The House on Cold Hill

by James, Peter

  It definitely wasn’t there.

  While he waited for his food to come, he phoned his computer man. From the crackling noise on the phone, it sounded as if Chris Webb was either driving or in a poor reception area.

  ‘I’m just on my way home from a client,’ Webb said. ‘Can I call you back when I get home?’

  ‘No probs.’

  Half an hour later, Ollie strode up the drive towards the house, his head bowed against the rain which was now pelting down. He was pleased to see a row of workmen’s vans outside the house, and that a skip had been delivered.

  He hurried inside, where there was a hive of activity in several of the downstairs rooms and the cellar. As he climbed back up into the kitchen, his phone pinged with a text. It was from Cholmondley, requesting an addition to the website. While he stood reading it, the plumber, Michael Maguire, wriggled out backwards from under the sink and looked round at him. ‘Ah, Lord Harcourt! How are you, sir?’

  ‘I’m OK – how’s it going?’ Ollie raised his phone and took a photograph of the pipework beneath the sink, to add to his photo record of the restoration work.

  ‘I don’t know who did this work before, but they were real bodgers!’ the Irishman said.

  Before he could reply, Ollie’s phone rang. It was Chris Webb.

  ‘I’m back now, how can I help?’

  Ollie waved for the plumber to carry on, and as he spoke to the computer man he walked back out of the kitchen and headed upstairs, needing to change out of his wet clothes, looking around warily. ‘It’s OK, Chris, it’s just that the photograph I emailed you earlier has gone from my iPhone and I needed you to send it to me. But it’s OK, I’m home now, it’ll be on my computer. Thanks.’

  ‘No problem!’

  Ollie changed in their bedroom, taking a pair of jeans out of the huge Victorian mahogany wardrobe they’d brought from Carlisle Road, a fresh T-shirt and a light sweater, then climbed up the tower to his office, thinking again about the newspaper article about ghosts. Energy seemed a key factor. One of the theories it posited was that energy from dead people could still remain in the place where they had died. Could the energy of some elderly lady who had died here still be around? Was that what his mother-in-law had seen on the day they were moving in? Did that explain the spheres of light he had seen in the atrium?

  Why had Jade asked him about ghosts this morning? Had it really been a bad dream that had spooked her on Sunday night – or something more?

  What the hell was in this house? Something, for sure. He needed to find out – and find an explanation – before Caro saw something, too, and really freaked out.

  Buying this place had been a stretch beyond what they could really afford. They were hocked up to the eyeballs. Moving out and selling right now was not an option. Whatever was going on, he needed to get to the bottom of it and sort it. There were always solutions to every problem. That had always been his philosophy. It was going to be fine.

  He sat down at his desk and realized his hands were shaking. They were shaking so much it took him three goes to tap in the correct code to wake up his computer.

  He went straight to Photos and checked through it carefully.

  All the photos he had taken of the work in the house were there, and the photographs of Harry Walters’s headstone, as well as the one he’d just taken of the pipework. But there was no photograph of Harry Walters.

  He turned to his iPad, and opened Photos again. It was the same. Everything else he had taken was there. But no photograph of the old man.

  Was he going mad?

  But Caro had remarked on the photo this morning, and Chris Webb had received it and talked about it. He dialled his number.

  ‘Chris,’ he said, when he answered. ‘I’m sorry, I do need you to send that photograph. I can’t find it.’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem with that,’ Webb replied. ‘Must be a bloody iCloud issue, like I said. I’m sorry, mate, it’s vanished.’

  21

  Wednesday, 16 September

  Sometimes Caro nudged him gently, or touched his face, to let him know he was snoring. But tonight Ollie was wide awake, unable to sleep. He had watched the dial of his clock radio go from midnight to 00.30 a.m., 00.50 a.m., 1.24 a.m., 2.05 a.m. Now it was her who was snoring, as she lay face down, her arms wrapped round her pillow.

  He was thinking about the photograph of Harry Walters. And the name O’Hare that he had seen in the graveyard. Why did that name seem familiar? He heard the hoot of an owl somewhere out in the darkness. Then the terrible squeal of something dying. A rabbit caught by a fox? The food chain. Nature.

  Then another sound.

  Running water.

  He frowned. Where was it coming from? Had he left a tap running in the bathroom?

  He slipped out of bed, naked, as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake Caro, and crossed the bare floorboards to the en-suite bathroom, the sound of running water getting louder. He slipped in past the door which was ajar, pulled it shut behind him and switched on the light. And then saw the water gushing from both the hot and cold taps into both of the twin basins.

  He strode over to them and turned the taps off. Still the sound of running water continued, loudly. He turned and looked at the bathtub. Both taps there were gushing out water. He turned them off too. Still he heard the sound, and realized the shower was running as well.

  He turned that off. Then stood still. There was no way – no way at all they could have left all these on.

  ‘Dad! Mum!’

  It was Jade crying out.

  He grabbed his dressing gown off the bathroom door, hurried back in the darkness across the bedroom and heard Caro stir.

  ‘Wasser?’ she murmured.

  ‘S’OK, darling.’

  He slipped out into the corridor, closed the bedroom door, fumbled for the landing light and switched it on.

  ‘Dad! Mum!’

  He ran down the landing and into Jade’s room. Her bedside light was on and she was standing, in her T-shirt and shorts, in the doorway of her en-suite bathroom. He could hear the sound of gushing water.

  She turned to him with terror in her eyes. ‘Dad, look!’

  He pushed past her and stopped. Water was brimming over the top of the huge bathtub and the floor was awash. Both taps were spewing water.

  He went over to them, sloshing through the puddles on the floor, and turned them off. But he could still hear water.

  It was coming from the shower.

  He yanked open the door and turned the tap off.

  ‘I turned them off, Dad, I did, before I went to bed! I had a bath and then brushed my teeth.’

  He stroked her head. ‘I know you did, my lovely.’ He grabbed the towels off the rail and dumped them on the floor to mop up the water. ‘I’ll get you some fresh ones.’

  ‘I did turn them off.’

  Down on his knees, trying to mop it up before it went through the ceiling below, he nodded. ‘The plumber was here earlier. He must have left a valve open or something.’

  His words were enough to calm Jade. But not himself.

  And he could still, faintly, hear running water.

  His heart pounding, he kissed his daughter goodnight, switched off her light, then rushed downstairs and into the kitchen. Both taps there were going full blast. He turned them off and went through into the scullery where the taps on the butler’s sink were gushing water. He turned those off. And could now hear running water outside.

  His brain was a maelstrom of confusion. He turned the ancient key in the huge lock on the door to the rear garden, pushed it open and stepped outside into the cool, damp air. The sky was clear and cloudless. A quarter moon was shining above the top of Cold Hill, and the sky was like a black velvet cloth sprinkled with sparkling gemstones.

  Something felt totally surreal.

  He heard running water even louder now.

  He grabbed the torch on the edge of the draining board, switched it on and shone the powerful be
am out into the garden. Something in the distance – too far away to tell whether a fox or a badger, perhaps – hurried away. Then he saw the source of the water. It was an outside tap, pelting out water.

  He turned it off and yet, as he went back into the house, he could again hear running water.

  He locked the door, hurried through the kitchen and atrium and into the downstairs toilet, where both taps were gushing.

  I’ll kill that sodding plumber! he thought, turning them off. But he could still hear water coming from somewhere.

  He ran back upstairs and into one of the spare rooms, which had a washbasin. Again, the taps were running full blast. He turned them off then went into the yellow room, and through into the bathroom. Again, the taps were spewing water.

  As he screwed them tight shut he was trying to think rationally through his tiredness. The idiot plumber must have turned on every tap in the house to test the water system, then left without turning them off.

  It was the only explanation he could come up with.

  He went around the entire house again, to check that every tap was tightly off. Then, before returning to bed, he remembered there was one more bathroom, up in the attic, next to a tiny spare room with an old, very ornate wrought-iron bedstead in it, which was in much better condition than the rest of the house. It looked as if the property development company, which had started renovating the house before going bust, had begun at the top. There was a modern bathroom up here, an electric shower and a marine electric flush toilet.

  The sink was bone dry, as was the shower tray, which relieved him. Because of the height of these attic rooms, they were on a different water system to the rest of the house, he seemed to remember being told.

  He went back downstairs and crept into bed. This time, Caro did not even stir; she seemed to have slept through the whole thing. He switched off the torch and laid it, gently, onto the floor beside him.

  As he did so he heard the sound of running water again. Then it stopped.

  22

  Wednesday, 16 September

  Plock.

  A droplet of water landed on Ollie’s forehead. He woke up with a start and looked at the clock.

  3.03 a.m.

  Plock.

  Another droplet struck him in the same place.

  He raised his hand and touched his forehead. It was wet.

  Plock.

  ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Fuck!’ As another droplet struck his cheek, he reached down beside the bed, fumbling for the torch.

  ‘What is it?’ Caro murmured.

  ‘I think we’ve got a leak.’

  He grabbed the torch, but before he could switch it on, there was a crack as loud as a gunshot above them, then a deluge of cold water, plaster and choking dust descended on them.

  ‘Jesus!’ Ollie shouted, leaping out of bed. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ He switched on the torch.

  ‘What the hell’s—?’ Caro sat up, sharply. In the beam of his torch, covered in white dust, she looked like a ghost.

  ‘What the – what the—?’ Caro said, scrambling out of bed.

  Ollie swung the beam upwards. A large chunk of the centre of the ceiling had caved in, leaving a hole several feet in diameter, through which water was cascading.

  He grabbed his phone from the bedside table, found the plumber’s number and dialled it. After several rings, when he thought it was going to go to voicemail, he suddenly heard a click, followed by a surprisingly breezy Irish voice.

  ‘Squire Harcourt, good morning, sir! Is everything all right?’

  23

  Wednesday, 16 September

  By midday, it seemed almost every room in the house had workmen in it, plumbers, builders and electricians. The water had seeped through their bedroom floor, which was directly above the kitchen, and shorted out the lights there and in the atrium. Caro had had to go into work for a meeting she couldn’t cancel, but said she would try to come home as soon as she could, to help out.

  Meanwhile Ollie had done his best in the bedroom, with a mop and bucket, then helped the workmen cover everything there with dust sheets. Bryan Barker explained it would be difficult to repair one individual section of the very old ceiling, which was lath and plaster – a lime mortar mixed with horsehair – without risking more damage. It would be better and faster to take the lot down and then plasterboard it. Ollie made the decision and told him to go ahead. With luck the work could be completed by the end of the week, but until then the bedroom would not be habitable.

  The only spare room that was in a fit state to sleep in was the tiny room up in the attic, with the wrought-iron bedstead; he and Caro could camp there, he decided. His tiredness was starting to make him feel irritable. The house was a cacophony of radios blaring out pop music, hammering, the whine of power tools and the rasp of sawing. He needed, badly, to lock himself away in his office and focus on work for a few hours. Cholmondley had already left two messages for him this morning, sounding increasingly impatient, wanting to know when the latest amendment he had texted him about yesterday would be up on the website, and Anup Bhattacharya of The Chattri House had sent him an idea for his website that he wanted, urgently, to discuss today.

  Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, he was desperate for more coffee, but the two strong ones he’d made himself earlier this morning had drained the small water reservoir of the Nespresso machine, and at present the water supply to the house had been isolated and capped off by the plumber. There was some mineral water in the fridge, he remembered, going downstairs and entering the kitchen. An extravagance, he thought wryly, removing the bottle of Evian and filling enough for a large espresso. As he did so a shadow fell across him.

  He spun round.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, squire!’ It was Michael Maguire, in his boiler suit, looking grimy and exhausted. He’d been here since 4 a.m.

  Ollie smiled at him, a quotation he’d come across suddenly echoing in his mind. To the man who is afraid, everything rustles. That was how he was feeling right now. ‘Want a coffee? I can make it from this,’ he said, holding up the bottle.

  ‘We’re just rigging up a standpipe now – we’ll have your mains water back on by late afternoon. Thanks, I’d appreciate one. So, do you want the good news or the bad news first?’

  ‘I think coffee first,’ Ollie said.

  A few minutes later they sat down at the kitchen table, and while Maguire was finishing a phone call to a supplier, ordering materials, Ollie took the opportunity to quickly check his emails on his own phone. When the plumber finished his call, he looked back at Ollie.

  ‘There is good news?’ Ollie quizzed. ‘In all of this? Want to tell me?’

  Maguire sat hunched over the table and eyed Ollie warily for a moment. ‘Well, the good news is I can get hold of all the materials I’m going to need right away. I’ll have some here this afternoon and the rest tomorrow morning.’ Then he stared gloomily down at his coffee.

  ‘And the bad?’

  ‘I’ll try and work out the cost, but it’s going to be expensive. You might be able to get some of it back on insurance, but I don’t know how much.’

  ‘The bedroom ceiling, with luck,’ Ollie said. ‘And the wiring damage in here.’ He shrugged. ‘So tell me your findings – what caused all the taps to start running?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got to the bottom of it yet, but you know from the survey what a poor condition the plumbing is in. Every single washer in every tap is ancient rubber and has perished. From all the droppings I can see in the loft spaces and wall cavities, you’ve an infestation of vermin – particularly mice. Those little buggers have eaten through the only modern pipework you have – the plastic ones put in by the developers before they went under. There are air-locks all over the system, causing a lot of hammering and juddering of pipes – and that leads to the degradation of washers, too, causing them to fail.’

  Maguire paused to sip his coffee then went on. ‘Your plumbing here is a complete mishmash of mainly lead,
with some copper and really ancient barrel pipe. Copper piping can, when it gets too old, just pop apart; lead starts to get fine, pinhole perforations, and begins spraying water as if it’s sweating. Barrel pipe’s made from low carbon steel and the oxygen in the water makes it rust from the inside. The pipe corrodes to a point where water won’t move through it any more, like a clogged artery. Then, of course, you get a build-up of pressure from the backed-up water in the system. Something starts making the pipes vibrate, you get the effect of expansion and contraction from the pipes not having seen any hot water through them in years. All that blocked water, with pressure building up, is going to have to go somewhere.’

  He looked balefully at Ollie and shrugged. ‘The action of the expansion and contraction tends to have one of two effects – either it causes a catastrophic failure of piping joints, or it loosens the blockages in the pipes and you get a surge of water. Get that surge and the taps, with their disintegrated washers, can’t hold it back. The problem is compounded by the whole antiquated water system in this house being interlinked. You’ve got a galvanized service tank in the loft space between the attics, directly above your bedroom. When tanks like that age, they start getting blisters, and there’s a danger if pressure builds up too much that the sides can just blow – collapse.’

  ‘That’s what happened, you think, Mike?’ Ollie sipped his coffee; it tasted good. The aroma gave a momentary respite from the smell of damp that had been pervading the house during the past few hours.

  ‘I can’t tell you for certain, Ollie.’ The plumber pursed his lips and shook his head from side to side. ‘But if you add everything up – the ancient pipework, no lagging anywhere against the ravages of past winters, the vermin infestation, the complete absence of any plumbing maintenance, a service tank fifty years past its sell-by date – you’ve got all the ingredients for a perfect storm.’ He shook his head. ‘I think it’s criminal anyone allowed such a beautiful house to get into this condition. I’ll tell you one thing, you’re lucky all the washers are corroded – if the taps had held, then several of the piping joints might have failed and you’d have had flooding in rooms all over the house.’