by Lily Morton
He laughs. “Tell me about it.” His voice lowers huskily. “Do you remember that traffic jam on the M4 going to Devon?”
“Did you want something?” I break in coolly.
There’s a startled pause, and when he speaks next there’s a regretful tone to his voice undercut with affront. I sigh. I’ve heard that a few times over the last year. “I didn’t realise I had to want something to talk to you.”
“Well, it’s probably the only reason you should be calling me,” I say in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Lovely,” he sniffs.
“Mason.” I elongate his name and sigh. “It’s just the way it is.”
“The way I made it, you mean?”
“Well, if you want me to put it bluntly, then yes, this is the way we are now, and you decided that,” I say, irritated and unable to hide it.
We’re done. I can’t bear all these endless post-mortems. Just bury the carcass of our relationship and move on.
I go still. When did I come to that realisation? I’d been heartbroken when we ended. Five years is a long time. For the last year it’s been like poking a sore tooth with my tongue thinking of it, but now… I smile. Now I don’t feel anything apart from a strong desire to get off the phone and away from him. With a start, I realise he’s still talking.
“There were two of us in that relationship.”
“Add another one and I could have been Princess Di.”
He makes an irritated noise. “You just can’t be serious, can you?”
“I can, and I was,” I say sharply. “I’m not the one…” I pause and inhale deeply. “What do you want, Mason?”
“The money cleared from the sale of the flat. It should be in your bank account now.”
My mood lightens. “Well, that’s good. I need it now.” I look around the house. “I definitely need it now.”
“So, you’re still set on living in the north, then?” he says in a disgusted tone.
“There is life outside London.”
“Not much.” He pauses. “I’ve still got a box of your stuff, mostly clothes and bits. What shall I do with it?”
“Chuck it,” I say, just as a knock comes at the front door.
“Like our relationship,” he says sourly. “Just chuck it.”
“Well, you’d know more about that than me,” I say sharply. The knock comes again. “I’m sorry, Mason, but I’ve got to go. There’s someone at the door.”
There’s a click and the line goes dead. “Lovely,” I mutter and, sliding the phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I take the stairs down at a fast pace, seeing the blurry outline of a man through the glass in the front door.
I throw it open to find a burly man standing on the step with a diary and notepad under his arm. “Mr Harrison?” I ask, and he nods without smiling.
“Mr Black, is it? You wanted me to take a look at the house?”
I step back and motion him in. “Yes, I did. I didn’t realise that it was in such a mess, but I should have anticipated it, I suppose.” He steps in, looking round the hall searchingly. “I want the works done. New kitchen, bathroom, all the rooms decorated, and the attic converted as well as the cellar. I understand the previous owner wanted to change it to a self-contained flat, but I won’t be doing that.” I pause and look around the hall. “Mr Fenton didn’t actually show me the cellar. I wonder if the door is that one over there.”
“Mr Fenton, the solicitor?” I nod, and he smiles in a wry sort of way. “It figures. Yes, that is the door to the cellar.”
“How do you know?”
He looks around the dim hallway. “I was going to buy this at one point when it belonged to the lady. Then she died, and it fell through.”
“Oh, it was you,” I say, surprised.
He gives a dismissive shrug. “You planning to live in it, then?”
“Oh yes,” I say happily. “It’s going to be lovely and a new start.” I pause. “Mr Fenton said the lady took against the house?”
“I’m sure,” he says. He mutters something that sounds like, “Or the house took against her,” but he’s moving into the kitchen, and the words are too low to be comprehensible.
“What?” I ask, startled, but he ignores me, and after a comprehensive look around the kitchen he wanders into the lounge.
His voice drifts back to me. “We’ll need to look at the wiring to start with. It will probably need replacing. You’ll also need to get the electricity and water connected.”
“Shit,” I mutter, following him into the room. “I didn’t even think of that.” He looks nonplussed, and I smile. “I lived in a newly built flat in London. Everything was already done. This is my first old house.” I look around. “Well, it’s going to be a cold night tonight.”
“You’re not thinking of sleeping in here?”
“Well, I was. I’ve got a sleeping bag and a Calor gas heater. It’ll be fine.”
“I’m not sure about that,” he says so forcefully that I stare at him. “You need light in here,” he adds, and there’s something in his voice that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I open my mouth to ask him what he means, but at that point the floorboard upstairs creaks again.
We both look up as if synchronised, and I laugh. “That caught me earlier on. I thought someone was in the bloody house.”
He looks at me and then visibly shakes himself. “Shall we see what needs doing upstairs?” he says abruptly.
“Okay.” I bug my eyes out at his broad back as he marches out of the room and up the stairs. Upstairs it’s even colder than it was before, and we both shiver as if on cue.
“Jesus, it’s fucking cold,” I mutter.
He turns to me. “Lad, when I was your age I never took a single piece of advice that was given to me.”
“And your point is?”
He looks torn between his obvious stoicism and speaking. “Don’t stay here tonight. There’s a hotel round the corner that’s cheap and cheerful. Stay there until at least the electricity comes on.”
“Why?”
He hesitates and a floorboard creaks overhead in what is the attic. It seems to startle him, and he almost drops his notebook. A flush lies over his cheeks, and he shakes his head. “Not my business,” he says resolutely. “It’s getting dark. Let’s have a look around.” He goes up the stairs to the attic almost reluctantly. “Watch your step,” he says over his shoulder. “This staircase needs replacing.”
I follow him gingerly, and, when we clear the stairs, I look around curiously. It’s a long, low room running the length of the house. At the moment it’s dark with encroaching twilight, the sky filled with scudding dark clouds. But it has two big windows that will let in a lot of light and gives me a view of the Minster and the park next to it.
“This is perfect,” I say.
“What for? Experiencing the works of Charles Dickens first-hand?” comes the surprisingly dry retort, and I laugh.
“No, appealing as that sounds. This will be my studio. It’s perfect.” He looks at me in query, and I smile. “I’m an artist. A cartoonist.”
He looks interested. “Will I know your stuff?”
“Not unless you’re reading The Zone,” I say wryly. “It’s an LGBTQ magazine. My cartoon runs in that. I do graphic novels too.”
“Interesting,” he says in a way that clearly conveys it’s not.
I grin, not taking offense. I prefer brutal honesty to flattery any day. “Only to me. Can you do much in here?”
He looks around. “The structure looks sound, which is good. I’ll have to have a proper look in the daylight. We’ll also need to look at getting electricity and heat up here because there’s nothing at the moment.”
I mentally bless the propitious sale of the flat. “That’s fine. Just put it all on the quote.”
“Don’t forget it’s a Grade Two listed house.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re restricted in what you can do to the exterior.”
“So, no paintin
g it yellow with purple stripes?”
“Leave that to your underwear, lad,” he says wryly. I laugh, but it seems to die away in the gloomy coldness of the attic. I shiver and look at the dark shadows now beating at the corners of the room.
He seems to catch my mood and glances around almost cautiously. “Time to go,” he says abruptly.
“Oh really? That seems to be a common phrase around here.”
He smiles grimly. “Not in York. Just in here.”
“What?” I ask, startled and somewhat offended, although I don’t know why.
“You’ll see,” he says. He turns and makes his way gingerly down the stairs. When we get to the front door, he offers his hand to shake. “I’ll be in touch. I’ll need to get in and bring my electrician and plumber with me. We’ll have a proper go through with the house and I can give you a quote then.”
I nod, stepping back and opening the door for him. “Thanks for coming. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
He gives me a nod and goes to walk away but stops almost reluctantly on the step. “I meant what I said before,” he says abruptly. “You shouldn’t stay here until the electricity is on and you can light the house.”
“Why?” I ask, and my voice is amazed.
He shifts awkwardly. “No reason. Just take my advice and go and grab a hotel room. It’s fairly quiet in York because it’s a cold spring. Or as quiet as York ever gets. The hotel is called The Minster Quarters. Tell the manager I sent you and that you’re going to be living here and he’ll give you a good rate.”
“Okay,” I say doubtfully. “Well, thank you.”
He shakes his head and without another word walks away down the road, his figure swallowed up quickly in the shadows.
I hesitate on the doorstep. I had intended to stay here even when the work was going on. I’ve brought all my camping gear, and I’m not afraid of roughing it. But now I reconsider. Shadows have gathered and the whole house seems cloaked in dark and stillness.
I shiver. What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s a fucking house. Nothing to be wary of. I must be just tired from the drive and everything else that’s gone on in the last year. I’ll be clutching at my pearls next.
Nevertheless, I think slowly. I have got the extra money from the sale of the flat now which didn’t look like it was going to come through for a while. I bite my lip and shift from foot to foot on the doorstep. A floorboard creaks loudly in the kitchen. That decides me. I’m not staying in a dark, cold house jumping at every noise because I’m too tired to be fucking rational. At least in a hotel I can get some work done and keep the money coming in.
The noise comes again, and I nod. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. Mind made up, I dig the keys out of my pocket and pull the door closed, locking it and checking it a couple of times. I walk back to the car and grab my suitcase and the rucksack with my Mac in it.
Setting off down the cobbled road, I pause to look at the house and admire what is mine. Mine. I’ve never had something that is just my own. I lived with my mum before leaving for college and moved in with Mason straight after that. I smile. I think I’m going to enjoy this. It’s just what I need.
A last shaft of light comes through the clouds, lighting the street and glittering on the windows of my house. I admire the view, and, that’s when I see it. A figure, clearly defined in the shining light, standing at the window of the second floor.
I jump and drop my case to the cobbles. What the fuck?
Time stills for a long minute as I stare up at the dark figure. It’s too dark for details, but I have a strong sense that he or she is watching me. Then the light dims and the first drops of rain start to fall around me, striking my face and stinging my hands. I blink, and, when I look again, the figure is gone.
I dig in my pocket for the keys, intending to run in and search the house. It’s at that moment and as clear as day, I hear my mum say in my ear, “No, Levi. Don’t.”
I look around wildly, a small part of me hoping that none of the neighbours can see me behaving like a fucking nutcase. But there’s no one here and the street is empty. A gust of wind blows down the lane, hurling the rain about wildly.
I look back at the house and hesitate. There’s no one in there. I know it with an absolute certainty. We went through the house room by room. No one could have got in. Do I want to go in there in the dark on my own and fumble through those empty, cold rooms where I know there’s no one there?
The answer coming through is immediate and atavistic. Fuck no. No bloody way.
Shaking my head, I grab my case and walk down the lane towards the light and life in the centre of York, leaving my house dark and still behind me.
Chapter 2
Six Months Later
Levi
I push my plate away and sit back in my chair with a sigh.
Mary, the waitress at the hotel I’m currently staying in, comes over to clear the table. “Last breakfast, Levi,” she says with a smile on her wrinkled face.
I grin up at her. “I know. I can’t believe I’m moving in today.”
“Well, we’ll miss you, lad. You’ve been a pretty face to see in the mornings.”
“You’ve looked after me very well. A home away from home.”
“Well, you’ll be in your own home tonight.” She pauses in stacking the plates. “I remember your house,” she muses. “I used to play there as a child with a little girl called Daisy MacIntosh.”
“I remember seeing their names on the deeds. They lived there in the fifties, didn’t they?”
She nods. “For a short while.” A funny look crosses her face. “No one seemed to stay there for very long.”
I open my mouth to ask why, but she shakes her head.
“Look at me gossiping. That’ll never pay the bills.” Giving me a harried smile without meeting my eyes, she pours me another cup of tea and bustles off.
I cradle the cup and look out the window at the street. On a weekday York is markedly quieter than at the madness of the weekends when you could do with a tank to get down The Shambles. At this point in the morning on High Petergate, there are only shopkeepers opening up for business and a few tourists ambling along. They’re immediately identifiable by their slower gait and the way they look up rather than at what’s in front of them.
A shaft of sunlight shines down, illuminating the church of St Michael le Belfry, and somewhere in the city, bells chime the hour. I hope it’s a sign that the cold weather that’s turned the city into Narnia for the last few weeks might be letting up.
I can’t say I’m sad that I’ve stayed here for the last six months. The house took a lot more work than either the builder or I expected, and my original plan of camping in the house would never have worked. Besides, this is a lovely hotel, and, just as the builder promised, they gave me a good deal as a resident. There are places in my attic room where I can’t stand up straight, but it has a view of the Minster and the sky, and there I’ve happily stayed through the summer and into the autumn.
My days have had an easy sort of uniformity to them. Every morning I’ve jogged along the wall, watching the mist wrap around York like a lover not wanting to rise and let the day begin. After breakfast, I’ve wandered round to the house to watch it coming together and then sauntered back, exchanging greetings with the shopkeepers who I’m coming to know. I’ve then retired to my room and worked away until lunch.
The late afternoons have been spent wandering York, exploring the little lanes and streets, and finding hidden jewels like the Snickelways, that give tiny glimpses of a largely unseen York.
But mainly I’ve worked, and this industriousness has resulted in me fulfilling a lot of my commissions early, which has thankfully reflated my bank balance to a healthy level. I can’t deny I’m happy about that as the house has cost an absolute fortune to renovate. There were structural problems with it, and I’d had to have a new roof, not to mention the fact that I’d needed everything – new wiring, new boiler, and cent
ral heating installed throughout. And that was only the big purchases. But now it’s mainly done. The only thing left is the cellar which the builders are having to leave for a few weeks to do another job.
A person with a head of blue hair moves past the window. He crosses the road, and I lean forwards, my interest sharpening.
It’s him.
I’d first noticed him after having dinner at an Italian restaurant the other week. I’d been ambling along the Shambles, enjoying the quiet and peering into shop windows, when I’d heard a voice behind me. It was an interesting voice—slightly hoarse with an undercurrent of amusement cutting through it. I’d turned and found a party pushing past me, led by a bloke who looked to be in his twenties.
He was very eye-catching, not least because he had bright blue hair and was wearing a Victorian man’s suit complete with top hat. A couple of inches shorter than me and thin, he appeared to be leading the group, and that was when I realised it was a ghost tour.
I’d learnt that York is supposed to be one of the most haunted cities in England, and to my amusement I’d seen ghost walks everywhere – men and women in fancy dress leading groups of titillated people all over the city and telling tall stories.
This particular group had marched onwards, and his voice had faded away, but the impression he’d left on me hadn’t.
I’ve seen him several times since. Queuing for a coffee in the market, wearing faded jeans and a big jumper, his cheeks flushed from the cold. Standing laughing with a busker in the square. And, just last night, he’d been part of a group of people in the pub near my house.
I’m oddly fascinated with him, and I watch him now as my tea gets cold. He’s talking to a shopkeeper and smiling. The grin seems to take over his face, the lift of one eyebrow giving his expression a slightly wicked slant. The man claps him on the back and says something, and Blue, as I’ve christened him, moves onward down the street at a quick pace.
Every time I’ve seen him, he seems to be in motion. I keep my eyes on him until he disappears around the corner, and then I put my cup down. Time to pack my gear and finally move into my house.
