for the twelfth time and looked up at the front door. Yep. Definitely number Thirty-Five. There was an iron knocker roughly the size of my head. I gave it two loud bangs and stood back.
Several seconds passed. I stood there, panting, hands on hips, squinting up at three storeys of mullioned windows for any signs of life. The flowers in the window boxes were looking a little parched and the peeling frontage could have done with a fresh lick of paint. Maybe the tenants couldn’t agree on costs and the work was never done? Or some shitty landlord was refusing to get their arse in gear and fork out for repairs.
I was just thinking about trying the knocker again when I heard scuffles on the other side of the wood. There was a muffled oath, the clinking of a chain, and the door swung inwards. I was met with several inches of toned male stomach. My eyebrows shot up.
“Sorry about that,” said the owner of the aforementioned stomach, wrenching his T-shirt down so his head popped out the collar. He grinned at me. “I was in the garden when you knocked. Er… Priti?”
He was about fifty years younger than the 'gentleman with large property in need of assistance' I’d been picturing from his advert. Tall and dark-haired, I would have guessed he was pretty close to my age. Definitely not a stooped old codger too rheumatic to wield a duster. A grandson maybe?
“Er, no.” I rummaged in my pockets for my other bit of paper and handed it over. “Priti broke her foot. Unfortunately. So I’ve come in her place. I’m Lucy,” I said. “Lucy Carlyle.”
His grin widened. “Then hello, Ms Carlyle. I’m Anthony Lockwood. You’d best come inside.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked as I stepped into the shade of the hallway, putting my backpack down on criss-cross wooden flooring. “It’s a scorching day out there.”
I pushed my sweaty fringe off my forehead. “Some water would be great, thanks.”
“Follow me. The kitchen’s down here.”
From the outside I’d assumed the house would be split into flats but, miraculously for a property in Zone One, it still seemed to be one complete home. The walls were lined with shelves stuffed with ornaments and gold-embossed books, and exotic tapestries and paintings hung in the spaces in between so there was barely any wall space to spare. A tribal mask, angry and roughly-hewn glared down at me from above an old-fashioned telephone stand. We crossed an equally eclectic living room with carpets from the last century – maybe the one before – and into a bright kitchen dominated by a dining table large enough to seat six.
“Have you come far?” he asked, fetching two glasses down from a cupboard.
I folded my arms. “Er, Tooting.”
“I’ve heard it’s nice there.”
“Bits of it. It’s got a Lidl, so…”
“That’s useful then.”
There were crumbs littering the tablecloth which was smothered in a strange spidery black pattern. As he clattered about at the sink I moved aside an abandoned butter knife, frowning at it.
“Best not to look too closely,” he said, noticing my inspection. “I usually don’t leave it out when we’ve got guests. Childish really. But useful when you want to leave a note for the other person or…”
I pushed away a dirty mug. “Draw a massive cock,” I finished for him.
He sighed and placed a sweating glass of cool clean water in my hand. “That one’s George’s. I mean not literally his. He drew it.”
“Nice attention to detail.”
“It’s the veins for me. Really makes it leap off the page.”
“Like it could attack at any minute.”
He snorted and I took a swig of water, praying I wouldn’t slosh any on my shirt front.
“Is George your housemate?” I asked as he leaned back against the counter top, watching me from under his dark flop of hair. “Or your partner?”
“My friend,” he replied. “We’ve lived together about a year now.”
“Just you two? Are you students?”
“George is. His room is on the first floor. Which I’ll show you if you’re ready?”
Back to business then. I downed the rest of my glass and left it on top of the hand-drawn penis.
“There are four floors,” he told me as we mounted the first flight of stairs, their walls just as clustered with artifacts and exotic textiles as the entrance way. “Kitchen, library and living room on the ground floor, bedrooms and bathroom on the first floor, then an attic room at the top with an en-suite. There’s a basement as well, with a gym and a few storage cupboards and things.” We reached a small landing. “That’s the bathroom. George’s room is just opposite. My room’s here. On the right.”
I looked in on a neatly-made double bed with crisp cotton sheets guarded by a wardrobe which could have fitted three of me. The carpet looked freshly hoovered and the armoire free of dust. There was a faint scent of fresh lavender in the air.
“Won’t need to spend a lot of time in here,” I murmured.
“You can spend as much time in there as you like.” Our eyes met. “The attic room is in a different state, however, so you’ll need to spend a tad more time up there. It’s become a bit of a dumping ground for George’s knick-knacks and extra clothing ever since he moved in. Could do with a tidy.”
“No problem,” I muttered, cheeks slightly warm. Then my attention zoned in on a fourth door. It was painted white and stood just to the left of his. I figured it was probably another bedroom but there was no light seeping under the crack between the base of the door and the floor.
He followed my gaze. “Ah,” he said. “There’s no need to worry about that room at all—” He gave me another disarming smile (which I was beginning to realise were dished out fairly regularly)— “and I wouldn’t expect you to get round the whole of the house in just two hours. I know it’s quite the task.”
I forced myself to look away. “That’s good. I’ll probably do the basement and ground floor today? Then make a start on the bedrooms and bathroom when I come back Thursday.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He strode back towards the stairs. “There’s a mop and a vacuum in the basement. I’ll show you.”
I moved to follow him, one hand on the bannister, when a breeze stirred at the base of my neck. Some primal instinct snapped my head around to the mysterious white door and I stared at it through the gloom…
“Everything alright?”
My new boss was waiting for me on the stairway.
“Er… sorry,” I said, shaking the feeling free. “Thought I heard something.”
“What did you hear?”
I hesitated. What had I heard? It was taking all I had not to look back at the door again. I could feel it watching me. Anthony Lockwood was watching me, too.
“Oh, you know,” I replied, without a clue what I was going to say next. “Just old houses, isn’t it? They like to play tricks.”
“Yes,” he said after a pause. “Tricks.”
I gave him an awkward smile. And whether he’d found what he’d been looking for in my face or not, he thankfully turned around again and we walked the rest of the way to the basement in silence.
Roughly two hours later I was back in the kitchen, holding my shirt away from my damp chest. The basement was probably the coolest room in the house but even ten feet in the earth I hadn’t escaped the London humidity. I’d checked that my employer was happily occupied in the garden before yanking my top over my head, thankful I’d had the foresight to strap on a sports bra that morning instead of one of my usual worn-out Primark go-tos. I’d made quick work of the gym, with its racks of fencing rapiers (would you believe) and cupboards of decades old paperwork, before pulling my shirt back on and dragging the mop bucket upstairs to start on the kitchen. This room had taken the longest. But only because I kept stopping to stare at the table cloth.
Get loo roll
You get it
George = Twatasaurus Rex
Evening Standard cryptic (7) across??
Serandipidous Serindipidous
Hemel Hampstead. Two dead. ‘Purple tinge’
Gone to 9am lecture
Fe? NaCl?
241 on doughnuts at shop
Gone out out. Be back by 2 6 :)
Stew needs eating before Tues
Lockwood = Cumstrumpet
There was an illustration beneath the last note which could be viewed from any which way up and still be anatomically correct. There were scribbled maps, blueprints of buildings that did or didn’t exist, equations, unflattering portraits, shopping lists, doodles, more cocks and, in a nod to equality, one particularly hairy vagina.
The window above the Belfast sink looked out onto a south-facing and scruffy garden that ended in an apple tree ladened with fruit. Mr Lockwood was slumped about midway down on a deck chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles and a broadsheet dangling limply from one hand. His shirt was back in a puddle on the grass. I paused for a moment, admiring the view, before twisting the handle of the kitchen door and heading down the steps.
"Don’t get up," I said quickly as he jerked awake. "I’ve just come to say I’m finished. I can show myself out."
"Oh." He got up anyway, blinking at me and pushing an old pair of Ray Bans to the top of his head. "That was fast."
I forced myself to keep my eyes on his face. "Um, yeah, I managed to get round where I said I would. It was actually pretty clean already…"
"I’ll walk you to the door."
"There’s no need. Really."
"I insist."
He snatched his T-shirt off the ground.
"I’ll see you next week, then?" I said as we re-entered the kitchen. The table cloth was free of crumbs now and the counter-tops were gleaming.
He raised his newspaper to cover a yawn. "I won’t be here on Thursday, unfortunately. But you’ll meet George."
"Next Sunday then?"
"Most likely."
He smiled at me in a slightly too knowing way. My face felt hot.
"Were you reading about the Kent incident?"
I jabbed a finger towards the front page of his newspaper. There again was that photograph of the young woman with the cropped hair, her dark eyes wide and pleading.
"Interesting coverage," he said lightly. "The survivor is stable now."
"Still sticking to her story, though."
"You don’t believe her?"
"Does anyone?"
He shrugged. "George and I have a few theories. This isn’t the first report of its kind, not by any means. We’ve been following them for a while."
I’d been hoping for some safe, employee-employer small talk about the infamous Marissa Fittes; the sole survivor of a student camping trip that had ended with two of her Oxford cohorts twisted and purple at the mouth of a popular Kentish tourist spot . The case had been driving the nation’s printing presses and most of the local constabulary mad for nearly a fortnight.
"You’ve been following… what?" I asked flatly.
"Oh, you know," he said, with another delicate half-shrug. "Sightings. Reports. Indications of paranormal activity."
I scoured his face for signs of the joke but drew a complete blank.
"Right," I said.
He sucked in a breath, hesitated, then said, "Do you believe in ghosts, Ms Carlyle?"
My disappointment that I wouldn’t be seeing him Thursday was quickly dissipating.
I laughed. "Er… no. No, I think she’s making up the whole supernatural bit because she’s from a very posh family and didn’t fancy getting arrested for murdering all her mates."
He nodded. "A frank assessment."
"But you… do believe her?"
"I think that while Ms Fittes clearly isn’t putting across the full story, we should all be more open minded to the fact that something is happening."
While I knew I should have kept my gob shut and nodded politely at my new boss’s eccentric opinions, I was well past the point of no return.
"That what’s happening?"
"That the dead aren’t staying dead."
It was as if he’d silenced something in the air between us, like a hand on a bell. I shivered, despite the heat, and picked up my cleaning kit.
"I’d best be going, Mr Lockwood."
He gave me another one of his glowing smiles. "Until next time, Ms Carlyle."
On Thursday a bespectacled young man about Lockwood’s age in a greying band t-shirt and mismatched socks answered the door to number thirty-five. He’d turned his back on me before I’d even crossed the threshold.
"Lockwood said he showed you the house last time," he drawled in a bored Estuary monotone, "so I won’t need to show you round again."
I closed the door behind me. "I just need to get to the hoover."
"Still in the basement I think, unless he didn’t put it back earlier."
He scratched at the seat of his jogging bottoms as I followed him down the hallway. His hair, with its tight black curls, was flat at the back as if he’d just got out of bed and there was a hole in the heel of one sock. He also had a very strong personal smell. Needless to say, he’d made a poorer first impression on me than his landlord.
"Things have been a lot tidier since you started coming," he said suddenly, just as we were passing the telephone stand.
"Er…Glad you think so," I replied, not expecting a compliment from this obvious charmer. "Though I’ve not really had a chance to—"
"Oh, not because of your cleaning. It’s just that Lockwood keeps tidying things whenever you’re due to come round so things are a lot neater nowadays. I’ve told him it’s absurd to clean for the cleaner but he won’t listen."
He disappeared around the living room doorway. I passed through after him – there was a set of squash shoes I didn’t recognise abandoned on the Persian rug and a golf club tilted against one of the armchairs – and into the sweltering kitchen.
"What are you cooking?" I asked, feeling suddenly drowsy, almost entranced.
He stirred the contents of a bubbling stock pan and for the first time I noticed his apron.
"You don’t need the kitchen, do you?"
"No, I’m doing the first floor today."
"Good. Then it’s my Lavand-e-murgh. We’ll be eating it till next Tuesday with the amount I’ve made."
I leaned over one of the wooden chair backs, noticing several new scribbles had been added to the table cloth. "Big family?"
"Got three brothers."
I took a deep huff of steam on my way to the basement steps. "They must miss you, then. Smells heavenly."
He adjusted his glasses. The lenses were half fogged with steam. "You could take some with you if you wanted. When you go. Like I said, there’s loads spare."
I’d not had homemade food in about three months. Unless you counted beans on toast and pot noodle. Which I didn’t.
"That… that would be great actually," I said. "Thanks."
He nodded curtly and I hefted the mop and old-fashioned vacuum up from the basement and made for the landing.
The bathroom hadn’t taken long at all compared to the time I’d allocated to it in my mind on the train over. Having only ever lived with my sisters or other girls, men’s bathrooms had taken on a sort of mythic horror to me. But for two boys it was almost hygienic. Nothing too controversial in the medicine cabinet, either. Just a pack of razors, two cans of shaving foam, a small plastic velociraptor, Alka-Seltzer, cotton buds, an expired epipen, some ancient female sanitary products, a cocktail umbrella, and an open packet of condoms that was near depleted and still in plenty of date.
"Ribbed for their pleasure," I’d read, making a moue, before shutting the magnetised door very gently.
I’d glanced into George’s room before quickly deciding it would be best to tackle Lockwood’s first. It was just as tidy and anonymous as the brief glimpse I’d had of it the previous Sunday. If he hadn’t told me it was his I would have assumed it was a guest room: unlived in and rarely called upon. There were pictures on the wall of far-off lands – waterfalls tall as skyscrapers and jagged, untamed mountain ranges – and groups of people holding some of the instruments hanging up in the hallway and the library: wooden mobiles and carved masks.
The bed smelled and looked freshly made but I stripped it anyway, bundling his covers into a ball. I was just pulling loose the fitted sheet when I felt a sharp pain in the heel of one hand.
"Ouch!"
I rubbed angrily at my palm before spotting the perpetrator. It was a tiny diamond pendant. Pear-shaped and so clear it could have been crafted from water. It looked like it belonged on an equally expensive and perfect chain but I couldn’t see one about. I placed it down on the bedside locker where it glimmered invitingly.
"I just hope she likes ghost stories," I muttered, carrying the bundle of laundry out to the basket on the landing.
And then I heard it. A gasp. Human. Despairing.
"Who’s there?" I barked into the gloom.
My skin had shrunk back to my bones. I still had Anthony Lockwood's sheets clamped to my chest, ready to launch them at anything that moved. There was a dull and rhythmic banging from the floor beneath me: George smacking a wooden spoon against the lip of his stock pan.
"Who’s there?" I repeated.
Cold stirred around my ankles. The house wasn’t as hot as it had been last Sunday but it was a warm day, easily in the early twenties. So where was it coming from?
My eyes drifted to the white door.
I took two steps towards it, still hugging Lockwood’s washing, and bent my ear low to the wood. There was something going on in the room beyond. A faint humming. Like a machine. A fan maybe? That would explain the chill. I closed my eyes, straining my ears. Sudden pressure blossomed around my temples, as if someone were squeezing my head between their hands. My mouth felt gammy. There was a dry, decaying taste on my tongue.
You really need to drink more water, I thought.
"What are you doing?"
I flew back from the door.
"Christ," I gasped, registering the curly-haired figure at the crest of the stairs.
"If Lockwood didn’t tell you," snapped George, "that room’s forbidden."
I closed my eyes again, one palm over my chest. "He told me not to clean it," I clarified, my heart rate sinking. "But I think something’s been left on in there. There’re noises—"
"He’ll be home this evening, I’ll let him know."
"I can just turn it off—"
"I’m sure you could. But as I said, it’s forbidden."
We looked at one another. The moment stretched taut.
"Ok."
"Much appreciated."
He shuffled into his room, grabbed a dog-eared notebook from the desk, and descended once more down the stairs. I cast the white door another look.
The noises had stopped.
The next few Thursdays and Sundays passed without incident, though it turned out I’d been right: the house did like to play tricks. Light worked weirdly around that first floor landing and more than once I thought I saw a shadow flit across the walls. Probably a bird or something, but the shapes always seemed too big for that. Unless there was a colony of albatross that enjoyed doing loops of Portland Row. I kept my headphones in and my head down as I brushed my Jay cloth over the lion’s head newel post, stuck my feather duster between the strings of the great green dream-catcher in the library. Every time I crossed the white door I listened for the voice, uncertain whether I was hoping to hear it again or not. Either way, the crack between the door and the floor remained silent and dark.
George and I slowly developed an understanding. I knew never (never ever) to try and re-organise his vintage comic collection and he left me a tupperware box of whatever that week’s batch cook was. It was usually something spice-leadened and delectable. He was almost always the one to let me in, too, unless he was at the library or visiting one of his brothers. Then he left a spare key in a little lockbox beside the lavender bush out front.
I quickly discovered that the master of the house was rarely at home and that first Sunday had been something of an anomaly. I also realised he’d probably been hungover. The only signs of his comings and goings were his discarded clothes (mostly neat white shirts and dark trousers which looked too small to fit him and smelt of alcohol and smoke), his notes on the ‘thinking cloth’ (as George called it), and his habit of leaving half-chewed apple cores on the armrests of the library sofas. I changed his bed sheets once a week, whether they looked slept in or not, and became fond of his cologne. It made gathering his things from the laundry basket a far better task than fetching George’s.
There were no signs of the owner of the diamond pendant. No bobby pins on the side of the sink. No third tooth brush in the white cup in the cabinet. I wondered idly whether that was where he was spending most of his time: in some penthouse flat in Chelsea with cream furnishings and lots of lamps. Any girlfriend of his would surely remember to shave her armpits and know her way around a wine list.
But the next sign of any woman at all didn’t come until a month after I started.
I’d been backing into the kitchen with a stack of ironing, headphones in, when I almost bumped into her with my arse. She was sitting at the kitchen table. Long-legged and flame-haired, wearing a faded yellow rugby jersey. A jersey which, coincidentally, I’d recently ironed before returning to Lockwood’s dresser.
"Oh hi," she said, politely enough. "Am I going to be in your way?"
I’d taken one headphone out and stared at her. "Er… no. No, you’re fine. I was just going to the basement."
"Oh good. Tell me if I do need to move."
She re-crossed those long legs and took a slurp from a mug of something lacteal. She was chain-smoker thin, her calves toned and moisturised. One slender hand was scrunched in her hair which was large, shiny and thoroughly shagged.
"How long have you worked here?" she asked as I struggled with the downstairs door.
"Er, about a month."
"And who owns this place?" Her voice was low and conspiratorial. She twirled a manicured finger in the air around her before continuing in a stage whisper. "Is it his parents’?"
"I’ve no idea."
"It’s just funny, isn’t it? All those weird little ornaments everywhere."
“They’re a bugger to dust," I said, slightly hysterically.
I wrenched open the basement door and stuck my foot in it before it could close on me again. Then I remembered.
"Did you…" I said, before I could think better of it. "Did you lose a necklace by any chance? A few weeks ago? I left the stone on his bedside table, I don’t know whether you saw it…"
Her head tipped to one side. "Necklace? I don’t wear a necklace."
There were footsteps in the living room and suddenly there he was. The man of the moment.
"Ah! Lucy. Hi." Anthony Lockwood grinned at me. He’d had a haircut since the last time I’d seen him. His dark flop of hair had been sheared into something slightly tidier and he was wearing the tartan dressing gown that usually hung from the hook on the back of his bedroom door. The belt was rather loose. "It’s been such a while. How are you?"
I pushed back the tendrils of my own hair, which was flat and still in the bun I’d tied it in before going to bed the previous night. "Plodding along. You?"
"Can’t complain."
"Anthony, this tea is delicious," said the woman at the table.
"Annabel! Yes. Lucy, this is Annabel. She’s starring in a new play I had the pleasure of seeing last night. One of the theatre company’s rising talents. Annabel, this is Lucy."
"We’ve met," said Annabel with a smile.
Lockwood pointed at me. "Do you want tea?"
"Only if you’re making one."
Annabel stretched forward, the V of his jersey creeping up the sides of her legs until I was left in no doubt as to her underwear status. "I think we’re a bit in Lucy’s way, actually, Anthony. Wouldn’t you rather… go back upstairs?"
"I’ve actually got to go soon," he said apologetically. "Got a lot on this morning. A quick shower and I’ll be off."
She frowned, little creases of disappointment appearing between those big, bovine eyes. "That’s a shame. Is it a large shower?"
They looked at one another and I felt my ears begin to burn. I suddenly wondered if I should start doing the washing up maybe, or just slip down into the basement and melt into the floor.
"I really do need to go," he said softly.
"I’ll go first, then." She put her cup down and stood, clicking the button on the kettle. "Take your time. You’ll need to wait for the water to heat up."
She locked eyes with him all the way out of the room.
"Fun night?" I asked, once she’d rounded the door frame.
"Was it a…? What? Oh." He rubbed a hand over the back of his cropped hair; the loose curls on top were in a fairly similar state to Annabel’s. "The drinks were good. Couldn’t say a lot for the play. All very interpretative and over my head."
I had a sudden image of Annabel’s endless legs very much over his head and quickly looked down at the thinking cloth.
"Nothing like George’s artwork then."
He snorted, his long fingers resting over one of the more recent and explicit illustrations. "No. More’s the pity. Anyway… Here’s your tea, Lucy. I’d best… Yes." He paused briefly in the doorway. "Sorry I’ve not really been about this last month. The house is looking really excellent. Thank you."
I gave a shrug. "Happy to be here." Then I realised what I’d said and stuttered. "I– I mean, I’m happy to be… of help… here."
"I’m… happy you’re happy to be of help here," he said slowly.
There was a pause of infinite length. Then he patted the door frame and vanished. I heard quick footsteps tracking up the stairs.
London continued to boil beneath a hellish cunt of a sun, heating the pavements like plates in the oven, ensuring that the nights were long and, if anything, hotter. A week after my introduction to Annabel I arrived for my monthly probation meeting late and in no mood for it.
“I’m really sorry,” I said as I landed heavily on the pleather cushioned chair, manoeuvring three bulging bags of cleaning products between my legs. “Someone fainted on the train before mine so they kept us all in the tunnel.”
“It’s alright,” said the shiny and thoroughly unfamiliar probation worker sitting behind the desk opposite me. “I know it’s difficult for some people to be on time for their meetings. I would advise setting off for our appointments ten minutes earlier in future? That way you’ll avoid any of the usual London travel disruption.”
Her dark hair had been woven into a thousand tiny braids and coiled on the back of her head like a crown. Unlike most of her colleagues there were no bags under her eyes, no hunch in her posture. Her neatly painted fingers were clasped on the desktop.
I swallowed what would have been my first instinctive response and decided to go with the second. “You’re not Sandra.”
“My name’s Holly Munro,” she confirmed in an educated, infinitely patient voice. “I usually work in the Charing Cross office but I’ve been asked to fill in during Sandra’s maternity leave. It’s Lucy, isn’t it? Lucy Carlyle?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Sandra was pregnant?”
“Her wife was. Apparently it’s come as a surprise to both of them.” Holly Munro’s smile was just as gleaming and neat as the rest of her. “I haven’t had much of a handover, as you can imagine, so I’ve just been reading through your case notes… I can see that you’ve made all of your previous appointments on time and you’ve only got ten months left on parole—”
“Nine.”
Her smile froze. “It says ten in your file.”
“It should say nine.”
Her tidy nose rumpled as if this fact annoyed her. She turned to her computer and there was a burst of typing. “And how have you found managing your conditions so far, Lucy?”
“Fine.”
Another burst of typing.
“And you’re in employment? Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“What occupation?”
I listed them off on my fingers. “I do night shifts at a club in Balham Tuesday to Saturday. Afternoon shifts at a pub in Morden Mondays to Thursdays. I’ve got two cleaning shifts a week at a house in Marylebone, then I do shelf stacking at a Polish supermarket near me as and when.”
She blinked. “And you find time to sleep…?”
“Saturday. Two till six.”
She eyed me, scrutinising me like I was something wriggling in a petri dish. My skin prickled but I refused to look away.
“And are all your employers aware of your… circumstances?”
I gave her a tight smile of my own. “It wasn’t a requirement to tell them.”
“On the employment forms there would probably have been a box to tick regarding pre-convictions—”
“There wasn’t. I answered the ads. They took me on. As long as I can pull a pint and put a box of cereal in the right place they don’t care about anything else.”
“And the house in Marylebone?”
“Private owner. I didn’t need to disclose anything to get the job. And they’re happy with me from… from what I can tell.”
My heart was hammering in my chest. She surveyed me for a few seconds before glancing back at her computer monitor. “I was also going to talk to you about opportunities for training and further education.”
“Alright,” I said, playing along. “What are they?”
“There are A-Level classes running from a college in Tooting Bec. I notice your GCSE and AS results were very promising but you stopped short of achieving your—”
“Can’t,” I interrupted. “They run 10am to 2pm Tuesdays to Thursdays. I’ve got shifts then.”
“Ok,” she said slowly, “in which case… How about some vocational training? There’s a female mechanics class. If that’s up your street?”
“Is it still on a Thursday evening?”
"Yes."
"Then I can’t. Got a shift."
"Foundational childcare."
"Mondays 1pm to 4pm. Got a shift."
"Brick laying."
"Friday 8am to 10am. Got a shift."
"Website design."
"Got a shift."
"Carpentry."
"Got a shift."
"Nursing for the—"
"Got a shift."
A pause settled between us.
"I really am here to help you," she said quietly.
"I’m really sure you are," I lied. "And I really want to get on with you. I know Sandra didn’t give you a proper handover or whatever so I’ll just tell you myself — I like to just turn up here, tell you that I’m fine so you can put a tick on your spreadsheet, and then get off to work on time. I know there’s likely some government target to get me onto one of those courses but if I miss a shift I can’t put food on the table or keep a roof over me so I’ll have to give A-Level French or foundational welding or whatever else you’ve got in your inbox this week a miss."
I re-folded my legs, rustling the plastic bags at my feet. Her plush lips had pinched into a frown and I genuinely didn’t know what her problem was. Surely I was making her life easier for her.
"We’ll park the training issue for now," she said, I thought rather bravely, "But there are lots of options." She leaned forwards and laced her fingers together. “There’s also been an update from Northumberland police. I spoke briefly to the officer in charge this morning and apparently Ms White’s treatment options are becoming severely limited. Her family are facing some hard decisions…"
The rest of her sentence was lost on me.
A teenage girl had appeared so clearly and sharply in my mind she might as well have been plonked on Ms Munro’s desk. I could see her there, gangly legs swinging beneath the wood, chattering to me about some mindless boy problem, mouth never pausing, not even to draw breath.
"That’s not an update," I said. "She’s been in hospital for two years."
"Yes. That was explained to me. But if her doctors are finally at the end of what they can offer her medically, and treatment is stopped, the police may have to re-open the investigation."
Suddenly the room felt far too small. My blood was pounding in my head again.
"They’ve always said that," I managed. "It’s not news."
"I’m glad they’ve taken care to manage expectations. I know it can’t have been… easy all these years with the case not fully resolved—"
"You mean with her not being dead yet?"
We stared at one another. Her eyes glanced away first. “The… the police said they’d inform both you and me if they do come to any decision. I’ve let them know your new address so they can send you a letter.”
I needed very much to be gone from the room.
“Thanks,” I said tightly. “Am I alright to go now? Like I said, I’m going to be late for my shift.”
And I was right, arriving at Portland Row fifteen minutes past the hour and sweaty from carrying all my things. My limbs felt lead heavy. I could smell myself. I thanked God that it was a lockbox day as I thumbed in the code and took the key.
Once inside I stayed there for a moment in the cool calm of the hallway. I could smell the remnants of George’s cooking from the night before and the heavy leather coats on the coat stand (none of which looked like they belonged to George or Lockwood). My frazzled brain could soak a while and forget about Ms Munro’s glassy smile and people lying in hospital beds very far away.
I had sorted through most of the Portland Row attic already, getting agreements from George about which things could go to the charity shop and which in a skip. Surprisingly, considering it was his childhood bedroom, I’d not found much evidence of Anthony Lockwood inside it. Just a small pocket knife George said wasn’t his. The plastic had felt strangely warm in my hand, as if it had just been pulled from its owner’s pocket. I’d unpacked plenty of holey drawers and forgotten sweets, crusty socks and vintage crisp wrappers still slippery with grease.
With the attic in mind I hauled myself up to the first floor landing, vacuum dragging behind me. It was a clunky, antiquated lump with about as much suction capacity as an asthmatic Yorkshire terrier. The clasp on the bag cover was faulty and as I bumped it up the last step it fell open.
“Oh for fuck’s—”
It slipped from my hand.
Bang.
Dust and muck burst over me. I lurched forwards, right into the mushroom cloud of filth, and grabbed hold of the handle to stop it clattering all the way down to the hall. Debris coated my forearms like ash from a volcano eruption; I could feel grit on my face and on my tongue. Slapping the faulty cover closed again I trapped the thing under my legs and sat on the top step panting. I could see that I’d cracked it. Broken the plastic underside into two pieces that no amount of duct tape would hold.
“Fuck!” I semi-screamed.
I couldn’t afford to be paying for new hoovers for property-owners in central London. I could barely afford to pay for my own flat with its dribble of water pressure for the shower I now desperately needed. Meaning I’d have to bluff my way into the local swimming baths tonight and try and use their showers…
My head turned towards the gleaming white tiles of the bathroom. The showerhead was large as a hubcap, set close to the ceiling so George or Lockwood wouldn’t have to bend their knees while sudsing themselves (or fucking beautiful women like Annabel every weekend). Maybe I could hold my face under that shower and I’d never have to see my shitty flat again.
Well. They’d never know, would they? Never have to know. Ms Munro’s gleaming smile floated into my mind... I yanked the hoover up onto the landing, pulled my dusty shirt over my head and tossed it towards a corner.
The first blast of hot water to hit my spine felt like a spear of ecstasy. I gasped and tipped my head back, cupping my hands under my jaw then smoothing water over my scalp. Steam was starting to build around me. I turned my face to the jet and just stood there. Guilt caught up to me and I picked the fullest bottle of shower gel from the rack and popped the cap. I knew immediately it was his. It was the smell from his sheets, from his clothes. I smoothed it over my shoulders, around my stomach. Jesus, that smell…
"Lucy?"
I screamed and jerked back. My fingers scrabbled at the plastic shower shelf and it ripped clean away from the wall. Several bottles of two-in-one shampoos banged against the shower tray. My back was falling, I was slipping— My hands wedged against the tiles.
Lockwood.
I could just about see his outline through the steam and the fogged glass.
"Lucy? Is that you? Are you alright?"
Shit, shit, shit.
"Yep," I said tightly. "Yep."
"You haven’t fallen, have you?"
"I’m fine."
"Alright, I… I’ll see you when you’re done."
The bathroom door swung shut.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets.
There was a soft knock at the door, which re-opened a crack.
"You’ll probably be… needing these," he said, dropping a towel and my crumpled clothes blindly onto the bath mat.
The door closed again.
Three minutes later I was wrapped tightly inside the large green towel I’d placed inside the airing cupboard the Thursday before. I rubbed my body dry as quickly as I could, swearing angrily at myself. Pulling on my filthy, sweat-sodden clothes felt like just desserts.
"I am so sorry," I said quietly when we were both sitting at the kitchen table with cups of tea steaming between us. "I… I know what I did was completely unacceptable."
Lockwood was still dressed in his running kit with a pair of trendy headphones dangling down around his neck. Apparently he’d made it all the way to Hammersmith before heading back in time to discover me. There was a flush high on his cheekbones and his hair was damp with sweat.
"It’s my fault," he sighed, taking a slurp from his mug and setting it down again. "I should have bought a replacement years ago. Only a matter of time before it exploded over someone."
“But I never should have used your shower. It was just a bit of dust.”
He snorted; the noise was loud like dampened rifle fire. “I doubt that. That thing was chocka. You could never get the thing fully empty anymore… Have you ever used the shower before?"
"No,” I gasped, offended. “I don’t use anything. Don’t even plug my own phone in. I bring my own tea bags."
He smiled patiently. "I know. I see them in the bin. They’re a different shape to ours."
"I can’t stand PG Tips."
Lockwood watched me for a moment, his dark eyes twinkling, then I smothered my face in my hands.
"Lucy," he said, laughing, and I heard his chair scraping closer to mine across the kitchen tiles. "Lucy, it’s an incredibly sticky day. Christ knows I’d want a shower, too."
My arms landed hard on the table cloth, right over a wonky sketch of Nelson’s Column. “I’ve got a shower at home, even though its crap, I shouldn’t have–”
His hand thunked onto the tabletop and covered mine. “It’s. Fine.”
His fingers were slender, fine boned. As he’d leaned forwards the collar of his shirt had dipped and I’d caught a glimpse of the sheening hollow between his collarbones.
“I’ll pay for the hoover,” I said meekly. “And I’ll…I’ll do an extra day in the week. Is Tuesday OK?”
“You’re not paying for the hoover and you don’t need to do an extra day. And why’s your shower so crap anyway?”
I slipped my hand out from under his. “It’s temporary. The landlord will sort it.”
“If your flat isn’t suitable, Lucy. There is a spare room here.”
“No. Thanks. That’s… that’s kind, but. No.”
“You’ve pretty much cleared it out yourself. You’d have to share it with George’s weird skull but there’s a bed and a wardrobe…”
“Thanks. But no. Thanks though.” I gave him a tight smile.
He leaned back in his chair and laced long fingers behind his head. “Well, the offer’s there.”
“Thanks,” I repeated softly.
“Though you’d have to learn to close the bathroom door if you ever did come to live here. Standard practice, usually.”
I looked at him. He was grinning at me again.
“You said you didn’t see anything!”
“And I didn’t! Sorry! Sorry. Too soon to joke, maybe.”
I snorted humourlessly and took a sip of the tea he’d made me. It was a deep teak colour, a hair’s breadth from being over-stewed, and I had to remind myself, for the forty-ninth time, that the man who had made it was my employer, was ignorant of my criminal record, and was a firm believer in the supernatural.
I came back Tuesday and did the extra day anyway. Both Lockwood and George were at home, charging about the house playing some kind of card game I didn’t understand. Somehow it needed one of them to change room every third hand. Or was it second hand? I’d meant to get on with the attic again but decided the kitchen could do with a wipe down instead. I set to with a sponge while both of them screamed at each other across the kitchen table, chairs scraping, table rocking.
"No way!" shouted George, his knee banging against the table leg. "What is that?"
"What’s what?" asked Lockwood innocently.
"You can’t have five queens in one hand."
"It’s the quintuple royal flush, George. Established as a legitimate hand in March of this year."
"Lucy!"
I shrugged, water dripping from the tips of my elbows. "Five queens seems a bit dodgy."
"See!" crowed George. "My round. Library. Go."
Lockwood rolled his eyes and slapped his cards down on the table cloth. "Why don’t you join us, Luce? Could do with someone to keep George honest."
Luce.
"You’re the biggest fucking cheat of them all!"
"What is this game?" I asked once Lockwood was out of the room. "It’s mental."
George shuffled his hand, which must have contained over twenty cards, placing them hurriedly in what seemed to me a random order. "I think his parents came up with it," he said distractedly. "Or some other Lockwood ancestor keen to knacker out their children. He calls it Sprout."
"Sprout?"
"Stick!"
"Twist!" bellowed Lockwood from two rooms over.
George turned a card over from a tall pile near the centre of the table. "Six of clubs!"
"Fuck!"
George cackled.
Lockwood sprinted back through the kitchen doorway, brushing past me as I pretended to dry mugs at the sink. I felt the ghost of his hands skim my hips and then he disappeared through the basement door.
"He’s so shit at it," chuckled George, as his footsteps clanged rhythmically below us, "even though he’s the only one that knows how to play it."
"Where… where are his parents?" I asked. "Do they live somewhere else?"
"Died. Ages ago. He doesn’t really talk about it." George tucked a joker behind one ear and bellowed. "Gin!"
"Ha!" crowed Lockwood. He emerged seconds later, red-faced at the crest of the metal stairs. "Two of a kind, Karim."
George slammed his cards down on the thinking cloth. Lockwood slipped back past me and ruffled his housemate’s black curls. He grabbed at the fridge handle, wrenching it open. "Better luck next time. Beer anyone?"
I dried my hands off on a tea towel. The kitchen was spotless now and I’d run out of excuses to hang around any longer. "I’d better get going, actually. It’s getting a bit late."
There was a wave of male protest and somehow I was steered into a chair at the head of the table. Lockwood levered the cap off a lager bottle while George stuffed a lime wedge in its mouth. Neither of them were quite sober.
"So I hear Lockwood invited you to live with us," said George, taking a swig from his own bottle, "and that you’ve already tested out the shower."
My jaw dropped open and Lockwood gave a small laugh, clapping me on the shoulder in a blokey sort of way. "It was simply an offer to use the attic while Lucy’s shower is out of action."
George shrugged. "I’d be well up for it. Be nice to have a woman about the house that Lockwood isn’t shagging."
"Strange way to talk about Sandy, George. She’s here every other Saturday."
Sandy, I established, after they’d completed several revolutions of the kitchen table and George had finally whacked Lockwood over the head with a masher, was George’s aunt.
That week I picked up every request I could for extra shifts, working back to back nights, stuffing my mind with distractions. Every time I fell into bed I was too exhausted to dream, which was the idea. I did my usual Sunday afternoon at Portland Row and saw the myriad of knick-knacks and curios that occupied every spare space of the house with fresh eyes. Were they Lockwood’s father’s? Or his mother’s? Or had they belonged to some older relative before them? There were no family photographs anywhere, not even in his room.
My own father had died years ago. I barely knew anything about him. He’d gifted me his shoulders and his mean right hook and then shuffled drunkenly off a railway platform three days before my fifth birthday. To hear my mother talk about it, it was the most useful thing he’d ever done.
Without any blood relatives on the scene, Lockwood clearly had George. They bickered like an old married couple and I listened to them from two rooms over, duster in hand, straining to make out their actual words. They'd finally settled in the kitchen, George scrabbling over the thinking cloth like a man possessed, and, when I needed the room to clean, he'd dragged the thing out into the scorched back garden. Lockwood loomed over his scribblings like a general ruminating over a battle plan: dark brows knitted, lips pursed.
It was two days after that shift (George had trounced Lockwood at three rounds of Sprout while I hoovered the living room carpet) when I found the white letter left out for me on the side. My housemates had gone out. That much was obvious by the army of empty beer cans left abandoned and dripping on the Formica table in the kitchen. I’d read the letter, twice, my eyes unblinking, and then opened the fridge. There was the half bottle of off-brand vodka sitting next to the milk. I drank it down in one go. Followed by the dregs of the beer cans still standing upright. Then I’d scoured the kitchen cabinet for more alcohol. There wasn’t any. So I went out.
I managed to get into a nightclub with a loose dress code and a smile. Ten minutes’ solid flirting later and further drinks were bought for me. I slipped away, I mine-swept, I stole half-drunk drinks from the bar staff’s cleaning trays. Lights swirled, bad music half-deafened me.
My phone was on three percent battery when, with my last remaining brain cell, I ordered a taxi.
"Love. Love?"
I jerked awake.
"We’re here, love. You need to get out."
The taxi driver. I was being evicted. I gave a stupid, girly laugh, and pulled the door handle. My body poured out onto the hot pavement. I lay there, knees in the gutter.
"You alright girl?"
I grinned at the driver’s hairy, disconcerted face. His tongue clucked and he left me there. A car door slammed. Where the fuck was I? The street was silent. It wasn’t fucking Tooting.
"Not fuckin’ Tooting," I slurred.
Then I saw the stairs. And the door. Yes. I knew that door. I giggled and stumbled forward. My palms slapped against a stone step. High above me a light glowed.
"It’s two in the fucking morning!" someone was shouting. "I know you’ve sacked it all in but I haven’t! Term starts in four weeks, Lockwood, and I need to actually do shit tomorrow. I’ve got a reading list the length of my arm and I’ve not even started it.”
“S’matter, George? Why’re you so shouty?”
“Go to bed. You’re completely pissed. As usual. Just go to bed.”
I crawled up the steps. What a lovely surprise for them. What a lovely visit. I pawed my way up the black paint to the door knocker.
“Knock, knock, knock,” I sang, banging at the door.
There was another shout from inside. The thud of footsteps on wooden stairs. I pushed myself upright and swayed perilously.
“If this is a bunch of other pissheads you’ve invited back here, Lockwood—” The door swung open— “Lucy ?”
“Lucy!” crowed Lockwood, appearing behind George like a well-dressed sunrise. “What a marvellous surprise!”
“What a marvellous surprise!” I cheered.
George stared at me, mouth open. I hiccoughed.
"Come in, come in," hissed Lockwood. "What a marvellous surprise."
"Jesus, Lucy," said George. "What are you doing here?"
I tiptoed up the last step, my finger pressed to my lips. "What a marvellous surprise."
I was in the hallway. I’d fallen happily into Lockwood and was laughing into his shirt. Laughing so much I was crying.
"Lucy, why are you—?"
Lockwood hushed him, long fingers smudging against George’s T-shirt. "She’s a tad pissed, George."
"For fuck’s sake. Lucy. What’s going on?”
I was laughing too hard to answer. Tears were blurring my vision. My legs were buckling.
“Hey!” said Lockwood. “Hey, hey, hey! Not here, Lucy. It’s not very comfy here.”
George stomped ahead of us up the hallway. "Unbelievable."
I felt a thousand eyes watching me from the familiar masks and paintings as my feet fumbled with the rug. I burrowed deeper into Lockwood. That smell. What an excellent smell it was. My back flumped into the sofa cushion.
"Here," snapped George. "Drink this."
I stared at the water in the glass. It was so very clear. Like the diamond pendant I’d found. I started to giggle again. Lockwood accepted his water. It was in a mug.
"Thank you, George," he said solemnly. "Much obliged, George."
George was unhappy.
"Both of you. Drink it. Now."
We sipped our water in silence like chastened school children. I caught Lockwood’s eye and immediately sucked it down the wrong hole.
"If you’re going to puke," shouted George, shoving the waste paper basket into my hands. "Do it in that."
I shoved the basket away and slumped sideways over the sofa. My face punched into a tasselled cushion. I could feel George’s glare against my face like an open flame.
"How am I dealing with this complete arsehole as well as you?”
Lockwood grunted. “Excuse me?”
“Where is your phone?"
My arm flung out sideways. George picked it up from the rug where I’d just dropped it. "Battery’s dead. Of course. Does anyone know you’re here?"
"I know where I am," I mumbled into the cushion.
"Have you got a flat mate? A partner? Do you live with family? Are we going to have detectives knocking at the door next because someone’s reported you missing?"
This was the funniest thing he’d said all evening and I snorted into the sofa.
"I’ll stay up," volunteered Lockwood, "if the police come, I’ll explain everything.”
George didn’t respond and walked out of the room. He returned seconds later with blankets. He threw them towards me.
"Go to fucking sleep."
Lockwood shuffled off his armchair onto the library rug. "I’ll take the floor."
"You’ve got a bedroom."
“I can’t use a bed while a lady uses the sofa."
“Fine,” said George. “Fine. Good night. Don’t use the fucking cooker.”
I cocooned myself in the blanket and angled my face downwards. Lockwood was splayed on the floor, flat on his back, long hands flung out to the sides.
“We can’t have sex,” I informed him, “because I need this job and I think you’re a little crazy.”
“Point taken,” he replied.
“I have thought about it. A lot. But no. We can’t.”
“We can’t.”
“Just wanted to let you know where I stood.” I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling.
“Lucy.”
“Hmm?”
"Why… Why are you here?"
I sniffed loudly. "Got a letter."
"From…?"
"Police."
There was a loud creaking from the ceiling above my head. Probably George.
"Prob’ly George," I said.
My arm slipped off the sofa’s edge as something heavy sunk into the cushions. It was Lockwood’s head. Chin on hands.
"Why’re the police writing you letters?"
"We’re pen friends." I snorted.
"Pen friends?”
“Yep.”
We stared at one another. His dark pupils were blown wide and his hair a little wild. Fuck me he was beautiful.
“We can’t have sex,” I repeated.
“Are you in trouble?”
Something in my chest spasmed and my palm slapped, too hard, against the side of his head.
“Don’t you worry about me,” I mumbled.
He gazed at me a few seconds more. My fingertips brushed the ends of his hair.
“I changed your sheets,” I called as he sank back to the floor again. “Your bed is all nice and cosy.”
“The rug is fine.”
“So you don’t even sleep in it when you’re at home? Fuck’s sake, why do I even bother?” I blew my cheeks out.
“Lucy?”
“Yep, yep?”
‘“Can I offer you the guest bed?”
“Oh fuck,” I whispered on waking.
The room was dim but I could hear gentle bird song trilling from outside. I spared myself a solid minute to pray I wasn’t where I thought I was. A woollen blanket was tickling my face. I recognised the smell of the detergent. Carefully, my muscles shaking, heart pounding, I craned my neck around.
George’s skull was grinning at me from the attic window ledge.
Oh fuck.
I laid my head back down and decided to concentrate on not throwing up. I was still wearing my black uniform from my shift at The Duck and Grape last night. A thin dishwater of nausea was swilling about my stomach and my brain felt like an abused satsuma. I tried to piece my movements together.
So I’d been drinking. And I was… at Portland Row? Why? I stared at the Bakelite alarm clock on the bedside locker. There was a glass of water sitting next to it and a little note that read ‘drink me’. Then my eyes snagged on a rectangle of white paper near the door.
The letter.
The nausea surged from an ebb into a flood and I hauled myself up from the bed. I made it inside the washroom. Just. When I was done I slumped back on my haunches, wiping a string of bile from my chin with the back of my hand.
Norrie.
My chest hitched and I stuck my head over the bowl again. But I had nothing left so I just hung there, panting. I screwed my eyes shut. I was not going to cry. I had always known this day would come and it was pointless. She was never going to get out of that hospital. She’d died a long time ago. They all had. I pushed myself to my feet and welcomed the stab of pain to both temples. I stumbled over to the bay window that overlooked the other houses and the scrubby garden far below. There was a dark haired figure slumped at the table outside.
My heartbeat thudded in my ears. What had I said to him last night? What had I said to George? After turning up at their home pissed out of my head like some lunatic cold caller. I was never going to be able to come back and work here – was it for the best if I just… went?
I decided to start with one foot in front of the other. I made it to the front hall, slipping past George’s door, praying that my shoes would be there. They weren’t.
I padded into the kitchen. Had I even come in here last night? I had vague memories of the library ceiling and Lockwood lying flat on his back on the oriental rug… Through the window over the sink I could see him sagging in the old sun-bleached deckchair with his back to the house. He was wearing a white dress shirt and dark underwear, his pale legs thrown out in front of him like discarded bits of rope.
The back door creaked as I pushed it open and his head titled back to look at me. He was wearing his old Ray Bans again.
“Hullo,” he rasped.
“Hey,” I croaked.
I gripped the back of a gangrened plastic garden chair. The grass was dusty and rough beneath my tights.
“Sorry that I’m still here,” I managed, talking to my fingers. “And that I came here. Last night.”
“Did you mean to? I assumed you’d just pressed the wrong address on Uber or something.”
I snorted. “I’ve no idea what I was doing.”
Somewhere in a bush a lark gave a melancholic warble.
“I had bad news,” I told him, before I’d really made a decision to. “Last night. That's why I was… on a bit of a mission. I just needed to… be out of my head for a bit.” I took another deep breath. “I was in an… accident? A couple of years ago. Four people died. One was put in a coma and… and yesterday I found out she’d died, too.”
His Ray Bans turned up to face me. “I’m so sorry.”
I shook my head. “Not your fault. She was always going to…”
The lark took over for a while.
“Were you close?” he asked softly.
I frowned. So much had happened since that dreadful night. “We were in school together. It’s not a very big place where I’m from. Everyone sort of knows everyone.”
“You must miss them,” he said.
“Everyday.”
The first blush of dawn was just hinting over next door’s fence. I watched the light leaching away the stain of night and felt if not better, slightly lighter.
“I’m sorry if I said anything… stupid,” I said with a hard sniff. The old plastic creaked as I put my weight on it.
He scratched the side of his nose. “Erm... I can’t really remember much of anything to be honest.”
“Do you know how I got to the attic?”
“Under your own steam. Mostly. You were doing this sort of crawl thing on all fours. Got very confused when you reached the landing, I think because you’d run out of steps, and that woke George up. We carried you up the rest of the way. Even sang us a little song.”
“What?”
“I enjoyed it. About a mouse on the stair.”
My head pounded. “A little mouse with clogs on?”
He grinned at me. “Oh, I declare going clip-clippety clop on the stair.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Took me right back. My parents used to sing that song to us when we were little, right on that set of stairs in fact.”
I felt a little tug in my stomach. Us. So there were Lockwood siblings somewhere in the world. That, at least, was good news.
We fell quiet again. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, at the unshaven shadow beneath his jaw, the curve of his Adam’s apple. Behind him number thirty-five rose tall and proud. A little grubby maybe, a little scuffed around the edges, but solid and strong. I knew I hadn’t come here by accident last night.
That letter must have been sent to me days ago, maybe more. Someone from the police would have had to have found out about Norrie, then drafted it, printed it, sent it. Maybe there was a date for the funeral. Her parents would be planning the service now, sending out the notices. My stomach roiled. I was so lost thinking about a funeral I'd never go to I barely registered the face at the second floor bedroom window.
Lockwood sighed and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. “Do you want coffee? I don’t know what we’ve got, food wise, but there’ll probably be some bread somewhere.”
I didn’t answer. The face was staring down at me. It was thin and young: a teenage girl’s. Lockwood frowned at me before whipping his head about towards the house. “Lucy?”
I shook my head tightly. He looked up at the house again, and this time his face changed. I saw dread flit across it, shock, fear. When his eyes met mine I saw a flicker of something else: excitement.
I stumbled back from the plastic chair so quickly I tipped it over. He lurched forwards to set it upright. Lockwood was gaping at me. “You can see her?” He wrenched his sunglasses completely off his head. “In the window? You can see her?”
I glanced up at the girl and, right enough, she was still there. Her dark hair fell to her collar and her eyes were lost in shadow.
“Of course I can see her. Why wouldn’t I see her? Who is she?”
There was a creak from the kitchen door and George appeared wearing his old grey jogging bottoms, his hair a rat's nest of frizz. “For God’s sake,” he croaked, taking in the upturned chair and Lockwood’s stricken face. “Can’t I leave you two alone for five minutes?”
“She’s seen her,” said Lockwood. “Jessica.”
George’s body swivelled comically about to look at the house. He stared upwards and then whipped his head about to find me.
“You can see her?”
“Yes,” I said impatiently. “We’ve got past that. Who is she?”
I was going to be sick again. My head was pounding. I’d known for weeks there was someone in that second bedroom; I had heard her loud enough, hadn’t I? All those little noises of despair, the creaks, the gasps. And why hadn’t I checked it out? Because he’d asked me not to. What a fucking idiot.
When neither of them answered me I skirted past George and marched across the lawn up to the kitchen door.
“Lucy,” called Lockwood, scrambling out of his deckchair. “Wait. Please!”
I reached the staircase. I passed under the familiar masks and tapestries, felt the smooth familiar wood of the bannister. The white door was waiting for me. I heard tall footsteps bounding up the stairs behind me.
“Lucy—”
I turned on him. “Open the door.”
George appeared behind Lockwood, puffed out and more rumpled than ever. “I wouldn’t,” he panted. “Really, really wouldn’t. If this is your first apparition—”
“I said open it. ”
“Lucy,” repeated Lockwood in a calm, patronising voice that reminded me of Holly Munro. “If you’d just give me a minute to explain.”
“There’s someone in there. There’s a girl in there. I’ve been hearing her for weeks. Moaning, choking noises, and now I know they were all from an actual person. Are you keeping her in there? Who is she? I know whatever you’re doing is wrong. I could see it in your face.”
Lockwood’s face became, if possible, even paler. George stepped impatiently around him. “You thought you saw her,” he insisted, “and so did I when I first… looked. But it’s something else, Lucy. It’s what Lockwood and I have been researching. What all the papers are saying happened in Kent.”
“What are you—?”
“You saw a girl, right? Dark hair? White face?” He retreated into his room and came back seconds later with a yellowed copy of a newspaper. “Sorry about this,” he said to Lockwood. “There. Is that who you saw?”
I stared at the article.
SCHOOL MOURNS LOSS OF STAR PUPIL
Beneath the headline was a picture of a teenage girl with shoulder-length dark hair. She was wearing a school blazer and tie and a slightly impatient smile. The caption read Jessica Lockwood, 15.
I looked up. “Jessica Lockwood?”
“Is that the girl you saw?” persisted George.
“No… I can’t have done. She’s dead.”
“Look properly. Is that her?”
I gazed at the picture then up at Lockwood. He stared blankly back at me. What was I doing being shown a picture of his dead relative? What were they playing at? Fear prickled at the base of my brain. I took a step back towards the stairs.
“The door’s unlocked,” said Lockwood simply and I froze.
George shot him a look, half-afraid. “I don’t think—”
“Just twist the handle,” said Lockwood in that same, emotionless tone. “It’ll open.”
I hesitated, then walked forwards and put my hand on the brass door knob. It was ice cold. Both men were looking at me, one with resignation, the other… I couldn’t tell what Lockwood was thinking anymore. His face was wiped clean. I gave the handle a sharp turn and pushed the door open.
Light was the first thing to hit me, white and blinding as sun against new snow. I flung a hand up to shield my eyes. That squeezing, pressured feeling like someone had trapped my head in a vice was back full force. My stomach roiled and I was forced to take a full step back.
“Jessica,” said Lockwood, from close beside me. “My sister.”
I snapped my head to look at him, to shout at him maybe, when a figure sprung up in the corner of my eye. Thin and tremulous, with eyes like his; she’d died while wearing her school uniform. Terror hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest kicking my limbs and voice back into gear.
“What the fuck,” I gasped.
George sighed wearily. “Pretty fair reaction, considering.”
I turned tail. I was away down the stairs quicker than blinking, landing hard on the criss-cross wooden floor of the hall and scraping the heels of my hands. I scrambled up. I spotted my trainers scattered under the telephone table and snatched them up by the laces. Then I was out the front door and I was running. My legs burned and my heart felt like it was trying to escape my body through my mouth but I didn’t stop running until I was deep inside Marylebone station.