by Prey (lit)
Detective-sergeant Miller shook his head. "Detective-constable Jones is only capable of understanding what he can eat, drink, or punch."
"So you know what didn't happen, but you don't really know what did?"
He looked at me with those pale, expressionless eyes. "A word to the wise, Mr? I was brought up around here. In Whitwell, as a matter of fact. If I were you, I'd be careful about this place. When my cousin said it was haunted, well, it wasn't just stories."
"You think that Brown Jenkin could be real?"
"Oh . . . I don't know about Brown Jenkin. But over the years there have been so many unexplained incidents around Fortyfoot, there has to be something not quite right. No smoke without fire, if you know what I mean."
"Well . . ." I said. "Thanks for the warning." At that moment detective-constable Jones came flapping back across the lawn. Detective-sergeant Miller said, "It was an accident, that's all. A very nasty accident, yes. A very unusual accident. But an accident, and nothing more."
He took out his card and handed it to me between index finger and forefinger. "You can call me if you need me," he said. "I'm on days this week, nights next week."
Detective-constable Jones puffed, "Just had a message from the hospital, sarge. Mr Martin was d.o.a."
Detective-sergeant Miller replaced his glasses. "I see. That's a pity. Another old local character gone."
"Do you want me to talk to Mrs Martin?" I asked. I felt as guilty as all hell for having let Harry go up into the attic.
"No, leave that to us," said Detective-sergeant Miller. "We'll send round a w-pc. They're good at that kind of thing. Tea and sympathy."
"All right. I "
"There'll be an inquest," Detective-sergeant Miller interrupted. "You'll probably have to give evidence. We'll let you know in due course."
"Yes," I said, and desolately watched them leave. Liz came out of the house when they had gone, carrying two cans of cold Kestrel. She had tied a white scarf tightly around her head, and she wore a low-cut black T-shirt and black stretch pedal-pushers. We sat side-by-side on the low garden wall and popped the tops of our beer-cans, and drank.
"Harry's dead," I said, at last.
"Yes. That detective told me. I can't believe it."
"Detective-sergeant Miller thinks it wasn't an accident."
Liz frowned. "Really? He kept saying it was an accident, over and over."
"I think he wants to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible, that's why. If he tries to tell any of his colleagues that there's something weird up in the attic, they'll think he's a nutcase."
"What's he going to do about it? What are we going to do about it? We can't go on living here with some kind of monster up in the attic, can we?"
I turned my head and looked up at the high tiled roof of Fortyfoot House. Although the sun was shining brightly across the lawns, it looked as if the roof had been darkened by the shadow of a passing cloud. It had a mean, chill, enclosed look about it; as if it were selfishly harboring all the evil that it could gather in. I was sure that I could see a pale, oval face watching us from one of the upstairs windows; but I knew that if I approached the house or changed my point-of-view, it would look like nothing more than the back of a mirror, or a reflection on the glass, or a shape on the wallpaper inside the room.
It was the angles of the roof that disturbed me the most. The roof seemed to form a dark geometrical tent of its own, a tent whose shape defied all the laws of perspective. It actually looked higher at its western end, which was furthest away from us, than it did at the eastern end, which was closest. When the sun reappeared, and shone on its southern face, it appeared to alter completely, its south-eastern gully seeming to angle outward rather than inward, as if the entire roof were constructed on a system of folds and hinges, and could change its shape at will.
It made me feel nauseous to look at it; a thick, headachy, bilious sensation like riding on too many fairground roundabouts.
Liz said, "Are you all right? You've gone all gray."
"I'm all right. I think it's the shock."
''Perhaps you ought to lie down for a bit."
"I'm all right. For God's sake, stop fussing."
"You mustn't blame yourself, you know. He was dead set on going up there."
"I know, but all the same."
She laid a hand on my arm. "I do like you, you know," she said, with almost improbable directness. "You don't have to worry about that. And if you want me to sleep with you, I will."
I leaned across and kissed her forehead. "I think that's the problem."
"Oh, I see. You like to conquer your women, do you?"
"I didn't mean that," I retorted; although, yes, that was exactly what I meant. I liked her, I fancied her; but right now that wasn't enough. I had to prove more to myself than the fact that I was capable of reaching up and grabbing a lifeline.
Danny was running down the grassy slope toward the brook, his arms outstretched, making a noise like a Spitfire.
"Be careful!" I called. "Don't fall in!"
He may have heard me or he may not. He hop-skip-jumped over the brook, his arms still outstretched, and managed to miss his balance and plonk one stockinged-and-sandaled foot straight into the water. He ran on, unperturbed, although I could hear his sandal squelching all the way from where we were sitting.
"He's a case, isn't he?" smiled Liz.
"I just hope he isn't missing his mother too much."
We watched Danny clamber over the wall into the graveyard, and run around the gravestones making machine-gun noises. "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!"
"I suppose you're going to have to start work soon," said Liz. "I'll be starting myself tomorrow."
I looked back at Fortyfoot House. The thought of painting it and redecorating it while that thing still scurried around the attic filled me with deep uncertainty. I was tempted for the first time to pack it in; to go down to the estate agents and tell them to forget it. The only trouble was, they had already advanced me a month's salary and I had spent it without any conceivable way of paying it back except by doing the work that they had paid me to do. I had also spent some of the money they had given me for paint and materials, too; and they would be seriously displeased if they found that out.
It looked as if the only alternative left open was to emigrate.
Liz tugged my sleeve. "Look" she said. "Who's that?"
I looked across at the graveyard and the chapel. I could still see Danny weaving in and out amongst the headstones. But now there was another child in the graveyard; a girl of about nine or ten, dark-haired, in a long white dress that was brightly fogged by the mid-morning sunlight. She was standing in front of the chapel doors as if she had just stepped through them, although they were wedged tightly shut behind her. She was carrying what looked like a garland of daisies.
"Just a local kid I expect," I said, shading my eyes with my hand.
But there was something about the appearance of this "local kid" that I didn't quite like. Apart from the oddness of her long white dressI mean, the local kids were wearing fluorescent Bermuda shorts and Ninja Turtle T-shirts, not long white dressesshe looked as if she were ill. Her eyes were nothing more than deep charcoal smudges and her face was so white that it was almost green.
Danny was still "flying" around the far end of the graveyard, arms wide. But then he began to circle toward the little girl, and as he caught sight of her, he lowered his arms, and stopped running, and I could see that they were talking to each other.
"She doesn't look very healthy, does she?" Liz remarked.
I put down my beer-can on the wall, and stood up. Danny and the little girl were just too far away for me to be able to see their faces clearly, or to hear what they were saying. But suddenly I felt an irrational panic soak over me, as if I'd spilled my beer down the front of my shirt. I called, "Danny!" and started to walk across the grass toward the chapel.
Danny turned and looked at me, but then he turned back and continued talking to the litt
le girl. "Danny!" I shouted again, and my pace quickened, and I started to jog.
"Danny, come here!"
I passed the sundial and started down the slope toward the brook. Behind me, I heard Liz calling, but the wind was fluffing across my ears and my breath was jostling and at first I couldn't make out what she was saying.
It was only when I reached the brook and looked up at the chapel again that I realized what she must have been shouting about. A man's arm with a white cuff and a black sleeve had appeared between the chapel doors, and his hand was now resting on the little girl's shoulder. The little girl turned her head and looked up, and it appeared as if she were saying something, although I couldn't make out what. Danny retreated two steps, then three, then he was backing quickly away, almost tripping over one of the gravemarkers in his haste to get away.
I splashed through the shock-cold brook. The reeds whipped at my legs. Then I was climbing the moss-covered wall and dropping down into the long grass of the graveyard.
"Danny!" I shouted.
He was standing a little way away, one hand pressed against one of the gravestones. He turned and looked at me with a serious face. "I'm over here, daddy." The chapel doors were wedged shut, as always; but the little girl had gone.
I walked up to Danny and laid my hand on his shoulder. It was unusually still and windless within the graveyard walls. Crickets scratched; limestone blue butterflies danced around the crosses.
"Who was that you were talking to?" I asked Danny.
"Sweet Emmeline."
"Sweet Emmeline? That's a funny name." I looked around. Liz was jogging toward us, down the grassy slope. "Who was that man?"
"He was the same man we saw before. He said, 'Come on, Sweet Emmeline, it's time to go now,' and that was all. He had his hat on."
Oh God, not young Mr Billings.
"You mean that black hat? That tall black hat?"
"That's right," said Danny, steepling his hands over his head. "A big black hat, like a chimney."
"A big black hat like a chimney. I see."
"Sweet Emmeline asked if I was coming to play with them."
"With them? Did she say who they were?"
Danny seemed bored with this questioning. Yet he kept glancing quickly at the chapel doors, as if he were afraid of what might suddenly appear out of them. The door flew open, in he ranthe great, long, red-legged scissor-man, He seemed puzzled and unsure (just as I was puzzled and unsure) how Sweet Emmeline could have walked so easily through them, when he and I had only been able to gain access to the chapel by my strenuously forcing them apart with my shoulder.
"Does she live in the village?" I asked Danny.
"She didn't tell me where she lived."
"And she didn't tell you who her friends were?"
He shook his head.
"And she didn't tell you who the man wasthe man who said it was time for her to go?"
Again, a shake of the head. But then he looked up at me and there were tears of incomprehension and alarm glistening in his eyes.
"She had worms in her hair. When she turned round, she had all these red worms in her hair."
Oh, Christ, I thought. Oh, Christ, what's going on?
Liz came through the graveyard gate. I picked up Danny and hugged him tight and said, "Sweet Emmeline was probably a gypsy, you know? They don't wash very well."
Danny held on to me and said nothing. Liz came up and looked around, and said, "Where did they go?"
I shook my head, trying to tell her to keep quiet, but she didn't understand. She walked right up to the chapel doors and tried to prise them apart. "She couldn't have squeezed through here, surely?"
"Danny and I managed to squeeze our way, through, didn't we, Danny?" I asked him. I felt his sharp little chin against my shoulder as he nodded.
"Well . . . let's go and see if she's there," Liz suggested.
Again, I tried to mouth, "No," but Danny twisted himself upright and said, "Yes, let's." His eyelashes were stuck together with wet.
"Are you sure?" I asked him. He nodded again, and wiped his eyes with his fingers.
I lowered Danny gently into the feathery grass, and approached the chapel doors. Liz held Danny's hand and smiled at him. She seemed to have a calming effect on him. She had a calming effect on me, toobecause she was friendly, because she was pretty, because life is always incomplete without a woman around. I knew right then, as I leaned my shoulder against the chapel door, that I didn't need sex with her, not particularly; but that I did need her femininity; and that Danny needed it, too.
"Heave!" said Liz, and I heaved. The right-hand door creaked inwardand, while I held it open, Liz and Danny pushed their way through the gap. I followed them, grazing my arm on a nail. A thin bead-necklace of dark red blood.
Inside, the chapel was deserted, a sea of gray, smashed roof-slates. We crunched around but there was no sign of Sweet Emmeline, nor of young Mr Billings. How could there be? Young Mr Billings had been dead for over a century, and from Danny's description of Sweet Emmeline, it sounded as if she were dead, too. Very dead. Dead, and decayed, her hair crowded with meat-worms.
Liz came up to me and looked at me open-faced. "There's something going on here, isn't there? Something really, really strange."
I looked up. A British Airways 737 was thundering across the morning sky, full of package-tourists on their way to Malaga or Skiathos or Crete. I looked down, at the roofless chapel and the empty Gothic windows and the rustling ivy, and it was hard to tell which time I was in.
"Yes," I said. I watched Danny stamping and jumping around the slates. "I don't know what it is, but it's really strange. The whole house is really strange. It even looks strange, haven't you noticed? It keeps changing shape."
Liz lowered her eyes. Her skin had the priceless luminosity of youth, sprinkled with just a few freckles, like cinnamon. "Would you be upset if I said that I wanted to leave?"
"You want the truth?"
"Of course I do."
"Then, yes, I'd be upset."
Liz's eyes filmed over, as if she were remembering another occasion, such as this. Or perhaps dozens of occasions, such as this. She was one of those girls that no one man would ever own. She was one of those girls who would die, nodding and lonely, hank-haired, hot-water-bottled, in a wallpapered rest-home somewhere. Shit, how I hated to think about that. But I had myself to look after, and Danny, and I couldn't be responsible for everything and everybody; especially strays like Liz, and the dead, like young Mr Billings, and Sweet Emmeline, and Harry Martin.
God, how Harry Martin must have suffered. Danny crackled the slates and the crackling sounded like fat, torn from bone. Cracklecrackcreeakkcrackle.
"But . . ." I said, "if you really want to go."
She hesitated for a long time. Then she said, "No, no. I'll stay. I can't spend my life backing out of everything, just because it suits me."
"Listen, I don't want you to stay here on sufferance. Or out of pity. Harry Martin had all of his face torn off, so there's something dangerous up in the attic, whether it's real or imaginary or what. So don't stay because you feel sorry for me. The world is full of single men bringing up seven-year-old boys."
"I want to stay," she insisted.
"No, you don't, you're just saying that. Go! You'd be better off going!"
"Look, just because I got into bed with you last night"
"That's nothing to do with it! I swear! We were both fed up, we were both tired. We were both a little drunk."
"Well, I liked it," she said, adamantly. "I liked it, and I want some more, and that's why I'm going to stay."
In spite of everything that had happened, in spite of the horrors of Harry Martin, I shook my head and I started to laugh. What the hell do people argue about, when it really comes down to it? Love, lust, insecurity, frustration and fear. My old friend Chris Pert once said that if a man and a woman can share the same taste in TV comedies and the same Chinese take-aways, then they've got a relationship born in
heaven.
Danny said, "Look, daddy. Blood."
I stopped laughing abruptly. Danny was standing on the other side of the chapel, in front of the mural of the pre-Raphaelite woman with the red bushy hair. I trudged quickly across the broken slates and stood beside him, and Liz followed me.
The woman was smiling a louche, eccentric smileelated, erotic, ever so slightly mad. Her eyes seemed brighter than before. But it was the rat-thing that she wore like a stole around her shoulders that frightened me. Its eyes were mischievous and triumphant and uncontrolled, and out of its jaws ran a long thin stream of rusty blood.
