The Room Beyond

by Stephanie Elmas

  Eva’s face appeared before me from my pencil for the first time, her gaunt cheeks hugely exaggerated, her eyebrows arched in anger. But when I drew her eyes they peeked out at me, soft and sad. I had wanted to fill them with wrath, hatred, anything ugly and cruel and yet instead they welled up with tears.

  That night Seb took me in his arms. I ached to tell him about what I’d heard but couldn’t face fighting about Eva yet again.

  ‘Thanks for organizing this evening. Beth thought it was great, she loves you. I love you,’ he said.

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.’

  ‘I think I’m trying to live in a world that isn’t my own. Is the bubble going to burst soon?’

  ‘No. Does that mean you don’t love me?’

  I could see lines of agitation, panic even, on his face.

  ‘You know I do. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you.’

  I pressed my forehead against his and we fell asleep together, but in the morning he was gone.

  The internet café was just off the high street. I found a quiet place in the corner and drank bad coffee from a polystyrene cup. The first thing I searched for was Burnside money, just as Eva had said it.

  A few old articles about a Lord Burnside popped up at the top, but most of them now led to nowhere and had lost their content. One, however, from a financial bulletin and entitled, Where did all their money go? still remained intact. This Lord Burnside it seems had masterminded some sort of rogue pension scheme, swindling all sorts of poor people out of their life-savings before disappearing to South America. I scrolled down the entries but found out nothing more.

  And then I tried Lord Burnside and Hartreve together. As the results came up I almost took a large bite out of the cup I was sipping from. Again, the articles were mainly old and lost, but the titles alone were enough to throw a great big spotlight over Eva’s past. Lecherous Lord Spawns Hartreve Baby, was the first. It was dated five years back, coinciding perfectly with Beth’s birth. Lord Cradle-Snatcher Gets Heiress into Trouble, was the second. The next article came up with a picture of Eva on it, looking particularly young and winsome in black and white. The journalist described her teenage pregnancy as the undisputed result of an affair with her father Edward Hartreve’s acquaintance Lord Burnside. Eva was described as a spoilt, rich brat, who had snubbed loony Lady Burnside’s repeated efforts to clear her husband’s name. It finished with the lines:

  So, how did the mysterious Lord escape the country with the police hot on his heels? Not with the help of Edward Hartreve, that’s for sure, or any of those poor old pensioners he screwed over either. But clearly Lord Burnside still has friends somewhere, South America better watch out.

  I swung back in my chair and read it over and over again. I’d been wrong about Sasha being Beth’s father then, if these articles were to be believed. But Sasha was clearly involved in this somewhere along the line. He’d been threatening Eva about the Burnside money after all. Could this be something to do with those dodgy pensions? Where had Burnside’s money ended up?

  I looked at my watch. Jessica would be arriving soon to visit me, I didn’t want to be late. But there was one more thing I wanted to look up before I left. Even his old-fashioned, funny sounding name made me want to smile when I typed it in: Walter Balanchine.

  This time the result was quite literally breathtaking. I felt a buzzing in my ears, excitement and astonishment all cocktailed up together. This was how detectives must feel when they’re onto a good lead, or explorers at the gateway of a newly discovered tomb. There at the top of the page I read:

  Discussions on ‘Walter Balanchine and the Art of Hypnosis,’ a lecture by Sasha Apostol.

  I let the cursor hover over the word Sasha for a moment and then clicked.

  The link led to a lengthy dialogue on an academic chat room about hypnosis. In spite of its title the discussion seemed to focus only briefly on Sasha’s work, citing him as an esteemed lecturer and Walter Balanchine as a... colourful East End character born to eastern European parents, an early devotee to the art of hypnosis and the act of disappearance. And yet further down, in spite of Sasha’s apparent academic prowess, he was criticized for... not having yet uncovered enough material to reveal more about his subject. Perhaps he will go on to find something more meaty about this elusive Victorian mystic.

  That was all. I grabbed my coat and dashed out onto the street; definitely late for Jessica now. It had turned chilly and with every gust of wind leaves with sad faces floated down about me. I squinted my eyes and tried to imagine this man Walter Balanchine, in his funny wizard-like clothes, kicking up the leaves along the London streets before me. Perhaps he had Lord Hartreve by his side, or his daughter Lucinda.

  Sasha seemed to know an awful lot about the Hartreve family. Enough to threaten Eva with in his creepy lustful way. But the one thing he didn’t seem to know enough about was this man, Walter Balanchine. Was this what he was blind to, as Arabella had remarked? Is this what he really wanted? But the thing that made no sense at all was why I was such a threat as well.

  I could see Jessica already standing on the doorstep as I approached the house.

  ‘Hello!’ I called, jogging up to her.

  ‘There you are! I knocked but no one answered.’

  ‘That’s funny, I thought Gladys was in. Beth’s been taken out to buy clothes so it’s probably just us. Oh it’s so lovely to see you!’ and I gave her a great bear-hug. ‘Come on in. Sorry I’m late, I was at an internet café messing around.’

  ‘What happened to your laptop?’

  ‘Oh, I sold it to buy some canvases. Too lovely to resist.’

  ‘Typical! Ah, you’re wearing the peony brooch I gave you.’

  ‘I wear it all the time.’

  Now that we were inside I hugged her again. I could smell the familiar scent of home on her clothes: lavender mixed with a sort of generic washing-up aroma. I felt a sudden surprising pang.

  ‘What a glorious house,’ she murmured as I pulled her into the drawing room.

  ‘It is, isn’t it? Come and take a seat.’

  ‘Isn’t it extraordinary that there isn’t a number 34?’ She collapsed into one of the deep sofas. ‘I almost thought that this house didn’t exist and I’d fallen on the wrong Marguerite Avenue.’

  Good old Jessica to notice. ‘I know. I had that problem too the first time.’

  ‘Is there a reason?’

  ‘I don’t know... there’s all sorts of stories. Maybe it was war damage.’

  ‘But these roads didn’t suffer, all the houses are Victorian and pretty much intact. I could try and find out the real reason.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Oh census records, old documents, a bit of digging about. Remember that old genealogy course I did?’

  ‘When you found out that our ancestors were a bunch of no-good criminals?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, bubbling up with laughter. ‘It was fascinating though. I loved it!’ Her laughter simmered down and she gave me a long, thoughtful glance. ‘So what’s changed with you?’ she asked softly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You seem different. I hardly hear from you. Either they’re working you like a slave or you’ve met someone.’

  ‘Not a slave, no. Beth is lovely, very old for her age. Her mother Eva’s a sort of society princess, too busy partying to have much to do with her. She’s going out with a Russian oligarch at the moment apparently, although I haven’t met him. The whole family’s a bit eccentric.’

  Jessica’s eyes glistened. ‘So it must be the other thing then, that’s changed you.’

  ‘What other thing?’

  ‘You’ve met someone.’

  My cheeks went hot and I tried to look away.

  ‘Oh I was right!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

  ‘Yes. But I wasn’t going to tell you about him yet. It’s early days and... a bit tricky.’

&n
bsp; She gave me a pursed smile and nodded slowly.

  ‘Well I hope he’s nice.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘And good looking.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And has a good job.’

  ‘Um... yes.’

  ‘He sounds lovely. I can’t wait to meet him.’

  I tried to say something back in agreement, but the strangest feeling of emptiness in my stomach, as if the best party ever was coming to an end, suddenly stopped me.

  ‘Jess,’ I said in a quiet voice, glancing for a moment at the door. ‘Would you really be able to find out something about the house? You know, about the missing number next door?’

  That evening I still felt too tied up by my own thoughts to take much notice of Seb when he came to my room. He kissed me with eager lips, tried to pull me towards him, but then let go when he felt my resistance.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘How did it go with your aunt?’

  ‘Alright. I told her about you. She asked a few questions, one about whether you had a good job.’

  He paused, his eyes lapping at my face.

  ‘Look,’ I faltered. ‘I know that you don’t work. And that you don’t like to be questioned about... anything really. But don’t you think it’s odd that I have no idea what you actually do?’

  ‘I don’t do anything.’

  ‘Then where do you go when you leave this room every morning? Surely you must go somewhere, do something?’

  ‘Serena, where is all this coming from? One meeting with your aunt and now you’re badgering me. You’ve completely changed in one afternoon!’

  His face looked grey suddenly, tired and almost haggard. I felt the urge to comb my fingers through his hair, draw myself closer to his cool skin.

  I’m sorry, I whispered in the recess of my mind and his answer echoed instantly back to me.

  It’s alright.

  ‘There just seem to be so many secrets in this house,’ I murmured.

  ‘Don’t worry about secrets.’

  ‘I do when they cause a person to hate me.’

  ‘Who hates you?’

  ‘Eva.’

  He rolled his eyes and threw back his head. ‘Oh I wish you’d just stop!’

  ‘How can I when she’s desperate to get me out of this house?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I overheard something the other night. They see me as a threat here, either to be got rid of or kept close. I don’t know, do you? There was stuff about Sasha and Raphael and money, and me all wrapped up in it. God, it makes me feel sick! Seb, please, just take my side. Help me, do something.’

  I waited for him to reply but got nothing.

  ‘Look, maybe you should go for tonight,’ I said, disappointment grating through my voice. ‘I think I need to be alone.’

  I turned my back to him, praying at the same time that he would come to me, put a hand on my shoulder, explain it all away. But the gamble didn’t pay off. Instead I heard his footsteps move back towards the window in quiet retreat. A second later I knew he was gone.

  In the empty room a bubble of loneliness seemed to grow instantly around me. When eventually I managed to lie down on my cold bed it moved with me. It got in the way of my blankets and laughed at my attempts to sleep.

  Beth glared down at her new dress again for the fiftieth time.

  ‘I really don’t want to go.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I really really don’t want to go.’

  My temperature was rising. ‘Listen, it’s only a birthday party. Children need to play with other children, particularly at parties. Now, we’re not far from home, nine houses away to be precise and I’m sure this little girl is very nice.’

  The door swung open and a woman in tight white trousers with smiley white teeth grinned at us.

  ‘So you must be Beth from down the Avenue!’ she declared.

  Beth offered up her confused, wrinkled up nose expression in response.

  ‘Thank you so much for inviting us. Here’s a present for Fifi.’

  Beyond Mrs Seddlescombe’s shoulder a tribe of children in bright party clothes were running around chaotically and doing handstands against the wall.

  ‘Oh thanks, do come in. Will you be staying with Beth or would you prefer to pick her up later?’

  Beth shot me a glance, her eyes huge and frightened looking.

  ‘I’ll stay for now, if that’s alright.’

  The house was so different from 36. Although its size and shape felt almost the same, it had been more recently decorated in glacial pastels and designer furnishings. A flat screen television peered blankly from the drawing room wall and speakers in undisclosed places blared out Disney music as children jumped up and down stuffing sweets and marshmallows into their mouths.

  Beth teetered listlessly in the middle of it all and my heart ached for her. She didn’t even try and play with the others and they seemed to sidestep her, as if she were someone’s rather uninteresting older sister whom nobody could be bothered to talk to. Then a woman in lots of pink nylon and a pair of wings danced into the room brandishing a plastic wand.

  ‘Hello my little fairies! Who’s coming to play in fairyland?’ she cried.

  ‘Meeeee!’ came a unanimous chorus and a tide of children rushed towards her, sweeping Beth along with them. Suddenly they were all gone.

  The glossy-eyed television smirked back at me and I stuck my tongue out at it. The music had stopped in this room and was now whining on in another part of the house. A crushed biscuit teetered on the arm of a chair.

  Two whole weeks of nothing. Two whole weeks without Seb. I must have drawn a hundred pictures of him in that time. Not the laughing carefree face I knew but expressions of hurt, loss, emotions I didn’t even know he had until they appeared like magic through the end of my pen. I kept trying to build a brick wall in my mind, somewhere to push even the thought of his face behind, but those blue eyes just jumped right back out at me every time. I studied my hands, tried to bend my fingers. Every muscle ached.

  ‘Can I have a word with you please, Miss?’ boomed a voice.

  I looked up to find Mrs Seddlescombe marching through the room towards me. At the end of her outstretched arm Beth was being dragged along by the wrist. The woman’s white smiley teeth had completely vanished.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Her lips appeared to be quivering with anger.

  ‘Corporal punishment? In fairyland? I have an entire room of crying children in there. I mean I know you’re only the nanny but someone must have put ideas like that into this child’s head.’

  Beth was staring down at the floor, her hair straggling over her face.

  ‘She’s... not all that used to other children. I’m so sorry. We’d better leave.’

  ‘I should think so. Good Lord! I... I have to get back to them all now.’

  Finally she unleashed Beth’s wrist and almost ran out of the room.

  Beth and I said nothing about it on the way home. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her off and, after all, it was my fault for forcing her to go in the first place. When we got back Sasha was slouched in the drawing room reading a newspaper.

  ‘Pasha!’ whimpered Beth, the tears finally flowing.

  ‘What is it my little bee?’

  She rushed into his arms, burying her face in his neck.

  ‘We had a bit of a bad time at the party,’ I said, scooping up the newspaper which he’d tossed to one side. ‘The children didn’t take to each other too well.’

  ‘Now now, you just tell Papa Sasha everything and he’ll make it better. Don’t you cry my little bee, don’t you cry.’

  I needed a cigarette. I escaped the room for the bench in the garden, still clutching the newspaper that Sasha had been reading. It was folded into quarters, one side covered in f
ragments of sports news and the other framing an article with the headline: Burglary at the V&A. I began to read:

  A valuable collection of antique Celtic jewellery has gone missing from archives at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. As the pieces have not been displayed for over a year, staff at the museum cannot be sure of when the items actually went missing. They might have been stolen weeks, or even months ago, making it extremely hard to track down the thieves. The collection, consisting of many rare silver crosses, is one of a kind...

  I drank the words in again: antique Celtic jewellery... rare silver crosses... and remembered that little cross nestling in the dip between Beth’s collar bones. Raphael’s birthday present to her.

  The last time I’d sat on this bench had been that night with Raphael. The memory of those dark, bruised eyes shot through me, and those lips coming dangerously close to mine.

  I looked over at the fence separating the Hartreve’s garden from next door and the rendered side of the extension which jutted out behind it. Had I really seen a wall there instead; an old wall cascading with jasmine petals? Or had it been a dream?

  I tossed the end of my cigarette away and went indoors. Beth and Sasha had both disappeared from the drawing room. The house felt deserted.

  Most beautiful things are stolen; it makes them more captivating.

  Raphael’s words on the night of the party, when he’d told me about the missing Habsburg gems. I pictured us on that motorbike again, inches from catastrophe and yet glorious in our moment.

  I climbed two steps at a time up to my room and found it again at the bottom of a drawer: the cluster of jasmine buds I’d picked that night. They were a little yellow and wrinkled up from the way I’d crushed them, but dry now and still sweet-smelling nonetheless. No, it hadn’t been a dream.

  Darkness fell. Beth’s room was empty and it was nearly her bedtime. Further down Arabella’s office door was closed with no light emanating from behind the stained glass window. All of them seemed to be gone. I trudged all the way to the bottom of the house. The drawing room and the library were empty too.