The House On Nazareth Hill

by Ramsey Campbell

  At the far side of an expanse of carpet as green and as springy as moss, the receptionist lifted her head to examine him. With her black polo-neck concealing her throat, her hair confined so severely to the upper reaches of her head that she might as well have been wearing a glossy black hat, not to mention the sharpness of her chin and cheekbones and the overstatement of her pencilled eyebrows, she looked as fearsome as ever. ‘Ah, Mr Yes,’ she commenced by apparently naming him. ‘You’ll have the keys.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’ Oswald reached in the pocket he’d emptied of coins and ventured across the room. Since she didn’t extend a hand for the keys he laid them on her impeccably white desk, where she separated them with a fingernail to check they were still six. ‘Thank you,’ she said, or at least the end of it, which made him feel so dismissed that he blurted ‘Nobody wants a word.’

  She looked unprepared to hear the question he intended. ‘Mr Arkwright,’ he said.

  ‘I knew whom you meant.’ She gazed at him as though to impress her grammar on him. If he could live with Amy’s looks, he thought, a receptionist’s eyes couldn’t daunt him. After not so very many seconds as measured by a timepiece she reached for the switchboard, which it was his impression she regarded more like a set of servants’ bells. At that moment the door beside her opened. ‘Save your power,’ said Oswald. ‘Here he is.’

  It was indeed Arkwright, his blond scalp as flat and clean as his long smooth cheeks and square chin. ‘If you’re happy I’m happy,’ he was assuring a middle-aged couple while they buttoned up overcoats which looked even heavier than the carpet. ‘Every time I find someone a home I feel that’s another tick in my personal book.’ He saw them to the door and having waved them through it, turned to Oswald. ‘Mr Priestley, not even a day later. Good to know there are still some folk who can be relied on. Step through a minute.’

  Having preceded him into the office full of twelve desks, each in a three-sided cubicle whose backs joined down the middle of the long room, Oswald said ‘Someone for us?’

  ‘Second on the, ah, you remember. For who is that?’

  Oswald lowered himself onto a leather chair which seemed to have been holding its breath and waited while Arkwright sat, driving a gasp out of his own chair. ‘The couple you showed out, I wondered if they might be for our ground floor.’

  ‘They’re moving up from apartments. First house at their age, would you believe, and just married into the bargain.’

  Oswald remembered the day he and Heather had chosen their only house—remembered sitting hand in hand with her before such a desk. The memory of her squeezing his hand as they’d said almost in unison that they’d decided on their home caused his stomach to draw into itself. She’d gone, he thought, and so he had to be two people for Amy, as strong and as wise as two and if necessary as impervious to argument. This impressed him as so crucial to fix in his mind that it took a throat-clearing from Arkwright, followed by more of a cough, to remind him where he was. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and when that proved insufficient ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Were you going to give me your report? About yesterday’s whatever you would call it. Yesterday’s experiment.’

  ‘It worked. I’ll be making sure it did.’

  ‘That’s reassuring to hear. Anything more I can pass on to my boss? Any details?’

  ‘No less than I promised. We went through every room, and there was nothing to see.’

  ‘That’s what your daughter says, there was nothing.’

  ‘Exactly. I asked her and she did.’

  ‘And meant it.’

  ‘Well, you know how they are at her age. I expect they’re all the same. If you ask them for an answer they behave as if you’re forcing it into their mouths. But as I say, I had her answer. Twice, to be certain.’

  ‘You’ll know if that’s enough, obviously, being her father.’

  ‘She’s aware she has done wrong, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Priestley.’

  Oswald felt rebuked for not having done enough. Perhaps he hadn’t yet, but surely it was up to Arkwright to help rather than simply disapprove. ‘I’m presuming you don’t know of anything that could start her off again,’ Oswald said.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘I think she’s clear how angry I would be if she tried to turn up anything more to make a fuss about. Old bits of history, say. You and I would know they’re nothing more than that, but I was wondering if anyone who might have heard her on the radio could have reason to think otherwise, if there might be anything they would be able to tell her.’

  ‘I can’t foresee anybody saying anything.’

  ‘Just to clarify the situation, that means there’s nothing to know, does it? You saw how her mind works. There’s nothing she could make into more than there was in the first place?’

  ‘That’s correct. I was thinking along your lines myself after I met her, so I checked back. I don’t think even your daughter—no, I don’t see how she could when it was so long ago. All the same, perhaps you shouldn’t tell her.’

  ‘I hope I may be the judge of that.’

  ‘Of course, no question. I wasn’t trying— We’re talking hundreds of years back. Two hundred at least, going on for three.’

  ‘You don’t need to persuade me that’s ancient history. Tell me straight, man to man.’

  Arkwright sat forward on his chair, which had already given vent to an inadvertent exhalation. ‘How much do you actually know about Nazarill?’

  ‘That it’s my home and my daughter’s.’

  ‘Good man. Before that, though, perhaps you’ve heard it had been offices in the Victorian era. And before them, nothing much.’

  ‘It must have been something, surely.’

  ‘Oh, right enough. Not for a while, I meant. For a long while there was just the shell of the place. There’d been a fire, you see.’

  Oswald supposed he did, but felt he ought to see more or was expected to. ‘All right, a fire. I don’t think she can make much of that.’

  ‘Just of a fire, I shouldn’t think anyone could.’

  ‘You sound as if there was more to it.’

  ‘Well—yes. What happens more often than not when there’s a fire in a property, though let me assure you there’s never been a single one to my knowledge in any property we’ve sold.’

  ‘You mean someone died.’

  ‘That’s the size of it. To be totally accurate, not that it can make any difference so long after, I’m sure you’ll agree, a few.’

  ‘What do you call a few?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you that in terms of numbers. Quite a few, my understanding is. As far as I can make out, all the inmates and the staff.’

  ‘All the…’

  ‘Of the hospital. Not a hospital as we’d use the term, you understand, not back then. I expect we’d hardly believe how unsafe some of those places were with nobody going round to check, nobody such as yourself trying to see they were safe.’

  ‘Some things have improved.’ Oswald’s thoughts hesitated momentarily over that, but it wasn’t the issue he felt bound to raise. ‘Inmates was the word you used, wasn’t it? I’m only asking so I’ll be prepared in case it somehow gets to my daughter, but what sort of place are we discussing?’

  ‘I don’t know what they would have called it back then but, you know, the closest they’d have come to an institution.’

  ‘A mental hospital.’

  ‘That’s the sort of area, only maybe you’re aware they used to treat them nothing like we treat people with a mental history today.’

  ‘Too many of them are wandering the streets instead of being looked after.’

  ‘I’ll give you that. Maybe they weren’t treated badly at Nazarill. They must have got out of hand to finish with, but I don’t suppose some of them needed anything we’d regard as an excuse to set the place on fire.’

  ‘That’s what you think happened, or you know?’

  ‘That
’s as much of a story as my nephew’s fiancee could find in the vaults at the paper where she works.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be easy to unearth.’

  ‘It wasn’t. The nephew says I owe them each a bottle of good plonk. Oh, I follow,’ Arkwright said, lowering his eyebrows to demonstrate his comprehension. ‘The files aren’t on computer, they’re on microfiche. Unless someone knew what they were after and how to look, they’d never find it while they had breath.’

  ‘It can’t be common knowledge, this old story.’

  ‘Nothing like. I don’t mind telling you we hadn’t so much as a sniff of it when we took over the property.’

  ‘I hope it would have made no difference if you had.’

  ‘You’ve my word on that,’ Arkwright said, and gazed at Oswald.

  ‘You’ve mine that my daughter won’t learn about any of this from me.’

  ‘Thank you for that.’

  ‘And supposing anyone who knew of it had heard her they’d have contacted her by now if they were going to, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘You’d think so.’

  ‘Not that I can imagine any reason why they should.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s not, but if by any remote chance we’re both wrong, perhaps I can ask you to do your utmost to head off any trouble.’

  ‘Here’s my hand.’

  Arkwright considered it before accepting it, having stood up. Perhaps Oswald’s choice of words had thrown him, though Oswald didn’t think them too old-fashioned. ‘Thank you for stopping by,’ Arkwright said to end a quick loose handshake, ‘and for all your efforts.’

  ‘The least I could do.’

  Arkwright paused as if he thought the words were truer than intended. ‘I know we can rely on you to take any action you find necessary,’ he said, and sidled from between his desk and the partition. ‘After all, you won’t be doing it only for us.’

  ‘Appreciated,’ Oswald said, and shook hands again, gripping Arkwright’s until it responded with equal firmness, which felt as though Arkwright was either satisfied for the moment or exhorting him to do more. Oswald didn’t need to be exhorted. Perhaps he’d hoped the meeting would convince him otherwise, but he already knew he hadn’t done enough.

  As he let himself out of the Housall office, the wind struck him in the face and thrust its chill inside his collar. Until he pulled himself together he felt as cold as he imagined the woman in the blanket must feel. At least he knew he wasn’t quite alone. He’d overheard enough to be aware that someone had insights into Amy which might help him—her religious teacher.

  He turned to breast the wind, and the photograph of a deserted Nazarill came into view. Whatever Amy might invent about the place would be preferable to her discovering that it had once, no matter how many years ago, been an asylum. How could he have been so weak that he’d allowed her to annoy him into telling her the truth about her grandmother before he was sure it was time for her to know? It wasn’t Nazarill that was at fault, it was himself.

  The wind urged him round the corners to the house carved with secret symbols. The woman in the blanket had gone, but he had far too little difficulty in remembering her eyes, locked into themselves and glistening with a sheen of fear. Arkwright’s revelations had made him anxious to see Amy, to reassure himself she was all right or at the very least no worse. He hurried through the subway, which hooted like a huge stone owl as a racing ambulance halted the traffic, and up to the car park.

  The traffic was as headlong as ever by the time he drove under the saluting barrier. Once he succeeded in joining the rush it carried him towards the edge of Sheffield. Soon he caught sight of girls in the dark red which Amy resented still having to wear. As he steered the Austin into the side street the last few ran across the schoolyard into the building which appeared to have lent their uniform its colour. Rather than use the parking area within the grounds he drove until the wall hid him from the school.

  He didn’t care if Amy saw him, for all the trouble that might cause, but he wanted to observe her before she knew she was being observed. He walked to the point where the wall became railings, through which he saw a schoolmistress appear in Amy’s classroom and begin to address the girls seated invisibly beneath the tall windows. The gale hastened him into the yard, raising his hood as it did.

  The school secretary, a long-faced woman with a great deal of red hair tugged back from her high forehead and tied at the nape of her neck, came to her window inside the panelled lobby. ‘Mr Priestley. Back so soon?’

  ‘Can’t get rid of me.’

  ‘Is anything…’

  ‘I wanted a chat about Amy’s religious progress. I didn’t have a chance last time to speak to Mrs Kelly, is it not?’

  ‘She’ll be marking in the staffroom. Along the corridor from Miss Sadler’s office. You know the way.’

  Oswald did: it led past Amy’s classroom. The sound of a choir rehearsing in a hall floated to meet him. The pure young voices sang ‘Amazing Grace’ as he passed rooms full of girls working, their faces upturned to their teacher or lowered to their books. The fire doors next to Amy’s classroom bumped shut behind him, and three more paces gave him a view of her class through the glass half of the door. He found her at once, and his innards grew cold and hollow.

  She was seated two rows back, her head bent over an exercise book—her cropped head shorn of the hair Heather had loved to brush. It looked wholly inappropriate among her classmates, as if she had strayed in from some quite different place. As he saw her pen speed across the page, he couldn’t help wondering if this was a show she was putting on for the schoolmistress. The fire doors shuddered as the wind insinuated itself into the building, and he was suddenly afraid she would glance up at him—afraid not of being seen but of how her eyes might look. He retreated to the opposite wall and dodged past the room before even the teacher could notice him.

  Mrs Kelly was watching him from the next classroom. She opened the door at once and raised her eyebrows as high as they would go. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I was on my way to see you. I apologise for not making an appointment, but I found myself in the vicinity.’

  Her face hadn’t relaxed when she eventually said ‘You’re Amy Priestley’s father.’

  ‘I hope that’s a compliment.’

  The desperate hope was close to a prayer, and the teacher turned away from it. ‘If you’ll close the door,’ she said, limping to her desk piled with exercise books, ‘we won’t be disturbed.’

  Oswald eased the door shut and leaned against the desk in front of her. When it emitted a sharp creak Mrs Kelly frowned at it and him. ‘Do sit down if you wish.’

  Oswald managed by protruding one leg into the aisle. Having watched his struggles to arrange himself, Mrs Kelly said ‘If I may say so, Mr Priestley, you looked worried.’

  Her voice echoed in the empty room. He thought it capable of penetrating the wall, and spoke low to drop her the hint. ‘Do you think I should be?’

  ‘Frankly, yes.’

  Oswald was shocked to discover that deep down he’d been willing her not to say so—shocked by his own weakness. ‘Please tell me your thoughts,’ he said, feeling like a not especially able but cooperative pupil. ‘I want to hear.’

  ‘I sense you’re of the mind I am, Mr Priestley. Girls of that age need firm direction, and we’ve been charged with providing it.’

  ‘That’s my belief.’

  ‘Most especially where unhealthy influences are involved.’

  ‘Do you mean any in particular?’ he said, and heard himself sounding worse than stupid—dishonest, reluctant to admit to his own knowledge. ‘I heard the tail end of you talking to her yesterday. That’s why I’m here, to find out what you meant.’

  ‘I should have hoped you would know.’

  ‘I’m sure I do, but to hear someone else who cares about her put it into words…’

  ‘I was telling her that some of her interests seem not just unhealthy, unholy. I wonder if you know how far
that’s gone.’

  ‘You mean that ghost business. It’s been nipped. I took her where she claimed she saw it and showed her there never was anything.’

  ‘So she believed there was.’

  ‘She never said so at the time. She wasn’t much past half her age, you understand, the fairy-tale age. Maybe she dreamed it and thought she remembered it, but now she’s come round to seeing she couldn’t have.’

  ‘I suppose that must count for something.’

  ‘You don’t think much.’

  Oswald saw at once he should have put a preposition in there, but apparently that wasn’t the source of her dissatisfaction. ‘I’m afraid I think if she was able to believe it at all she must be well on her way down the wrong path, so.’

  Once again Oswald found himself wishing she’d said the opposite. ‘Have you any suggestions?’ he demanded with a roughness aimed entirely at himself.

  ‘I’ll tell you something now I’ve told very few people.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Oswald said before wondering if it would turn out to be an occasion for gratitude. ‘What would that be?’

  ‘When I was their age,’ said Mrs Kelly, raising her eyebrows to indicate the classroom behind him, ‘I came under the spell of somebody unsuitable. A boy, it was.’

  Unsure how much surprise he was required to express, Oswald nodded. ‘Ah.’

  ‘And my parents dealt with it as you did in those days.’

  ‘Ah hah. How was that?’

  ‘I was locked in my room until I swore on the Bible never to go anywhere near him again.’

  ‘That’s certainly a thought.’

  Perhaps Mrs Kelly felt he was taking her self-revelation too lightly; she pursed her wrinkled lips, rendering them virtually colourless. ‘Maybe our rights aren’t what they were, but can’t you keep her home at night until you see a change?’