by Alice Feeney
The third match I strike briefly illuminates part of the wall, and I notice all the scratch marks on the surface. It looks like someone, or something, once tried to claw their way out of here.
I try to stay calm, remember to breathe, but then the flame burns the tips of my fingers and I drop the final match on the floor.
Everything is black.
And then I hear it again. My name being whispered. Right behind me.
Amelia. Amelia. Amelia.
My breaths are too shallow, but I can’t control them and I think I’m going to faint. No matter what direction I look in, all I can see is darkness. Then I hear the sound of scratching.
Adam
It takes far longer than it should to find Amelia’s inhaler.
Her asthma attacks are few and far between, but I always think it is best to be prepared for the worst. Life made me think that way and I’m better off for it. Looking for my wife’s handbag is never an easy task – even for her – but trying to guess where she might have left it in an unfamiliar building, in complete darkness, is something which takes time. Time I know she doesn’t have. When I finally feel the leather bag, I find the inhaler inside, and rush back to the trapdoor. Bob has started scratching at the wood, and I can hear Amelia crying.
‘You need to find the steps,’ I say.
‘What do you think I’m trying… to do?’
She can’t breathe.
‘OK, I’ll come down.’
‘No! Don’t, you’ll… fall.’
‘Stop talking and focus on your breathing. I’m coming.’
I feel my way slowly, one foot connecting with one step at a time, the sound of Amelia’s panicked breathing guiding me in the darkness. I find her against the opposite wall from where she needed to be, and put the inhaler in her trembling hands. She shakes it and I hear two puffs. Then the power comes back on, the fluorescent tube on the ceiling flickers back to life, and the crypt is bathed in ghostly light.
‘There must be a generator,’ I say, but Amelia doesn’t answer. Instead she just clings to me and I wrap my arms around her. We stay like that for a long time and I feel oddly protective of her.
What I should feel is guilt, but I don’t.
Amelia
He holds me and I let him, while I wait for my breathing to return to normal. I think about what the marriage counsellor asked at our very first session. ‘Call me Pamela’ – as Adam nicknamed her – always sounded as though she knew what she was talking about, but I confess my confidence in her dwindled a little once I discovered she’d been divorced twice herself. What does marriage mean to you? I remember how she purred the question and I remember Adam’s answer. Marriage is either a winning lottery ticket or a straitjacket. He thought it was funny. I didn’t.
He kisses me on the forehead, gently, as though scared I might break. But I’m tougher than he realises. Cleverer too. The kiss feels antiseptic, nothing more than something to soothe.
‘How about we take this bottle to bed?’ he asks, picking up the Malbec and holding my hand as he leads me out of the crypt. Sometimes it is best to let people think you will follow them, until you are certain that you won’t be lost on your own.
There is a circular wooden staircase in the middle of the library lounge, leading up to what must have been a first-floor balcony when this was still a chapel. I’m guessing the woodwork is all original, it certainly looks it, and every second step creaks in a rather theatrical way. Bob charges ahead, trotting up the stairs, almost like he knows where he is going.
I can’t help but stare at the pictures we pass on the whitewashed stone walls. The series of framed black-and-white portraits starts at the bottom of the staircase, and winds all the way to the top, like a photographic family tree. Some of the pictures have almost completely faded, bleached of life by sunlight and time, but the newer ones – closer to the first floor – are in good condition, and even look a little familiar. I don’t recognise the faces in them, though. And there is no point in asking Adam, who doesn’t even recognise his own in the mirror. I notice that three frames are missing; discoloured rectangular shapes and rust-coloured nails remain where they used to hang.
A red carpet held in place with metal rods runs up the middle of the stairs – unlike the cold flagstone flooring downstairs – and they open out onto a narrow landing. There are four doors in front of us. All of them are closed and look exactly the same, except for one which has a red DANGER KEEP OUT sign hanging on its handle. There is a tartan dog basket in front of it, along with a typed note like the one we found in the kitchen when we first arrived:
No dogs in the bedroom.
Please.
We hope you enjoy your stay.
The word ‘please’ seems like an afterthought and a little passive-aggressive on a new line all by itself, but perhaps I’m reading too much into it. Bob sniffs the bed, wags his tail, and sits down contentedly as though it were his own. My dog doesn’t suffer from separation anxiety the way I do, and – unlike me – he can sleep anywhere, anytime.
‘Well, that’s him taken care of. Didn’t the note earlier say that one of the bedrooms had been made up for us?’ Adam says.
‘Yes, but I can’t remember which.’
‘Only one way to find out.’
He tries each of the available doors, which are all locked, until the final one opens with a dramatic creak to match the soundtrack of the stairs. Along with the howling wind outside, it’s enough to give anyone a dose of the heebie-jeebies.
‘This place could really do with some WD-40,’ Adam says turning on the light, and I follow him inside the room.
I’m shocked by what I see.
The bedroom looks just like ours at home. Not a carbon copy – the furniture is different – but the bed is covered with the same pillows, blankets and throws. And the walls have been painted in the exact same shade: Mole’s Breath by Farrow and Ball. I redecorated as a surprise a couple of years ago, and I’ll never forget how much Adam hated it.
We both stand and stare for a moment.
‘I don’t understand what I’m seeing,’ I whisper.
‘I suppose it does look a bit like ours—’
‘A bit?’
‘Well, we don’t have stained-glass windows in London.’
‘This is too strange.’
‘We don’t have a grandfather clock either,’ he says, and that’s true. The antique-looking clock in the corner of the room is completely out of place, and the sound of it ticking seems to get louder in my ears.
‘Adam, I’m serious. Don’t you think this is all a bit weird?’
‘Yes and no. They probably just got the idea from the same place as you. Didn’t you buy everything in our bedroom from one company because you got a fifty per cent discount in the sale? You fell in love with a picture of a bedroom in their brochure, and literally bought it all. I definitely remember the credit card bill. Maybe whoever owns this place did the same?’
What he’s saying is true. I did fall in love with a picture of a bedroom in a brochure, and I did buy almost everything in it, despite the ridiculous price tags. I suppose it isn’t beyond the realms of possibility that whoever renovated the chapel has similar taste. The place has been beautifully decorated, despite every surface being covered in dust. Which makes me notice that – unlike the rest of the property – the bedroom is spotless. I can even smell furniture polish.
‘It’s clean,’ I say.
‘Surely that’s a good thing?’
‘All the other rooms were dusty and—’
‘Maybe we should replace our table lamps with these at home?’ Adam says, interrupting me and lighting one of the old-fashioned candlestick holders by the bed. He had a box of matches in his pocket, like he knew they would be here. As they start to flicker and cast shadows around the room, I can’t help thinking that they look borrowed from the set of A Christmas Carol. ‘They’ve still got the price stuck to the bottom. They look so old, but they must be new,’ he says, lift
ing one.
‘It all feels so… unauthentic, as if we’re in a film of our lives, and someone just dressed the set with cheap replicas of the originals.’
‘I think they’re cool.’
‘I think they’re a fire hazard.’
I open another door and find a bathroom that looks nothing like ours at home. Everything is genuinely old, and there are marks on the wall and floor where I’m guessing a claw-foot bath used to be. It was the same in the restroom downstairs – no bath, just an empty space where one clearly once stood. There is mildew on the wall tiles and sink. When I turn on the taps, there is a strange sound but nothing happens.
‘I suspect the pipes might be frozen,’ Adam says from the bedroom.
‘Great. I was hoping to take a hot shower,’ I reply coming out to join him. The room is now only lit with candlelight, and it does feel cosier. I notice that he’s opened the wine and poured two glasses. I want to enjoy it this time, so go to pull the blinds, still a little creeped out that someone might have been outside watching us earlier. There is an old radiator below the window, but it’s freezing cold which explains why I am.
‘There are other ways I can think of to keep warm,’ Adam says, wrapping his arms around my waist and kissing my neck.
It’s been a while since I have slept with my husband.
It was different when we first got together – we couldn’t keep our hands off each other back then – but I’m sure that’s the case for a lot of couples. It sounds daft having been married for so long, but the thought of taking my clothes off fills me with dread. My body doesn’t look like it used to.
‘I’m just going to freshen up,’ I say, taking something from the overnight bag before retreating to the bathroom. ‘Check under the bed for ghosts while you wait.’
‘Then what?’
‘Wait longer.’
With the door closed between us, I start to feel calmer again. More in control. I pretend not to know why I am so nervous about being intimate with my own husband, but it’s one of those little white lies I tell myself. Just like we all do. I stand barefoot on the cold tiled floor in the unfamiliar bathroom, and stare at the woman in the mirror, then I look away as I remove the rest of my clothes. The new black silk-and-lace nightdress I bought just for this trip doesn’t turn me into someone else, but it might help turn him on. Is it wrong to want to be desired by the man I married?
I open the bathroom door, attempting to look sexy as I step out from behind it, but I needn’t have bothered. The bedroom is empty. Adam is gone.
Adam
Doesn’t a KEEP OUT sign make everyone want to see what’s behind it? And I’ve always been rather attracted to danger.
I know Amelia will take forever to ‘freshen up’ in the bathroom and I’m bored waiting. So I take a sip of wine, then step back out onto the landing to see if Bob wants to keep me company. But he’s already sound asleep. And snoring.
That’s when the DANGER KEEP OUT sign catches my eye and I just can’t resist trying the door handle it is hanging on. Surely nothing that dangerous could really be lurking behind it. All the other doors up here were locked, but when I turn the knob, this one opens. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I suppose I’d hoped for something more exciting than a narrow wooden staircase leading upwards. I can see another door at the top of it. Bob has opened one eye and grumbles in my direction. But curiosity killed the cat, not the dog or the man, and now I really want to know what’s at the top of the stairs.
There’s no light, so I grab one of the candles from the bedroom, then make my way up. One creaky step at a time. I feel something touch my face in the gloom, and imagine tiny fingers, but it’s just cobwebs. I guess nobody has cleaned this part of the house for a long time either. I’m anticipating that the door at the top of the forbidden stairs will be locked. But it isn’t. As soon as I open it, a huge gust of wind blows out the candle and almost knocks me off my feet.
The bell tower.
The Arctic air outside feels like a slap in the face, but the view from the top of the chapel is spectacular. I feel like I can see the whole world from up here – the valley, the loch, the mountains in the distance, all lit by a fat full moon. The snow has stopped, finally, and the clouds have parted to reveal a black sky decorated with stars. The bell – which is considerably bigger than it looks from the ground – is surrounded by four knee-high white walls. There is no safety rail and barely enough room to sidestep around the main attraction, but it’s worth the risk to take in the three-sixty-degree view from every possible angle.
As I look up at the night sky, it seems almost inconceivable to me that something so magical is always there. We’re all too busy looking down to remember to look up at the stars. It makes me sad when I think about all the things I might have already missed out on in life, but I plan to change that.
I take my phone out of my pocket to take a picture – the phone my wife thinks is still at home in London. I felt sick when I saw her remove it from the car glovebox before we left, before hiding it in the house. I felt even worse when she lied about where it was, blaming me for leaving it behind. She’s been behaving strangely for months and now I know I haven’t been imagining it.
Amelia went to see a financial advisor recently. She didn’t tell me about it until after the event. Said that I spent too much time worrying about the past, and that she wanted to better prepare for the future. I didn’t realise at first that she meant hers, not ours. What other explanation is there for her setting up life insurance in my name and asking me to sign it when she thought I was drunk a couple of weeks ago?
‘I just think we’re at an age where we need to plan ahead,’ she said, after eleven on a school night with a pen in her hand.
‘I’m only forty.’
‘And what if something happened to you?’ she persisted. ‘I couldn’t afford to pay for a big house in Hampstead Village by myself on my salary. Bob and I would be homeless.’ The dog – on hearing his name – looked at me then, as if he was in on it.
‘You wouldn’t be homeless. Worst case scenario, you might have to downsize…’
She shook her head and held the pen towards me. I signed the paperwork, because I was too tired to argue and because my wife is one of those women who is difficult to say no to.
Maybe it’s because her parents died when she was born, or perhaps it’s because of all the sad things she sees at work almost every day, but Amelia thinks about death more than I think is normal. Or healthy. Especially now that she seems so preoccupied with mine.
My wife is planning something, I’m sure of it. I just don’t know what.
And I’m not having a mid-life crisis.
That’s what she keeps accusing me of lately.
I suspect everyone reaches an age where they start to question what they’ve achieved in life. Whether the choices they’ve made were the right ones. But I also believe that what I do – telling stories – is important. Stories teach us about our past, enrich our present, and can predict our future. But then I would say that. The words I have written are all that will remain of me when I’m gone.
Actors and directors get all the glory in my business, and most of my career has been spent adapting other people’s novels, but those are my words that you hear when you watch a TV show or film that I worked on. Mine. I didn’t even read the book I was asked to adapt last year. I decided that – one way or another – the story that got made was going to belong to me. The producer on the show said she loved my version more than the novel and I was ecstatic. Briefly. But then she asked for changes because that’s what these people do. So I made them and gave in the next draft. Then the director asked for changes, because that’s what they do. Fast forward a few months and even one of the actors asked for changes, because of course they know the characters better than I do, even though they came from my head. So even though I swear my third or fourth draft was much better than their final version, I made the changes because if I hadn’t, I would have bee
n fired, and some other shmuck would have replaced me. Because that’s how this business works.
My life feels the same as my work, with people always wanting to change me. It started with my mother. When my dad left, she worked double shifts at the hospital to raise me and keep a roof over our heads. We lived on the thirteenth floor of a block of flats on a South London council estate. We didn’t have much, but we always had enough. She used to tell me off for watching too much TV when she was working – said my eyes would turn square – but there wasn’t much else to do that didn’t involve getting into trouble. She preferred to see me reading, so I did, and for my thirteenth birthday she gave me thirteen books. They were all special editions by authors I loved as a boy, and I still have them now, on a little shelf in the shed where I write. She wrote a note in a first edition of my favourite Stephen King novel: Enjoy the stories of other people’s lives, but don’t forget to live your own.
She died three months later.
I left school when I was sixteen because I had to, but I was always determined to make her proud. Everything I’ve done since then was about trying to become someone she wouldn’t want to change.
I had a string of girlfriends who tried to change me, too, but couldn’t, until I met my wife. For the first time in my life, I found someone who loved me for being me, and didn’t want to change who that was. I could finally be myself and write my own story, without fear of being abandoned or replaced. Maybe that’s why I loved her so much, in the beginning. But marriage changes people whether they like it or not. You can’t unbreak an egg when you’ve already whisked it into an omelette.
I try to shake the negative thoughts from my mind and concentrate on the view. Being this high up reminds me of living on the thirteenth floor as a kid. At night when I couldn’t sleep – the flat had thin walls – I would open my bedroom window as far as it would go and stare up at the night sky. The thing I remember most were the planes – I’d never been on one. I used to count them, and imagine all those people clever enough, lucky enough, and rich enough to be flying away somewhere different to me. I felt trapped, even then. Unlike the view from a block of flats in London, there are no buildings in any direction here, no sign of life at all, and everything is covered in snow, bathed in moonlight. We are truly alone here, which was what Amelia wanted.
