The House of Ashes

by Stuart Neville

  I don’t think she understood where she was for a day or two. That she was there to stay, that there was no going home. I don’t think she knew the men upstairs wanted more from her than cooking and cleaning. Daddy Tam especially. She belonged to him now, whether she wanted to be his or she didn’t. I didn’t know myself what they really wanted with us, not then. The Mummies never telt me. I suppose they wanted to spare me from it for as long as they could.

  None of us slept right that night, not a real sleep. Listening to her crying and getting on. She climbed the steps a lock of times, tried to push the door open, shoving it and kicking it, and the Mummies telt her it would do her no good at all, but she wouldn’t listen to them. One time, Daddy Tam clattered the door from the other side, guldered at her to hould her whisht, everyone was trying to sleep.

  The next morning, the Mummies had to go upstairs and get on with the housework, but Daddy Tam telt me to stay down there with Esther and look after her. She was laid on her bed, facing the wall, quivering and sniffling. Now and then she’d pick a splinter out of her hand, leaving wee spots of blood on her skin, or put her finger to the cut on her head, which wasn’t as bad as it looked the night before.

  Even just looking at the back of her, I thought she was beautiful. That dress she had on her, the colour of it. I’d never seen a dress like that. Not like the auld drab things me and the Mummies wore. And her shoes. I’d only ever worn boots that never fit me proper, but she had on these shoes that were shiny and hardly even covered her toes. I wanted to touch them and feel them and I imagined what they’d be like agin my fingers and on my feet. I imagined wearing that dress.

  I didn’t say anything for a long time, and neither did she, till she spake up.

  Says she, What’s your name?

  Mary, I telt her.

  What age are you?

  Ten, says I. I think so, anyway. Maybe eleven.

  Says she, You think so? Do you not know for certain? Everyone knows how old they are.

  She rolled over and looked at me, and I saw her face. It was dirty with tears and sweat, but still she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I mind her teeth, how clean they were, how white. And her skin, under the dirt. Like the china cups upstairs, the ones with the roses painted on them.

  Says I, How old are you?

  Sixteen, says she, nearly seventeen.

  Then she started crying again. She cried terrible hard. I don’t know why, but I felt like I should get on the bed beside her and put my arms around her, the way Mummy Noreen did for Mummy Joy, and the way Mummy Joy did for me. She went awful stiff when I lay beside her, and then she went all soft, and I could feel the bones of her.

  I started to sing to her. No song in particular, because I didn’t know any, just words I could remember from hearing the Mummies sing to each other. Esther must’ve minded something I sang, because she started then, too.

  The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want. He makes me down to lie.

  She couldn’t mind much more of the words, so she hummed them instead. I could feel her voice, my chest agin her back. Like it was my voice too, and we lay there a long time until we both fell asleep.

  Her crying out woke me up. She had tried to sit up, and the pain must have grabbed her awful hard, the way she was trying to claw at her back. I helped her get upright and she rested herself agin the wall. I went to my own bed and watched her, her face all twisted, breathing through her teeth. After a time, she got loose of the pain, and she looked back at me.

  Says she, How long have you been here?

  Always, says I.

  Were you born here?

  I think so, says I.

  Where’s your mummy?

  I pointed up the stairs.

  Says she, Which one?

  I shook my head.

  You don’t know?

  No, says I. I think maybe Mummy Joy, but I don’t know. Not for sure.

  I have to get out of here, says she.

  You can’t, says I.

  Says she, Why not? There has to be a way.

  They’ll kill us, says I.

  She went quiet, then, staring at me. After a time, she says, There has to be a way. I’ll get out and I’ll get the police and they’ll take you away from those men. You and the others.

  Says I, I saw a policeman one time. He came to the house. We had to be quiet till he went away.

  Says she, Why was he here?

  I don’t know, says I, he talked to Daddy Ivan for a minute then he went away. He had a big car. I liked the noise it made.

  She said it again. There has to be a way. And again, and again, she said it over and over like it would come true if she said it enough times.

  And here till I tell you, it did come true. I wish it hadn’t, but it did.

  13: Sara

  Sara felt her phone vibrate in her hip pocket. She shifted in the van’s passenger seat and reached behind to retrieve it. Checking the display, she saw it was Damien calling. Who else would it be? Past six o’clock, he’d be home by now, wondering where she’d gone. Even though she knew she would regret it, she refused the call.

  “When we get back,” she said, “I’ll get out on the lane. No need to come all the way in.”

  “No, sure I’ll drop you at the door,” Tony said. “That’ll be easier than trying to turn in the lane. I’d wind up in the river if I wasn’t careful.”

  She wanted to argue, but she couldn’t admit the reason she didn’t want him to bring her to the house. Not even to herself.

  “You know,” Tony said, “my granda used to collect local newspapers. The Irish News and the Belfast Telegraph, some of the smaller ones too. We found stacks of them after he died and we had to clear his house. There’s still a load of them in my mother’s attic. I could look and see if there’s any from around the time of the killings.”

  Sara wondered if she truly wanted to know more. She already knew she would not sleep tonight; she hadn’t slept since they’d moved in, not properly, and she doubted she ever would find rest in that house. As Tony turned the van into the lane that ran alongside the river, leading to the house, she imagined telling Damien she wanted them to sell the place and move.

  Walking on graves, she thought. The second time that day the idea had come to her mind, again unbidden. The van grew cold around her.

  “Should I?” Tony asked.

  Sara shivered and said, “Sorry?”

  “Dig out those old papers,” Tony said, steering between the gateposts, onto the drive, through the ash trees with their thinning leaves.

  Damien waited on the doorstep, watching them approach.

  “I asked you,” she said. “You didn’t offer.”

  “What?”

  “Tell him I asked you to take me into the village. You didn’t offer to take me.”

  She saw Tony from the corner of her eye, turning to look at her, and she knew she had revealed too much of herself. Too much of her marriage. More than she wanted to admit to herself. Shame withered her.

  As the van halted, Damien walked towards it, his right hand outstretched. He grabbed the passenger door handle, yanked it, but the door did not open. Sara saw the anger in his eyes. He gritted his teeth and pulled the handle once more, and again, making the van rock on its suspension.

  “Hang on,” Tony called, turning the ignition off. When the engine died, he pulled the key out, and the locks clunked.

  Damien opened the door and reached for Sara. “Come on,” he said, the smooth calm of his voice sparking fear in her.

  “Wait,” she said, grappling with the seat belt.

  Damien gripped her upper arm and dug his fingers into her flesh. A warning.

  “Here,” Tony said, releasing the seat belt’s clasp.

  Damien kept hold of Sara’s arm, his grip tightening, as she climbed down from the v
an. “Go on in the house,” he said, lifting the shopping bag from the footwell and placing it in her arms. His eyes met hers. “I’ll see you in there.”

  Sara made no attempt to argue and walked towards the open front door, her head down. She paused once, glanced back, and saw Tony looking back at her, the muscles in his jaw working. Inside, she left the door open a few inches and listened.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re at?” Damien asked, his voice rasping.

  Tell him I asked you, she thought, willing Tony to somehow hear the words.

  “Mrs. Keane asked me for a lift into the village,” Tony said, and Sara exhaled. “She said she needed a few things. It was no trouble.”

  “Your work’s not done,” Damien said. “There’s still wiring hanging from the walls.”

  “I’ve done all I can today,” Tony said. “I’m picking up the switch plates for the upstairs lights at the suppliers in the morning, and we’re still waiting on—”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Damien said, and Sara heard the van door slam.

  She hurried into the kitchen and set the bag on the island and began unpacking. The front door closed, and she turned to see Damien on the kitchen’s threshold.

  “Does your phone not work?” he asked, his voice low in his chest.

  She kept her own voice light, as if nothing was the matter, as if she could soothe him with reason. “Sorry I didn’t answer, we were just at the end of the road, so I knew I’d be back in a minute or—”

  “What are you doing, disappearing like that? I come home, you’re not here, what am I supposed to think?”

  “I told you we needed some things,” Sara said. “You wouldn’t let me have the car, so I asked—”

  “That fucking toerag?” Damien crossed the kitchen to her in three strides, and she backed into the island, her hands instinctively up. “You got into that piece of shit’s van so you could go for a wee ride?”

  “You wouldn’t let me have the car,” she said, fighting the quiver in her throat, “and we needed some things.”

  Less than an inch between them. She felt the heat of him. Smelled his breath.

  “What for?” he asked.

  “I wanted to make us dinner. For you. I wanted to cook for you.”

  He remained there, frozen in his anger, as seconds dragged by. Then he exhaled, the muscles in his jaws relaxing. The sliver of air between them expanded.

  “I’m going to Ma’s for dinner,” he said, taking a step back. “I need to go over some stuff with my da.”

  It crossed her mind to argue, point to the food she’d bought, but she knew better. Instead, she folded her arms around herself, nodded, and turned her gaze to the floor.

  “Don’t disappear like that on me again,” he said, placing his hands on her upper arms. He bent at the knees so he could look up at her. “I was worried, that’s all. You could’ve fallen in the river for all I knew. Just let me know next time. All right?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll see you later.”

  He kissed her forehead and left her there.

  Sara closed her eyes and listened to the front door close, the BMW’s ignition, the tyres on the gravel. Then screeching silence. The fingers of her left hand crept inside her right sleeve, found the bare, smooth flesh of her forearm.

  She knew she shouldn’t. She had promised she wouldn’t do it again.

  But she had to.

  Her nails dug into the skin. Bitten and stubbed as they were, they gripped and scratched. Brilliant pain flooded her mind, forcing out all else. The nails travelled along her skin, leaving bright streaks behind like comet trails. She scratched and dug until she could stand it no more.

  But it was not enough.

  She rolled up the sleeve of the hoodie Damien had given her that morning, brought her forearm to her mouth, and closed the flesh between her teeth. Lightning-bright pain, scorching and beautiful, a firebrand on her skin. She held the flesh there between her teeth for as long as she could bear, until the tears streamed from her eyes and damped her forearm.

  But it was not enough.

  Before the idea had fully formed, she reached for the plastic milk bottle on the island. It exploded on the floor, white liquid blooming across the stonework in firework patterns, splashing on her legs. Then she lifted the box of eggs, raised them over her head, cried out as she hurled it at the floor. Shell and yolk and white scattered through the milk. Finally, she swept the bag along with the rest of the groceries from the island’s worktop. Loose peppers and apples rolled against the cupboards.

  When it was done, and reason had returned, Sara wept.

  It took her two hours to clean the floor, the walls of the island, the cupboard doors, first mopping up the milk and egg yolks, then sweeping up the shells, and finally scrubbing the cracks in the stone. She had salvaged what she could of the food, cleaning whatever had been in contact with the floor, and stored it all away. She paused now and then, the hard edge of reality coming into view. The madness of what she’d done.

  She couldn’t let Damien know. He would say he was right about her, about the state of her mind. That she was coming undone again. He would talk about doctors and pills, ways to dull the blades that cut at her. She couldn’t face that. Not again.

  By the time the floor and cupboards were clean, her shoulders and back ached, and her knees felt as if a hammer had been taken to them. The kitchen had darkened around her, the sun low in the sky outside. She had to use the island to haul herself up on her feet, and her lower back complained at the effort. A deep quiet had settled over the house, and she imagined Damien at his parents’ home on the outskirts of Lurgan, his mother feeding him and tut-tutting about his own wife not putting a decent meal on the table for him.

  The quiet pressed in on her, and her own breathing seemed thunderous. Even the birds outside had fallen silent. She turned in a circle, her gaze moving from corner to corner, not lingering for fear of what she might catch a glimpse of. Nowhere in the living world could be so quiet.

  Walking on graves.

  The idea presented itself again, and she became aware of her own weight on the floor, and what lay beneath. She realised then that she had not wandered more than a few yards from this house since she had arrived here, the lanes and fields unexplored. Now the walls seemed too thick, the ceilings too low, the air inside too dense to breathe.

  A walk. Hadn’t she thought of that earlier? Yes, a walk.

  She went to the hall and the front door beyond, outside, feeling the chilled wet fabric of her jeans cling to her legs. Loose stones and gravel slipped beneath her feet as she headed for the gateway that led to the lane. She didn’t look back towards the house, and she knew she had left the front door open. Doesn’t matter, she thought. Just go.

  Cold out here. Sara shivered as she walked along the lane, avoiding the potholes and the seam of stubbled grass that ran along the centre. Through the hedgerow to her right, she saw the bank leading down to the river, the low evening sun reflecting gold on the sluggish water. She imagined wading in, letting the water swallow her. Letting it enter her, fill her up and drag her down to the bottom to rest in the silt and rocks.

  A heron glided along the river’s path, silent as the breeze, before dipping beyond her view. She wondered where it had landed. Ahead, a gap in the hedge. She pushed her way through and found herself at the top of the bank, a slope of thick grass and weeds dropping away below her. Another shiver coursed through her as the sun sank lower in the sky and the temperature fell along with it. She took a cautious step down, the soles of her trainers struggling for purchase. Then another, and then her feet slipped away from her and she slid down and down until she reached the bare, stony earth at the water’s edge.

  Mud and grass stains coated her jeans, grazes stung the heels of her hands. She cursed and got up on her h
ands and knees, her body still aching from cleaning the kitchen. If she stretched out her hand, she could touch the water. So she did, let the cold soothe the abrasions on her skin.

  Would it be so bad? Just crawl in, let the slow current take her.

  A sinful idea, a sin she had committed once before.

  The low sun’s reflection on the water pierced Sara’s vision, and she shaded her eyes with her free hand, looking out across the surface.

  There, a girl, looking back at her.

  A cry escaped Sara’s throat and she fell back against the earth and grass.

  The girl, aching beauty, fixed her stare on Sara. Submerged to her waist, she wore a plain white dress, her dark hair falling around her shoulders. In her hands, pressed to her belly, a tangle of scarlet ribbons. They trailed into the water, red tendrils threading out to Sara, inviting her.

  Reach out, Sara thought, take hold of one.

  But the water is so cold. Dark down there. The sun can’t reach.

  The girl did not shiver, showed no sign of the water’s chill.

  But Sara knew, she could feel it from here, the cold darkness, had felt it before.

  She got to her feet and took a step back, stones and earth shifting beneath her shoes. Shook her head, no.

  The girl stared, the calm on her face giving way to sorrow, fathoms deep. She lay back in the water, turning her face to the dimming sky. The water reclaimed her, pulling her down, no disruption on the surface save for the swirling scarlet ribbons, and soon they too were gone, leaving only the dying sun’s glare.

  Sara remained on the bank, the world darkening around her. She heard the river now, the whisper and sigh of it, and the birds in the trees and the hedges. Her breath quickened, her lungs pulling in air faster than she could expel it, filling her chest.

  “God,” she whispered. “Oh, God.”

  She turned and scrambled up the bank, slipping, sliding back, before finding her feet again. When she’d struggled to the top, her hands and knees wet with mud and grass stains, she dared one glance back down at the river. She saw only golden light on slow water, the heron wading in the shallows.