by Chris Simms
Slapping a palm against the shiny surface, she got on her knees and unscrewed the final pair. Keeping a hand against the glass, she stood back up, locked her core, braced her knees and pulled gently at the huge rectangle of glass. It came away from the wall with a slight tearing sound. Oh my God, she said to herself, it weighs a ton.
Gripping each edge tight, a cheek pressed against the cold surface, she managed to tip it onto one corner, then started trying to lower it lengthways along the bottom of the neighbouring mirrors. Its lower edge was about eighteen inches from the floorboards when she knew it was too heavy. The fingers of her left hand were curled round its lower edge; they’d be trapped when it came into contact with the floor. She attempted to straighten it back up, but couldn’t. Idiot, she said to herself: I should have rolled up some towels and placed them across the boards. Too late now. Her left hip felt like it was being jammed up into her bottom rib as the mirror dragged her shoulder lower. She was going to have to drop it.
She snatched the fingers of her left hand away and jumped back. The mirror hit the floor with a mighty thud, big enough to shake the entire room. A crack immediately raced across it and both pieces started toppling towards her. She lunged for the larger of the two, just managing to push it back against the wall. As it connected heavily with the mirrors behind – sending a mass of cracks zig-zagging across them - the other part of the mirror hit the floor and shattered. A tide of silver shards glided across the smooth floor. Both of her hands were in her hair, tips of her fingers pressed into her scalp. She looked with horror at the fragments surrounding her stockinged feet. Shit. Shit, shit and double shit.
Lifting her eyes, she could now see the portion of wall that had been hidden behind the mirror. The decorators had stripped the old wallpaper all right. But they hadn’t bothered painting the bare plaster. Bloody cheek. They’d simply painted to just past the pencil lines marking where the mirrors were going to be. The older, yellowing plaster behind was pitted and cracked in places. They hadn’t even bothered skimming over it properly.
A patch down near the bottom caught her eye. It was a different shade to the rest. Whiter – which meant newer. The only spot the decorators had actually gone to the trouble of filling in. But some of it had come off and there was now a small opening at the base of the wall. She stepped towards it and a searing pain lanced the bottom of her left foot.
Chapter 25
Mouth open in a silent gasp, Laura looked down. The broken glass, she thought. I’ve just crunched my foot into a load of broken glass. Idiot! She lifted it up. Blood was already soaking through her gossamer-thin tights. Careful to keep her balance, she cupped the foot in one hand and plucked the needle-like pieces from where they protruded from her sole. She could feel warm blood pooling in her palm. Shaking it off, she looked at the sea of silvery fragments spread around her.
One good stride, she thought. That would get me into the corridor and on to carpet. She sank down on her right leg, the one she could always get a bit more height with, and sprang for the doorway. For a glorious instant she was flying again – just as she used to up on stage. She barely had time to close her eyes and relish the sensation before the ball of her right foot connected with the edge of the step. She stumbled forward, momentum taking her across the corridor. Fending off the wall with both hands, she jogged to the bathroom, yanked a few feet of toilet tissue off the roll and wound it round her bleeding foot.
There was a dustpan and brush in the spare bedroom. By hopping, she was able to retrieve it and return to the studio. Down on her knees, she used the brush to push the broken glass back across the floor. Once the area before the exposed section of wall was clear, she examined it more closely.
The fresh plaster at its edges had been laid on thick. Using the end of the screwdriver, she chipped away until it was all on the floor. Older plaster now formed the rim of the opening. She could see bristly bits sticking out of it. Horsehair and even pieces of straw, by the look of it.
The brick behind the plaster was old; the same type as those which formed the outer walls of the cottage. That made sense, she thought This was the end of the building once, prior to the extension she was now in being added.
The groove between two of the bricks was especially deep and she managed to get her fingertips in. By tugging at the upper brick, it shifted slightly and she realised the mortar hadn’t crumbled away: someone had been picking at it. There was now a gap between the two bricks – about the same width as a finger. Laura brought her face closer and, as soon as the smell coming from the opening touched her nostrils, she was overcome by emotion. A bitter-sweet yearning for something from long ago. Her childhood, the memory too indistinct to pinpoint. Where, she thought, have I smelled this smell? It was musty and stale. Clothing from a dressing-up box that hadn’t been used in years? Curtains from a room whose windows were never opened? Not my house. Somewhere else. Somewhere I spent time as a little girl.
She gripped the higher brick by both ends and started wiggling it from side to side. More mortar started to come loose. By pushing and pulling, the amount it shifted slowly increased. But it was hard work. After a couple of minutes the muscles in her forearms were burning. She sat back and blew at some loose hair hanging over her eyes. There was a hammer in Owen’s toolbox. Using the screwdriver as a chisel, she tapped away at the mortar. That was better. She tried the brick again and this time it began to slide out. The smell increased in strength.
Before removing it completely, her fingers became still. What, she wondered, would she find behind it? Could there really be a child’s body trapped there? Not at this level: it was only at the mid-point of the chimney here. The thing stood taller than the roof by a good eight feet. This would be the point where the shaft flared out. She didn’t know why, but she felt sure the point where any corpse was would be higher. After all, the body in her dream was near to some kind of an opening. The top of a chimney?
Clenching her jaw, she pulled the brick clear and placed it on the floor. No moths or spiders or woodlice cascaded out. She noticed the surface of the brick that had been facing inward was covered by a thin, brittle layer of something very much like pale cement. Tentatively, she lowered her face to look in the gap she’d created.
There was a cavity beyond. Black as coal. She stared into it, wondering how big the space was. If it was the chimney, it would be big enough to wave an arm around inside. I should remove more bricks, she decided. Then I can poke my entire head in. She pictured looking down: light would be visible from the living-room hearth directly below. And, she thought, if I lie on my back, I might be able to see a circle of sky up above.
She picked up the hammer and screwdriver and smashed away the mortar from the brick, immediately below. Loosening this one was far easier, and within minutes, she’d eased it from the wall.
Strange, she thought. I can see the end of a plank of wood. There’s some kind of floor in there. How could there be a floor half-way up a chimney? She sat back and looked from left to right. Where she was kneeling was too far over. The shaft of the chimney would be in the centre of the room; she was just inside the door. Perhaps the planks were the same ones that formed the floor of her and Owen’s room.
That seemed to fit; there was a step down into the studio and the opening she’d made was at the height of that step. So she wouldn’t be able to look up the chimney after all. All she’d broken through to was a cavity beside the chimney shaft. The gap between what was once the outer wall and her bedroom.
She studied the opening again. Enough light was getting in to reveal that the cement-like layer also covered the wooden planks. She reached out a finger and tapped it. Rock-hard. How big was this cavity? Did it stretch right up to the roof? She rummaged through the toolbox for a torch. There had been a big one down in the cellar, on the shelf right next to the toolbox. Damn it, she thought. Why didn’t I think to bring it up?
As she put her hand into the opening and started patting about, a sharp bang shook the floorboar
ds.
Chapter 26
Laura stepped back out into the corridor. Oh no, she realised, there’s blood all over the place. Drips of it ran the entire length of the carpet. There was a blotchy handprint on the wall. Lifting her foot, she checked the tissue. Every bit of it was bright red, no white at all. Sodden fragments hung down. Now she was upright, the sole of her foot had begun a vicious throb. Whoever was at the front door knocked again.
‘Hang on!’ she called down. With both hands on the banister, she hopped down the stairs and looked through the hallway window. A grimy-looking man somewhere in his fifties was out there, facing the front door. His clothes were stiff with dirt and could see his hair was in a similar state. Some kind of tramp? Did he want food? She certainly wasn’t answering the door when it was only her in the house.
She started to duck down but he suddenly turned. ‘Mrs Wilkinson?’
Straightening up, she nodded. He held an imaginary phone to his ear and over-emphasised his words. ‘I rang earlier. Left you a message?’
A message? She hadn’t noticed a message. But then again, she thought, I didn’t check the answerphone before rushing upstairs. Her foot continued to throb. ‘Two minutes.’
She hopped down to the kitchen and hit the play button as she removed the first-aid kit from the cupboard near the back door. Sitting on the flagstone floor allowed her to see into the travel case; Scaredy-mouse was still in there, tail twitching once more. ‘Sorry, that was me upstairs. Did I frighten you?’
The message began to play as she pulled blood-soaked tissue from her foot. ‘Mrs Wilkinson, it’s Andy Pomerell, the chimney sweep.’
She looked up. The chimney sweep. He’d met Edith and Roger Hall, who lived here last. He might know something about William. His message continued to play.
‘It’s…let me see, nine-fifty on Friday. My last appointment of the morning has just had to cancel, so I could fit you in then. Call me back if that...actually, tell you what, I’ll stop by. I’m only down in the village, so it’s not far out of my way. Call me if you won’t be in, otherwise, see you shortly before lunch.’
She nodded to herself, binding her foot tightly with bandage. ‘Did you hear, Scaredy-mouse? We’re going to find out what’s up that horrible great chimney. Isn’t that good?’
After securing the bandage in place with a length of sticking plaster, she got up and gently slid her feet into her sheepskin slippers. From the kitchen window she could see his work van parked behind her car. Ladders were attached to its roof.
Careful to keep her weight off her left foot, she limped back down the corridor and opened the front door. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I had a little accident.’
His mouth was slightly open. He looked concerned. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. I sliced my foot open. On some glass, that’s all.’
‘Oh.’ He held a finger against his cheek. ‘It’s from your foot?’
‘What?’
‘The blood.’
‘There’s blood on my face?’
‘And your hands. And all over your top.’ His glance dropped to her feet and rebounded back up. ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes, fine. I came straight down the stairs, you see. Didn’t think to look in a mirror. Even though that’s what I cut my foot on!’ She let out a short laugh. ‘Seven years’ bad luck.’
‘Right.’ He still looked alarmed.
‘You met the Halls, then? Who used to live here?’
‘The Halls? Oh, yes. Well, not met. They just bought me out a cup of tea one time.’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘When I was out on the lane changing a tyre. Few years back, that was.’
‘Did you meet their son, William? Did they say anything about him?’
‘Their son? No...can’t say they did.’ He was frowning slightly.
‘You didn’t talk to him?’
‘No. Just the old couple.’
She stared off into space. He wasn’t even aware they had a son. She looked back at him, disappointed. Could he be lying?
He stepped back. ‘Do…do you want me to come back another time? Give you a chance to clean yourself up?’
‘What? No, stay. The chimney...’
He looked up at it. ‘Birds have got in, have they?’
‘It seems so. Could you check nothing is blocking it?’
‘No problem. I’ll get my brushes from the van.’
She watched as he slid the side door back and removed a couple of folded sheets, several lengths of pole and a bucket with a load of brush-heads sticking out.
‘Don’t worry about mess,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ll screen off your hearth with a sheet and tape up the edges. No soot gets out.’
After leading him through to the lounge, she pointed across to the fireplace. ‘There it is. A bird fell down it the other day. There was a fair amount of soot dislodged.’
‘Is it painful?’ He was looking down at her feet again.
She realised she’d crooked her knee and raised the heel of her left foot to reduce the pressure on its sole. ‘It’ll be OK.’
He crossed the room, got down on one knee, ducked his head into the hearth and shone a torch up.
She crossed her arms. ‘What can you see?’
‘This hasn’t been swept in years.’
‘Is it blocked? Can you see if anything’s blocking it?’
‘Something’s up there, yes.’ He brought his head back out and sent her a smile. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’ll have it cleared in no time.’
She tried to smile back. ‘It’s a large chimney, isn’t it?’
‘Needs to be – it’s quite exposed up here in winter.’ He detached strips from a roll of gaffer tape and lay them sticky-side-up across the hearth tiles.
‘How would they have cleaned it back then?’ She laughed. It sounded shrill. Not natural. ‘Send a child up, or something?’
He grinned as he started taping a dust sheet round the edge of the hearth. In the middle of the sheet was a hole with a square of material hanging over it. Like the flap in a pair of long-johns, she thought. For cowboys to pooh through.
‘In Mary Poppins films, maybe. The practice was a lot less widespread than people think.’ With the sheet in place he got to his feet. ‘Now, I’ll bring the hoover in. It’s a big noisy thing. Industrial. You might prefer to be in the kitchen.’
‘Can...can I watch?’
He seemed mildly surprised. ‘Well, there’s not a lot to see. The suction nozzle from the hoover goes through this flap in the middle. Then I feed the brush through and direct it up the chimney. Like all the best magic shows, you won’t see how it works.’
‘Oh. But you’ll come and tell me if you hit anything, won’t you? Anything...big. I’ll be in the kitchen.’
He was giving her another curious look. ‘If that’s what you want.’
Back in the kitchen, she wondered what to do. Scaredy-mouse was still in its case. The sound of the chimney sweep’s vacuum certainly wasn’t going to help matters. Laura opened the laptop and checked her emails. Tamsin had got back.
Hi Laura, great to hear you’re feeling a little better. My T has been bugging me on and off for three days now. I got some good sleep last night but at five o’clock this morning it came roaring right back. It’s like living on an airbase at times! I’m so glad you’re getting a second opinion. Don’t let them give you the brush-off!
Go arrange that booking with a consultant too. Yes, stress = tinnitus = stress. It can turn into a vicious circle if you let it. Try not to worry. Tinnitus is simply the perception of sound being generated by your brain. You need to remember we hear with our brain, not our ears. The bit of your brain that processes and filters noise has just gone a bit kooky.
Did you know that when there is absolutely nothing to hear whatsoever, the brain will generate noises for you? They proved this by putting a bunch of medical students in a soundproof room and asking each to note down what they heard. Over ninety percent describe
d all sorts of stuff even though the room was completely silent! It was all being created by their brains.
As for hearing canary song – weird! Real canary song? That’s a new one to me. And you’re sure you’ve never heard a canary singing at some point in your past? Maybe it’s a forgotten childhood memory that’s decided to resurface. This one guy I corresponded with, he’d hear birdsong. Like a flock, he said, all singing together. Often at night (how he knew it wasn’t real) then during the day – while driving, when he was on the golf range, in his office. It got so bad he had to give up work for a while.
Laura stared at her words, dimly aware that the chimney sweep’s vacuum had started to grate and whine. I don’t hear a nameless flock of birds singing en masse, she thought. I hear just one. But that’s not what was making her feel frightened again. It was the part of the sentence, ‘while driving, when he was on the golf range, in his office’. She realised there was only one place she’d ever heard the canary singing: Lantern Cottage. Never in the garden, never in the car, never anywhere but inside the house.
She’d just finished typing a reply when she heard a cough from behind her. The chimney sweep was standing in the doorway, holding up a large dustbin liner. ‘That’s the last of it. Three I’ve filled up.’
The bag was bulging. From the way he was holding it up, whatever was inside couldn’t weigh much. ‘You’ve filled three sacks?’
‘Yes. Birds’ nests. Generations of them. Like an aviary that chimney was.’
She closed the lid of the laptop. ‘You said you’d tell me!’
The smile fell from his face. ‘They just kept coming down. One after the other. Sorry.’
