I went into my office and saw to my post. Totton’s wife rang in. Reg had developed one of his migraines – the three-day sort.
‘He should be retired by this time,’ she said accusingly. ‘He should’ve retired years ago, only they couldn’t do without him.’
‘Give him my best wishes,’ I said, with false bonhomie. Even the best doctor in the world can’t tell whether you’ve really got a migraine. Migraine, like backache, is invisible.
Then young Martin rang in. From Cromer in Norfolk, of all places. He’d driven up to see a girlfriend overnight, and now his car wouldn’t start. Also, a dense sea-fog was covering most of Norfolk and Suffolk.
‘Get in as soon as you can,’ I said, with a grate in my voice. In that sea-fog, Martin’s car must be as invisible as Reg’s migraine.
‘Sorry,’ he said, sounding as real as a three-pound note.
‘You feel all right?’ I asked my one remaining henchman. ‘No backache, fallen arches, ingrowing toenails?’
‘Don’t know what you mean.’ Tetley was never a witty man.
Burridge checked through our documents thoroughly.
‘Your friend’s improving,’ he said. ‘In the hospital.’ He didn’t sound glad or amazed. He might have been talking about a paper-clip.
‘How do you know?’ I asked rudely.
He ignored me. ‘Well, I’ll leave you gentlemen to it. We’ve got shopping to do, haven’t we, Legion?’ He addressed his remarks to a black labrador that lay at his slippered feet and stared at nothing. It was oddly like Burridge; old, with a greying muzzle, but durable. Solid, without being fat. Its coat was curiously dusty and lacking in gloss, and its skin lay in wrinkled folds round its neck, exposing grey skin through the black hair at the top of each fold.
Burridge turned to me. ‘I expect you’ll find all you need.’ He wasn’t hostile, or even interested. He was bored; bored like the dog; bored like old Reg and Martin had been last night. He picked up a curious mixture of shopping-bags that lay in a chair; old brown or black leatherette, most of them, but there was a straw fish-bag among them, that clinked with bottles. We listened to the front door close behind them.
‘I’ll check the outbuildings and the yard,’ said Tetley.
‘Sure you still feel OK?’ I asked sarcastically. He went out the back door without bothering to answer, and I was left alone with the house.
I went straight for the thing I was most afraid of; the room full of stuffed birds. Get the worst over first . . .
There wasn’t a single stuffed bird to be seen. Bare as a prison cell. I whipped from room to room, thinking I’d got the wrong one. Nothing to be seen on the ground floor, nothing on the first floor. I was just going up to the top floor when I caught myself. I was acting like a child. I was meant to be looking for dangerous structure, not stuffed birds . . . but at least now I knew that Burridge had been playing a game to frighten me, bloody charlatan.
Except how did he know I was afraid of feathers? I was still wondering as I went down to Burridge’s stone-flagged kitchen at the back.
Hundreds of dull black eyes watched me from the table-top. A mass of little white animals? I couldn’t see properly; couldn’t make out what they were at all, in the gloom . . . I wanted, like a child, to run away. But I made myself go over . . . touched one . . . pulled my hand back sharply as it touched the dreaded feel of feathers.
Chicken heads. Dead chicken heads, severed at the neck. Still staring at me with a ghost of life. Each with a different expression. Some fear; some alertness; some anger. All dead, that had been alive. So many done to death; envying my life . . . What ghastly thing had Burridge done? Spent the night murdering every chicken in the neighbourhood? Was every hen-cree in the district full of headless corpses? The police . . .
Then I laughed harshly. There was a massive broiler-farm down the road towards the coast. It gave us health problems. Especially the mountains of chicken heads that built up outside, bringing the threat of rats. Anybody could have a hundred chicken heads for the asking.
To frighten the new CTO with? I couldn’t see they could have any other purpose. I’ll get you for that, Burridge, you bastard. And there’s only one way to get you. My skill as a building-inspector. My skill against yours, whatever that is.
I examined the kitchen thoroughly, tapping for detached plaster, sniffing for the smell of dry-rot, insidious as evil. Poking for structural cracks or the small holes of woodworm, or the larger holes of death-watch beetle.
Nothing. Sound as a bell, as old Reg Totton had said. Had old Reg really got a migraine? Was Martin really stuck at Cromer? Or were they frightened of Burridge? I glanced out of the smeared kitchen-window, to make sure Tetley was still with me. He had dragged a crate of bottles out of a hole in the wall, and was kicking it with idle spite. I tapped on the window, making him jump, then he vigorously attacked a window-frame with the spike of his army knife.
Was Tetley afraid to come indoors? His cowardice made me feel braver. I pressed on. It was a funny house. A big house if you judged it by the number of rooms; a veritable nest of rooms, stairs and twisting corridors. But small in total volume. As if a lot of very small people had lived there, closely packed together, long ago. What they’d have considered grand, in the sixteenth century. Most of the rooms, Burridge had no use for. Pointless. Take this one. An old table; two wooden chairs standing on the table. An old tin bath, half-full of some rusty liquid. And a picture on the wall. That might be a laugh. I could do with a laugh, just at present. I brushed the coating of fluff off the photograph with my sleeve.
Little boys in the photograph; little footballers with adenoids and cropped hair, sticking-out ears and long, long shorts. Arms folded across their hooped jerseys, they stared alertly, fearfully, angrily, at the camera. Somehow their bright button-eyes reminded me of the chicken heads. Because they’d be dead too, most of them. Inscribed on the football held by the one in the middle was ‘Champions 1911-12’.
Was one of them the infant Burridge? Could he be that old? I ran my eye along the faces, looking for the beginnings of that long skull, long nose, long jaw. The eyes would give him away, small, close together. None of the little long-gone footballers looked like they could possibly have turned into Burridge. Another pointless exercise. Why couldn’t I keep my mind on the job in hand? Then I looked at the men behind the boys, moustached, bowler-hatted, self-important.
The un-moustached one at the end was Burridge.
And he was already a middle-aged man. Not much different from how he looked now. A middle-aged man in 1912 . . .
Oh, give over. Burridge’s father . . . or grandfather. Long noses must run in that family. I hung it back on the rusty nail.
Then went back and had another look. Could anyone, even Burridge’s father, replicate so closely that cold, watchful, weary look?
For God’s sake, I told myself, you’ve come here to survey a house.
I did my work thoroughly, sniffing, tapping, stamping on floorboards, as I worked my way upstairs. I could find nothing wrong, and I was really concentrating. But the place was in fair nick. Gloomy and cold, but not damp. Dry as dust. Paintwork peeling, but sound wood beneath. With my completion of the ground floor, half my hopes were gone. Any surveyor will tell you, you find trouble at the bottom of a house, and at the top. Never in the middle.
Suddenly there was shouting from outside. Tetley wildly gesticulating. I had a terrible struggle to get a small rusty window open. Why didn’t he come up, if he wanted to tell me something?
He was shouting about a forgotten meeting with the Chairman of the Amenities and Recreation Committee. On site, at eleven. And as he said, jabbing at his Mickey-Mouse watch, it was already eleven-twenty.
I let him go. I hadn’t much option. He was into his maroon Viva before he’d finished shouting, and away like the clappers.
I felt pretty lonely, even with the Volvo parked outside. And there was still half the house left to do, including the attics and the soot-laden roof-spa
ces. And it was cold; a grey shadowy cold that ate into your bones and killed hope. The very thought of central heating or double-glazing seemed ridiculous. Might as well put roof-insulation into Castle Dracula . . .
Mind you, Burridge was no Dracula. You get a feel of people, doing their houses, as refuse-collectors get one through their dustbins. You ought to hear Ron, our refuse foreman. Give him a dustbin, and he starts prophesying: ‘Three cats, one dog, two young kids. Vegetarians, but the wife’s a bit of an alcoholic. Go to the Costa Brava; she dyes her hair, he plays billiards . . .’ Brilliant.
Well, I can do the same with a house. This was the house of an old man, a bored man, a stoical and enduring man. Not a stick of creature comfort. No pathetic touches, like mementoes. You couldn’t even feel sorry for the man.
I was doing his bedroom (faded striped pyjamas, grey socks laid on the window-sill to dry) when I heard the sound of paws in the corridor outside. Dog’s paws, with little blunt claws that tapped like tiny hammers on the bare boards.
It surprised me. I thought he’d taken the dog shopping with him. Then I thought, he’s left that bloody black thing to keep an eye on me. I’ll try and chum up with it; anything for company in this bloody hole.
I’m usually good with dogs. So I poked my head round the door.
No dog, though there were a couple of half-open doors he could’ve nipped through. I called out.
‘All right. Play hard to get. I’m not chasing you.’ And went back to work. The bedroom seemed darker than it had been; the corridor must be brighter . . .
Again, tin-tack paws on the floorboards just outside the half-open door. Again, I shoved my head out.
Nothing there.
The next time, as I crouched to check a skirting-board, I heard the paws come through the door, and into the bedroom. I whirled.
Nothing there. I went cold all over. I knew it wasn’t a trick of the wind; I’ve surveyed too many empty houses. I know the sounds wind makes.
One of your tricks, Burridge? Like the chicken heads? I’m not easy to fool twice. So I went on working. I’m not scared of dogs, ghostly or otherwise. So I went on working, crouching, tapping the length of skirting, hoping for dry-rot.
There was the sound of sniffing behind me.
I went on working.
A little cold breath in my ear. Cold breath from a cold nose. Dog’s breath isn’t warm like humans. There was the strong smell of an old dog; the big black presence of black dustiness pressed against my back . . .
I whirled, nearly fell, staggered to my feet. There was nothing there. Yet the sound of the paws continued, round and round the room. I could follow it with my ears. And the dirty smell of dog, and the sniffing.
The room got a lot colder – or maybe it was just me. Cold creeps up on you slowly when you’re doing an unheated building. Then I went goose pimples all over. They crept up my spine, into my scalp. I reached upwards with amazement, and found my hair was standing on end, like a frightened cat’s. And that really managed to scare me.
I grabbed wildly for my clipboard. I was on the point of running out of that house. Nothing would have stopped me, and I’d never have gone back.
Except that I began to feel anger. The anger oozed into me, strong and red and bright, like the first whisky after a cold day’s work. The funny thing was, I thought then that it wasn’t my anger – it was directed against the thing that was padding round the room. It got stronger and stronger, and it held me upright. I had never felt that angry in my life. I’m normally a fairly placid sort of bloke, or so Linda tells me. But this anger was like a dam bursting.
And then, suddenly, the sound of paws and the sniffing and the smell of dog were gone. The house was truly empty. I looked through the window and saw old Burridge just coming in through the gate, his shopping-bags full. He was holding open the gate for the obese, waddling dog.
I went to the head of the stairs, still full of the red anger, as he opened the front door with his key.
‘Hello, Mr Burridge,’ I said. My voice came out high and harsh, so I wouldn’t have recognized it. It must have been the anger I was feeling.
He looked up, and I thought his face looked terrified.
‘I’m still here,’ I said.
He raised a hand to his face. Maybe it was to protect his face, or maybe just to shield his eyes against the light. There was a staircase-window on the landing behind me, putting my figure in silhouette.
‘You don’t get rid of me that easy,’ I said. These strange phrases just kept coming into my head, so I said them, in that funny high voice. I began to walk downstairs towards him.
He gave a whimper, and half fell into the corner by the grandfather-clock. He nearly knocked it over; its metal innards jangled together. He continued to watch me, hunched in his corner, eyes like saucers, showing the whites all round. I thought that was how a man might look who sees his death coming towards him.
Then he said, ‘Who are you?’ And then, ‘But you haven’t got red hair.’ And a great sigh exploded out of him, and his fear-face fell apart, and began to put itself together to look normal. In a moment there was the normal, immovable Burridge, except that he was very pale, and there was a sheen of sweat all over his face that shone in the dim light of the hall.
‘Of course I haven’t got red hair,’ I said. ‘What d’you mean, I haven’t got red hair?’ The anger had left me; my voice was back to normal. To tell you the truth, I was feeling nearly as rocky as Burridge.
‘Nothing, Mr Dobson,’ he said. ‘I was just wool-gathering. When you get to my age . . .’
‘How old are you?’ I asked, suddenly remembering the football photograph.
He ignored my question, as usual, with that wave of the hand. Pretended to be solicitous. ‘You’ll be cold, Mr Dobson. Could you do with a cup of tea? With something in it?’
‘Like what? Some of your famous herbal mixture?’
He pursed his lips, as if noting a point. ‘No, Mr Dobson. I thought, a spot of whisky . . .’
‘No thanks. Can I use your phone? If you’ve got a phone?’
‘Oh, I have a phone. One of the things this modern world sells its soul for . . .’ He sounded bitter.
He had a phone; an old black thing, pre-war. He’d have got a few pounds for it, in a flea-market. I noted the strange old number; Besingfield 342. Then I rang to inquire after Tetley and his on-site meeting. Tetley came to the phone himself; just got back, he said. I reminded him he had a job of work to do. With me, here. He sounded funny, disorganized. As if he hadn’t expected me to ring . . . Then he said he had to go, he was going out to lunch.
I snarled that if he was going out to lunch, he might just call at Burridge’s on the way. He might consider buying me a lunch, considering I’d been doing his damned work for him all morning.
To my surprise, he gave in meekly. I reckoned he must be suffering from shock. Mind you, he took me to a vile snack-bar where I sipped a poisonous cup of coffee, and cut a coldly soggy pork pie into cubes and played chess with them while I watched him demolish two Cornish pasties, mushy peas and chips. He must be a wow at our annual office dinner. I let him get thoroughly stuck into a large mock-cream éclair before I jumped him.
‘If I hadn’t rung, Tetley, how long would you have left me?’
He bit off half the éclair at a gulp, which gave him nearly three minutes’ chewing-time to work out how to reply.
‘That site-meeting with Amenities was real. Look in the diary, if you don’t believe me. Ask the Chairman.’
‘And suppose I ask him who fixed it up – you or him? And before or after I fixed the inspection of Burridge’s place?’
He solved his problem this time by choking. Did it rather well. Turned slightly blue; sprayed crumbs and spit all down his floral tie. But he didn’t have to tell me the answer. I knew.
‘That site-meeting was about as real as Totton’s migraine or Martin’s car breaking down, wasn’t it? Are you a mate of Burridge, Tetley?’
‘
Burridge doesn’t have mates,’ he said, sullenly.
An inspiration struck me. ‘You must be a mate of Burridge, Tetley. You were seen going into his house one night last week.’
This time, he blushed.
‘Tell me about it, Tetley. How much did he slip you, to bugger up this morning?’
‘He didn’t slip me anything. I went for something different.’
‘Like what? I’d hate to have to report you for corrupt practices involving Council legislation . . .’ He blanched; he had an unfortunate wife and three unfortunate kids to keep.
‘Baldness,’ he said, into the crumbled and forgotten remains of his éclair.
‘What?’
‘He’s curing me of baldness. He gives me ointment to rub on.’ I leaned over and smelled his head. The stink, close to, was horrific. ‘What in God’s name is it, Tetley?’
‘Rat grease.’
‘What?’
‘RAT GREASE.’ The woman behind the counter actually came out of her glaze of boredom.
‘Smells like rat shit.’
‘Aye, some of that as well. But it’s working. I’ve got little bristles all over me scalp.’
‘They’re not bristles, mate. That’s a fungus that only grows on rat shit.’ The woman behind the counter was laughing so hard that she gave her bosom a painful burn on the tea-urn. I got Tetley away, before she reduced herself to a stretcher-case. I slapped him on the shoulder.
‘Tetley, old mate, for rat shit I can forgive you anything. Let’s get back to that survey.’
I drove home late, in a pretty vile temper. Tetley and I had put in five more hours, and found absolutely nothing wrong with the Ugly House. It leaned, but the leaning was centuries old; even perhaps a mistake by the original builders. No cracks or movement. It would lean no further, for the foundations were on rock. Burridge hadn’t wasted any money on paint, but it was watertight. The slates were fastened on with best copper nails into oak purlins so hard they bent your finger-nail. Nothing, except for a cellar-door Burridge refused to open. And since, as Tetley pointed out, it was tunnelled into solid rock, there couldn’t be anything wrong there anyway.
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