“So er, is this a family-run business? You and your wife?” Dale asked. Lucy got the impression the question was designed more to change the subject and save what was left of his self-respect than a genuine desire to know the answer.
Now it was Machen's turn to look awkward, and Lucy couldn't help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction. Those barbs. “Erm, not exactly. Not at the moment, anyway. My wife's... gone away for a while.”
The ambiguous nature of the answer and the tone of his voice alerted both Lucy's journalistic instincts and her female intuition. Judging by the look that came over Dale's face, the response awakened something similar within him, too. There must be some kind of problem with the marriage. A serious one. Either that, or the happy-go-lucky landlord had murdered his spouse and buried her in the sand dunes. Now that would be a story.
“Most of the time it's just me and Champ,” Machen continued. He motioned to a spot on the floor in the corner of the room where a tired-looking German Shepherd lay. His coat so closely matched the colour of the wood floor that until then he had gone unnoticed. At the sound of his name, the dog raised his head, offering them a first look at his droopy, bloodshot eyes, before giving a limp swish of the tale and laying his head back down on his paws.
“He's the guard dog,” said Machen proudly.
The poor thing looks washed out, Lucy thought. More of a couch potato than a guard dog. If an intruder broke in it was doubtful whether Champ would be able to muster enough energy to fart let alone raise the alarm.
The landlord must have read her thoughts. “He might not look like much, but if anyone so much as sets foot behind that there bar he'd bite a leg off, he would.”
“No doubt,” Lucy said. “So you and Champ run the place by yourselves?”
“We can't do everything, so we have help. Mrs Watkins and her daughter Izzy drive in from Newton and are here from ten or eleven 'til eight most days. Between them they prepare lunch and dinner, take care of the cleaning, laundry, shopping, and anything else that needs doing, like. You'll see young Izzy behind the bar a lot. She likes bar duty cos she can just sit there and play with her bloody phone.”
“Oh, you do food here too?” Dale was always thinking about his next meal.
“Have to, really. Being so far away from the nearest restaurants, our guests wouldn't eat unless they ate here or went onto the beach and caught their own grub. Most of our food is home-cooked by Mrs Watkins. The plan is to grow our own veg before too long. You know, orgasmically.” There was a pause while the landlord reconsidered what he had said. “Organically, I mean. Lunch is between twelve and two by the way, and dinner is five 'til seven. I do breakfast between seven and nine. Just bacon, sausage and eggs. Or you can have toast and cereal if you'd rather. If you have any special requests, let me know and I'll see what I can do.”
“That won't be necessary. A fry up would be lovely. We're not vegetarian or anything.”
“Glad to hear it,” replied the landlord, “Young 'un's like you need the protein. Let me see... what else? Bar's open eleven 'til eleven and the games room's next door. In there you'll find a pool table, dartboard, jukebox, some books and a karaoke machine, if you like that sort of thing. If you don't, all the rooms have Sky telly. They have en suite's, too, so you never have come out if you don't want to. We get the Times, the Independent, the Mirror, and Wales on Sunday delivered every week. In peak season we'll probl'y get newspapers every day, but at the minute the only person that reads 'em is Old Rolly and it takes him all bloody week.”
The landlord handed them two keys. “I lock the front door at midnight. If you come in after that, you'll have to use the side entrance. That's the big key. Don't forget to lock the door behind you. It's quiet around here, but you never know, like. The other one's your room key. I'll put you in twenty-three, on the second floor. Like I said, let me know if you want to change to a double at any point.”
“Okay, er, thanks. We'll go and get ourselves sorted out,” said Dale as he and Lucy headed for the stairs.
“Oh, one more thing,” the landlord called after them. “Welcome to Sker House!”
They each mumbled their thanks and made their getaway. Newly renovated or not, the wooden staircase creaked like it was three-hundred years old under the combined weight of Dale, Lucy and their luggage. Maybe it was three-hundred years old. Or more. Who knew what 'renovations' actually meant? It would make sense to keep as much of the original building in place as possible to keep costs down. At the top of the stairs a door opened into a corridor, and on the carpeted floor outside each room lay a little mat with a picture of a dragon on it. Beneath the dragon were the words, Croeso y Cymru. “What does that mean?” asked Lucy.
“'Welcome to Wales.' In Welsh,” replied Dale.
“Well I didn't think it was Chinese.”
Dale, who must be used to her scathing wit by now, didn't register any reaction as he counted off the room numbers. “Twenty-one... twenty-two... here it is! Twenty-three.”
“Oh, joy.” That sarcastic streak again. She would have to work on that.
Dale used the key to open the door and flung it wide with an over-dramatic, “Ta-dah!”
The room was small, but nicely decorated and spotlessly clean. It boasted a large ornate dressing table set against a wall, complete with mirror, the sight of which made Lucy whoop with delight. A small desk and chair had been placed near the window, and two neatly-made single beds were separated by a night-stand on which stood a reading lamp. A portable television was fixed to the wall opposite the beds, and an electric kettle was placed on the floor near a socket along with two white mugs full of various complimentary sachets. The walls were cream-coloured, and the carpet and curtains light brown. The smell of newness was so intense that Lucy could easily have believed they were the first guests to ever use the room.
As promised, there was a tiny en-suite bathroom, just big enough for a toilet, washbasin and shower cubicle. Crisp fresh towels hung from a rail, and a selection of toiletries lined the only shelf; two disposable toothbrushes, a tiny tube of toothpaste, shower gel, shampoo, even moisturising lotion. After a brief inspection Lucy was more than impressed, “Seems like a decent choice, dude! I'm liking all the free stuff.”
Ever the realist, Dale replied, “Well, it isn't technically free, is it? It's just all included with the price of the room.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay Mr Rainy Day,” Lucy said as she watched Dale unpack and start setting up his laptop at the desk near the window. “Hey, do you think we'll be able to get Wi-Fi this far from civilization?”
“I don't see why not. Anyway, didn't the man say there's a computer downstairs? Wouldn't be much point if it wasn't hooked up to the Internet.”
“Oh yeah.” She was looking forward to some time away from Southampton, but the thought of complete isolation filled Lucy with dread. She needed human interaction, even if it was via a screen, and was accustomed to having her senses constantly bombarded with bright lights and white noise. Truth be told, she was already finding the stillness of the countryside a little disconcerting. Knowing she could still use Facebook and Twitter made her feel a lot better
Get a grip, she told herself. It wasn't like she was running away or hiding. She just wanted some time away. Obviously, she was aware of how it would look if her now-ex boyfriend, Steve, found out where she was, or who she was with. He didn't believe in platonic relationships and would just think she'd bunked off for a dirty weekend at the seaside with some other guy. But that was his problem, and he was in no position to criticize anybody.
She lay her compact pink suitcase on the bed nearest the door and opened it wide. All the things she thought she would need that weekend were neatly packed inside. There was no evening wear, bikini or beach towel. It wasn't sunbathing weather and she had already been warned that there were no clubs or fancy restaurants nearby. This was supposed to be a working weekend, so she'd brought only practical clothing and camera gear.
Her and Steve's relat
ionship wasn't officially over. But only because there had never been an official relationship. That much was obvious now. She had only been a trinket to him, and he probably had a dozen other trinkets to play with. At first she had been more attracted to the reckless sense of abandon that seemed to radiate from him than his rugged good looks. It was exciting. But then she found out about his wife and kid. The dangerous, edgy facade was just that. A facade.
Well, that's what you get for getting involved with a married man.
If only she had known, she wouldn't have gone near him. But he wasn't about to tell her, was he? The whole experience hurt Lucy deeply. How could she have been so stupid?
It also triggered some kind of existential crisis. What, exactly, did she want from life? Where was she going? She didn't know the answers yet, but accepted the fact that she wasn't a teenager any more, and didn't have much time to waste. She had to get serious and apply herself to something, get on track, or she would end up forever floundering in a pit of obscurity. She had already wasted far too much time wallowing in Steve's possessive clutches and missed too many other opportunities, not to mention lectures and seminars. In order to graduate she had to not only turn in her final assignment, of which this Sker House feature was a major component, but get a mark over 90%. The Head of Department told her in no uncertain terms that if the paper failed, so did she.
No pressure, then.
Chapter 2
On the Scent
After much fussing around, Dale finally succeeded in establishing a Wi-Fi connection on his laptop. It was a weak signal, constantly flitting between a healthy four bars to a sick-as-a-parrot one bar, but it was a connection just the same. He wasn't even sure how much he would actually need to use the Internet during their stay at Sker beyond periodically checking his email. He wasn't really one for social networking, that was Lucy's department. He was baffled by some people's fascination with constantly telling everyone else in the world what they were doing. As if anyone really gave a shit. It was the word processor he needed, and that didn't even require an internet connection. He opened up a blank Word document and quickly tapped out: Ghostly goings-on at Sker House.
He'd have to think of something better than that, but it would do as a working title. He retrieved a pencil and notebook from his rucksack. He preferred using a notebook when making notes, and even when interviewing people. He felt more connected that way, only using his digital Dictaphone as a safeguard. There were certainly advantages to using modern recording equipment. Not least that they looked a lot more professional and minimized the danger of misquoting someone. But Dale was old-school. He enjoyed the rustic feel of lead on paper. It felt more tangible and substantial. Plus, pencils never ran out battery. He wanted to get an early interview with Machen the landlord in the bag. Hopefully, he could fit in several separate sessions during their stay and splice together the best parts.
“I'm going to get the low-down from the landlord. Back soon.”
“Okay. Knock yourself out,” a mildly-irritated Lucy replied as she fussed with her suitcase. “I'll follow you down later to get some snaps. Need to unpack first.” He didn't know what had gotten in to her lately. She seemed even more unapproachable than usual. It might just be her time of the month, but something told him it was more than that.
“Sure thing.” Dale went back downstairs to the bar. As he entered, Champ the German Shepherd lifted his head off the floor to see who the new arrival was and sniffed the air. Satisfied there was no imminent danger, he allowed his head to flop back down again onto the hard wood floor with a soft plop. Machen was still hovering behind the bar, and the old man was still sitting at his table hunched over the newspaper.
“Um, Mr Machen?” Dale asked tentatively.
“For the last time, it's just Machen.”
“Oh right, sorry. If you aren't too busy, I was wondering if could I could get a quick interview for our, er, magazine?”
The little man's chest swelled almost visibly, “Interview? With me, like? Okay! This will be my first one. After it gets printed, I'm going to frame it and stick it up in the bar.”
“I'll send you a copy,” Dale promised. “Do you mind if I take notes while we talk?”
“No, no. If that's what you do, go ahead. Who is it you work for again?”
“It's national publication called, er, Solent News...”
“Solent News?” Machen the landlord replied. “Never heard of it. What's that about, then?”
“It's about lots of things Mr. Machen. Sorry, Machen. Anything newsworthy. And you and Sker House are certainly that. We really like what you've done here.” Dale had learned quite early that when interviewing someone, flattery can be a powerful tool.
“Er, ta very much, like. Solent News, is it? I get the news part, but what does Solent mean?”
“The Solent is the stretch of water off the south coast of England, between Southampton and the Isle of Wight,” Dale said, laying his notebook and pencil out in preparation.
“Oh, right.” Machen replied, as if he had known that all along.
“I have a digital recorder upstairs,” Dale said, trying to put Machen at ease. “But I like to do things the old-fashioned way. A bit like you and your guest book. Must be a Welsh thing. Are you ready?”
Machen the landlord took an over-dramatic deep breath and said, “I'm ready.”
“So you've owned Sker House for over two years now. Is that right?”
“Yes. That's right.”
“Have you ever experienced anything... out of the ordinary here? Anything that you would call supernatural or paranormal?”
The landlord's face immediately darkened. “What kind of bloody question is that?”
Scrambling, Dale said, “Given what we already know about the history of the place, its a legitimate one.”
“And what do you already know, exactly? What have you heard, like?”
Dale wasn't expecting such an angry reaction, nor was he expecting his question to be answered with another question, and was hopelessly unprepared. “I'm sorry if the question offends you, but the legend of the Maid of Sker is quite well-known. I was wondering if you'd come across her at all.”
“The Maid of Sker? Is that what you came here to talk about? “The landlord's eyes narrowed still further as he looked Dale up and down. “You know, come to think of it, you look awful young to be a journalist. More like a student, I suspect.” His eyes bored into Dale's, searching for an admission of guilt.
Dale tried to stonewall his facial expressions, but was powerless to prevent a red flush brightening his cheeks. Playing the percentages he stayed silent, allowing Machen time to continue, hoping that he would. Eventually, he did.
“I don't see what this has to do with your story, but if you must know, then yes. I don't know if you'd call them supernatural, or para.. para...”
“Paranormal?”
“Yeah, that. Thing is, strange things happen everywhere, like, don't they? Not just here. It's a funny old world we live in.”
“It certainly is. But would you mind giving us a few examples of what you've experienced?”
“I suppose I could. Though I don't know whether I should or not. What if you print all this stuff in the, what you call it? Solent Newspaper.”
“Solent News.”
“Yeah, Solent Views, or whatever. What if you say something in there that scares away all the punters? There's me out of a job and owing a fortune to the creditors. This is a new business, you know. I can't have any negative publicity.”
He wanted to ask what guests the landlord was referring to as the place was empty, but instead Dale smiled reassuringly and said, “That won't happen. It's true what they say. Any kind of publicity is good publicity. Even if we did publish stories about supernatural occurrences at Sker House, the place would be swarming with visitors in no time at all. Ghost hunting is big. People pay a fortune to stay at haunted locations hoping for some kind of experience.”
“They do, do they?
”
“Absolutely.”
“But some of this stuff is... private. You know? We... I... wouldn't want it splashed all over the bloody papers, like. Whether it attracts visitors or not.”
“I completely understand, but this isn't the Daily Mirror read by millions of people every day. It has a much lower circulation than that. Unfortunately. But if it makes you feel better, we'll let you have copy approval before we go to press. Fair?”
“What's that?”
“Copy approval means we'll let you read over what we write before it's published, and if there's anything you don't like, we'll change it.”
The landlord considered this for a few moments, then said, “I suppose that's fair enough... You're going to think I'm mental.”
“I can assure you, whatever you say, nobody is going to think you're mental.” Dale tried to sound convincing, and resisted adding, 'because they probably already think you are.'
There was another long pause while the landlord composed himself. Finally, he continued, “Okay, okay. I'll tell you. It's not so much what you can see and touch, but what you can feel. You know what I mean?”
Dale didn't know what the man meant, but nodded encouragingly. “At first I thought it was just the stress of everything. But after a while I came to realize there was more to it than that. Sker House seems to suck all the energy out of you and just puts you in a bad mood.”
Dale almost groaned out loud. Nobody would be interested in an article about a place where the proprietor was in a bad mood. Where was the story in that? He needed good, hard, meaty copy. Gruesome murders, restless spirits, witch trials, werewolves, vampires, or any combination of the above.
Machen must have sensed Dale's disappointment. “Look, I told you it's hard to explain, okay?”
“Sure, I understand,” Dale lied. “So have you or the staff ever actually seen or heard anything out of the ordinary? Anything specific?”
Sker House Page 2
