Jack slept through breakfast, but found a note in the hallway telling him to help himself to tea and toast from the kitchen if she was still out when he got up. He made tea, but didn’t bother with food. All the nocturnal activity had killed his appetite and he had to admit he’d been slightly nervous at the prospect of facing Mrs Argyle after their meeting outside his room. Would she have just acted as if the whole thing hadn’t happened?
She was still out when he finally left to walk down to The Red Lion. The heavy rain of the previous day had faded to a fine mist and the temperature had risen slightly, creating a grey fog from which people emerged liked shades and were past each other before eyes could meet. The town was quieter too, and when the church bells sounded out the end of the morning service, Jack shivered at their eerie tones.
The door had only just been unlocked when he arrived at the pub, but he wasn’t the first inside, and that cheered his mood. The lights were bright and the landlord grinned from behind the cigarette clamped between his teeth as he poured him out a pint. Jack took it to a table with the paper and sat and watched as the bar slowly filled with men, a couple with women on their arms, dressed in their Sunday best. The women’s laughter carried over the men’s and as he watched their red lips and tilted necks, he remembered all the women in all the towns from all the jobs. Mrs Argyle was a world apart from them. Once again, the soft feel of her underwear returned to his mind. Mrs Argyle and the room upstairs. They seemed to fill his thoughts. He wondered if perhaps he was going slightly mad. He ordered another pint. It was Sunday, after all.
“I told you not to come here,” Jack said when he returned to his table to find Scrubbers standing beside it. “Is your memory that short?”
“I’ve got a message, that’s all,” Scrubbers said. There was no aggression in his voice, just an edge of disgruntlement. He was a dog who was used to being whipped. He put his umbrella against the wall. “It’s Arthur. He’s called. He’ll be back tonight. He’ll meet you here tomorrow.”
“Good,” Jack said, although he was surprised to find he didn’t care much either way. “This isn’t really holiday weather.”
Scrubbers snickered slightly at that. Jack smiled back. His charming, easy, roguish grin. He imagined Arthur had one similar. “So leave your umbrella. I fancy a walk on the beach.” Scrubbers wilted slightly. For a moment Jack thought he might actually fight back, but instead his thin shoulders slumped forward in his jacket. He’d clearly been told to keep the locksmith happy.
“All right. But bring it back tomorrow. My Jean will wonder where it’s gone.”
As he watched Scrubbers run down the road with his collar up and head down against the increasing rain, Jack wondered why he’d done it. He had a good overcoat. He hadn’t even thought about going for a walk in this weather. Still, he had the umbrella now, and he couldn’t sit on his own in the same pub all day. Not without drawing attention to himself, and he didn’t need that, the day before the job started. A long walk in the fresh air might do him good. If he got tired enough, he might sleep all night even if the house fell down around his ears.
The beach was empty and the sea rolled angrily in the distance as it slowly made its way back to shore. Overhead seagulls cried to each other as they wheeled this way and that in the mist. The sound ached with loneliness and even in the brisk wind, he was sure he could hear the echo of “help me” that had plagued his dreams.
Mrs Argyle didn’t speak when she served his supper, and when he glanced up, Jack saw red rims around her eyes. Was that his fault? Had his actions in the night upset her so much? After hours of walking, he had been famished, but now his stomach rolled slightly as he forced himself to eat his pie and vegetables, not wanting to upset her further by leaving a full plate. Although he normally avoided interaction with other guests, he found he wished for Marshall-Jones’s irrepressible chatter. At least the other man would be back the next day. Each with their secrets, he and Mrs Argyle were like drifting ghosts in the house together. Talking but never really speaking, and now not talking at all.
Why was she so closed? What was she hiding? What was going on in the room upstairs? He was a good judge of people, he had to be in his game, and she wasn’t a natural liar. The air of empty sadness that hung around her lacked the energy for deception. It was almost as if she had separated the lie from herself. And she was lying to him. If not, then why hadn’t she just unlocked the room and shown him there was nothing inside? That was all it would take.
He thanked her quietly as she took his plate away and then retreated to his room to read. His mind kept wandering from the thin story, and he wished he’d bought a wireless to break the monotony, but he found that once he’d laid down, the long walk and sleepless nights took hold and he fell asleep, fully dressed, on top of the covers, by eight-thirty.
The music was louder than it had ever been, and as he woke his hands went straight to cover his ears. The notes turned to wet sobs as the now familiar footsteps creaked over his head. He turned the light on and looked at his watch, even though he knew what the time would be. Quarter to three. He pushed the covers back. His heart thumped. Enough was enough. Something smashed against a wall. For a moment there was silence and then the ceiling shook as the knocking started, and over and under it all was the terrible sobbing.
Jack had his suitcase open and his tools out within minutes. This had to end. Sod showing his hand. Sod everything. He could get into the room, see what the hell was going on in there and be gone before Mrs Argyle had even woken up. Even with the racket upstairs, he felt a moment of regret at the thought. But this could not go on. Something had to be done.
Out in the dark corridor, he made his way up the stairs. The sobbing and whispering seemed more distant, as if it were luring him onwards, and he fought his fear of it and took the steps two at a time. In the grip of the night and alone in the dark, he could no longer deny the possibility of the supernatural at work, and his insides trembled. But his curiosity was stronger than his fear. At the door, closing his mind from the terrible sounds that poured through the fibres of the wood, he crouched and set to work, letting his fingers feel for the click of the lock. It was a ten second job that he could do in his sleep, but with his hands trembling, it took several attempts before he finally felt it give. The noise on the other side fell silent.
Jack stared at the door. His mouth dried. Now that he could, he wasn’t sure that he really wanted to see inside the room at all. His hand, sweating in the palm, reached forward and twisted the handle.
“Mr Hasting?” The light in the corridor below came on. He wasn’t the only one awake in the house. He stared at the door. This was his last point of return. He could go downstairs and pretend that the door up here was locked and then vanish in the morning. Or he could go in. Go in and see. He didn’t answer her call. Instead, he turned the handle and pushed the door open.
He only saw her for an instant. She was vague, and almost transparent, standing in the middle of the room, sobbing. Her hair was longer and fuller, hanging down around her shoulders and dripping wet. Her soaking nightdress clung to her body, outlining each curve and line of her. On the floor, the music box was smashed. For the briefest moment, their eyes met and then she was gone, rushing past him and out through the door. He smelled dampness and moss, stagnant water in her wake, and then the pain hit him. Like white lightning in his heart. A terrible, terrible loss.
On the floor below, Mrs Argyle cried out suddenly and then the house fell silent again.
Jack flicked on the light and he saw.
On the dresser were several framed photographs. A much younger Mrs Argyle smiling with a handsome man in uniform beside her. Wedding photos. His hand paused as he moved to the next. Mrs Argyle holding a baby, smiling with obviously bursting joy at the camera. In the wardrobe he found clothes, a man’s and a child’s. A little girl. Small shoes, small skirt. He was no judge of these things, but he guessed the owner at no more than six or seven.
He looked around h
im. A doll lay on the bed, but boxes lined the walls, stacked high. Two lifetimes were neatly packed away and stored up here. His heart pounded. What had she done? What had he seen rushing out of here? He sat on the bed and listened to the crying coming from below. She cried for a very long time.
It was nearly dawn when he heard her coming up the stairs. She said nothing until she’d sat on the bed beside him, her cheeks raw from tears and her hands trembling. There was life back in her eyes, though. It was a terrible, aching life, but it was there.
“He didn’t die in the war,” she said, eventually. “He came home to us. Me and Millie.” Her voice was thick with snot and she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “He’d changed, though. He didn’t speak much. He kept saying he’d seen things. Terrible things. I just wanted to make things better. Like they were.”
“What happened?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know.” Fresh tears filled her eyes. “I woke up early one morning and he wasn’t in bed. I knew…” – her eyes narrowed in the memory – “…just knew, then, that something was wrong. I could hear Millie’s music box playing. It was slowing down. I went to her room and she wasn’t there.” She paused for a long time, and Jack could hear his heart beating loud. Maybe it was hers. Maybe it was both of theirs. “I found them in the pond. He’d carried my sleeping baby to the water and drowned her. There was an empty bottle of Lysol on the grass and the doctors say he drank it. They said it would have been a very painful way to go. I tried to pull my baby out. But she was gone.”
Jack said nothing. There was nothing he could say.
“He must have hated me very much, I suppose. To have done such a thing. To have left me and taken Millie with him. I locked it all up here. Out of the way.” She looked at him, and he thought that her nearly-purple eyes had never looked so beautiful. “And now you’ve let it out. And I’m not sure I can bear it.”
Jack put his arm around her shoulders. They sat like that until the morning poured in through the window and she had cried all she could for now.
“I’m a thief,” he said, finally. “I break into places and help people steal things. Money and jewels, mainly.” Speaking the words aloud was like a boulder rolling from his back. No more locked away secrets. He felt her head move slightly against his chest.
“Really?” she asked, her voice still thick with tears.
“Yes.”
“What was the last thing you stole?”
He thought about that for a moment. He thought about Arthur, who would be waiting for him in the Red Lion at midday. He thought about Scrubbers. He thought about all those trains and journeys and inquisitive landladies. He thought about the warm feel of Mrs Argyle leaning into him.
“An umbrella,” he said eventually. There was the slightest hitch of a laugh from the broken woman beside him. Only the ghost of a laugh, but he hoped that soon, he’d be able to let that out of its locked room too.
VILLANOVA
Paul Meloy
The story that follows is genuinely one of the most frightening I have read in a long time. Paul draws you in with characters that are utterly convincing and beautifully realised, before hitting you with a conclusion that will leave you winded. Read this and find out why I think Paul is one of the best writers currently working in genre fiction.
i
By the time they arrived at the campsite it was dusk. They had been driving all day on foreign roads, and they were cramped and irritable. Ken had misjudged the distance from Calais to La Tranche-sur-Mer; what he’d estimated to be a four or five hour drive through picturesque French countryside incorporating a couple of comfort breaks along the way had turned into a ten hour slog along undistinguished motorways in heavy traffic.
To compound the experience, an inexplicable satellite navigation error had led them off the toll road and on a detour through a town at rush hour with only about a hundred and fifty miles remaining on their journey. The name of the town mocked Ken: Angers. He knew the pronunciation would soften the word but nothing could be done to soften his mood as he cursed and sweltered through jammed and unfamiliar boulevards. He had to make a U-turn but had no idea of the legality of such a manoeuvre. The satnav remained mute on the subject. Finally he summoned his resolve and swung the car around at some traffic lights; no indignant horns blared, so he assumed he’d got away with it.
Finally back on the motorway, Ken had put his foot down and, despite protestations from Katie and Holly, had finished the journey in one go. He refused to stop again and lose any more time. They would have to hold it in.
Holly was almost in tears as Ken swung the car into the campsite. He stopped at a barrier and waited. To the right was a single storey building designated Reception. Next to that was a clubhouse. Ken could see the rapid fluttering of lights on a fruit machine. And behind that was a low concrete wall which appeared to encompass the pool. Just visible above the wall Ken could see the bright amber display of an L.E.D indicating the temperature of the water, the date and the time.
“Look at the bloody time,” said Ken. “Where is everyone?”
There appeared to be no one about. The barrier remained down. Ken opened his door and stepped out. The ground was dusty and Ken could feel the heat rising up from it through the thin fabric soles of his holiday espadrilles.
More doors opened, and then slammed. He turned to see Katie and Holly hobbling away across the road towards a toilet block. Ken opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. He watched them, his face expressionless, and then resumed looking about the campsite.
Further to the right, a short flight of wide wooden steps led up to a glass-fronted chalet. There were notice boards outside and a desk visible inside piled up with glossy flyers. Ken wandered over. One of the notice boards was pinned with timetables for various local amenities: fresh bread was delivered at 08:00 every morning. There was a market in town every Tuesday and Saturday (well, they’d missed that for today, Ken thought with a fair bit of ill will), and the Super-U was open every day from 08:00.
Ken went up the steps and slid open the glass door which gave entrance to the chalet. Inside were more leaflets on wire racks and sliding cupboards full of communal toys, board games and packs of cards.
Ken was about to have a look in the desk drawers when a voice said, “Hi! Just arrived, have you?”
Ken started and looked up. A young man was standing on the top step, grinning at him. He was wearing a light blue tee-shirt adorned with the CampEuro logo, a pair of knee-length brown linen shorts and flip-flops. He had short, slicked-back hair, large prominent ears and bad skin. Ken stepped around the desk, and as he did so noticed two quite recent-looking burns on the boy’s forearms.
The boy must have seen Ken’s expression. He held his arms out in front of him, slender wrists turned outwards to better display the wounds. “Accident with one of the barbecues,” he said, still grinning. “Got a bit carried away with the liquid fire-lighter. Sorry if it alarms you, but I thought they might heal up better if I got a bit of sun to them. My boss would have me wear long sleeves but they rub, you know.”
Ken pursed his lips. “Looks nasty,” he said. Should he tell the boy he was a doctor? No, probably not. Ken got a strange sense from just looking at the boy that there was something a bit needy about him. He’d had dealings with people who liked to display their injuries. Borderline personality disorders, most of them.
“You’re English,” Ken observed. Then he added, “Obviously.”
The boy nodded. “Yep. We’re all English here. Me and the girls. I’m in charge this week, so if there’s anything you want, that’s cool. I’m Steven, by the way.”
Ken looked out across to where his car still sat behind the barrier. “Well, Steven, you could start by letting us in.”
“Oh, right. Cool.” Steven said. He turned and skipped down the steps. Ken followed, and noticed another burn, about the size of a coffee-cup ring, livid on Steven’s right calf. Ken made a mental note to increase his vigi
lance around the complimentary barbecue set.
Steven produced a thin electronic key from the pocket of his shorts and passed it across the face of a small black box attached to the housing of the barrier. The barrier lifted, shuddering through its elevation with an odd, slow crackling sound, loud in the warm twilight air, and for some reason it made Ken think of hot fat popping on a griddle.
“These must be yours,” Steven said.
Ken looked up to see Katie and Holly returning to the car. “Yes,” he said. “They’re mine. Come on, girls, jump in.”
Katie scowled, but Holly, brightened by her evacuations, said, “Hi, have you got Boggle?”
Both Ken and Steven appeared to be at a loss for a moment, and then Holly said, “The game? You know? The game Boggle? You’ve got lots of games in that hut. We saw them on the way over to the loos.”
Steven laughed and glanced at Ken. “Hah, yes. Of course. I don’t know. Maybe. We’ve definitely got Monopoly!”
Both girls screwed up their faces.
“And Scrabble. Probably.”
I hope you’re not running the Kids Club, thought Ken. “Let’s sort things like that out in the morning,” he said. “I want to get unpacked.”
“Yes,” said Steven. “Let’s get you up to your holiday home and show you what’s what. Follow me.”
Ken watched Steven go around the side of the Information chalet. He emerged shortly, wobbling on an ancient-looking bicycle, waved and indicated a dirt road that forked right and curved away behind the pool. Ken climbed back into the Audi and started the ignition. Holly was leaning forward, her head between the front seats. “Who’s that?” she asked.
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