by Nick Moseley
‘Right-o,’ said Trev.
‘Did you drive in today, Sarah?’ Helen asked.
‘Yes,’ Sarah replied.
‘Right, go a little bit early and Trev will give you an estate agent’s eye-view of the town.’ Helen looked across at Trev. ‘Sarah lives in Ropleton, so she doesn’t know Brackenford that well,’ she explained.
‘No problem,’ said Trev with a nod.
‘Go about half nine,’ Helen suggested. ‘Until then Sarah, sit with Barry and he’ll show you some sample sales particulars.’ Barry looked a lot more enthusiastic about this suggestion than Sarah did. ‘That’s it, then. Have a good day, everyone.’
Trev turned his attention back to his computer and finished going through his e-mails while trying not to laugh at Barry’s inept attempts at flirting. Phil packed up his laptop and headed off to his first valuation of the day.
Once his e-mails were dealt with, Trev sat and played a few sly games of solitaire on his computer until half past nine, then stood up and walked over to Barry’s desk.
‘Shall we?’ he said to Sarah, nodding toward the door.
‘OK,’ she replied, getting up from her seat and moving away from Barry with just a little too much haste.
‘Catch you later,’ said Trev, favouring the scowling Barry with a wink as he followed Sarah out of the door.
Sarah’s car was a tired blue Ford hatchback, which she had parked around the corner. They got in and Sarah started the engine, which grumbled into life at the third attempt.
‘Lead on, MacDuff,’ she said.
‘Pull out, then take the first left, that’s the High Street,’ said Trev, resisting the urge to correct Sarah's misquote. ‘I’ll show you the sights, such as they are.’ Sarah did as instructed, easing the Ford into the High Street traffic. Trev groped for something else to say. ‘So, what did you do wrong in a past life to end up at SmoothMove?’ he asked.
Sarah smiled. ‘I’ve been doing office admin work, but got bored with it,’ she replied. ‘Estate agency seemed like an interesting option, so...’ she shrugged.
‘Fair enough,’ said Trev. ‘Turn right here. How come you went for a job here, and not in Ropleton?’
Sarah thought for a moment. ‘Curiosity, I suppose. Ropleton’s the dullest place in Britain, whereas Brackenford has a more... interesting reputation.’
‘So they tell me,’ said Trev. ‘In practice it just means you’re more likely to get mugged in Brackenford than in most towns round here.’
‘Come on, there’s more to it than that,’ Sarah persisted. ‘What about all the spooky stuff? You know, the disappearances? The railway disaster? Weird sightings of, er, things?’
Trev shifted in his seat at the last comment, but quickly regained his composure.
‘Most of the stories are either wildly exaggerated or just plain old bullshit,’ he said. ‘It’s good for tourism, I suppose, but not much else. Yeah, there have been a few disappearances, but that happens everywhere. The railway disaster was an accident. And as for the sightings, well,’ he looked down at his hands, ‘I’ve lived in Brackenford my whole life and I’ve never seen anything. Anyone who says they have is either an attention-seeker or a bit doolally.’
So which one are you, then? quipped his mischievous brain.
‘You think so?’ said Sarah. She sounded disappointed.
‘I know so,’ said Trev. The car had left the town centre and was now moving along Boundary Road, which, as its name suggested, skirted around Brackenford. ‘Pull in here.’
Sarah brought the car to a stop in a lay-by. Trev got out, stepping over the accumulated litter at the kerb, and indicated that she should follow. There was a narrow path that led from the lay-by and around a nearby copse of trees.
‘Well if you want a bit of local spookiness, you can’t beat Hangman’s Pond,’ said Trev as they rounded the copse. A large pond lay beyond the trees, its smooth surface rippling slightly in the breeze. Thick clumps of wiry grass gathered around its edges and a lone weeping willow stood sentinel on the opposite bank. A very old, very worn sign was driven into the ground at the water’s edge. It read - barely legibly - DEEP WATER. NO SWIMMING. Despite its proximity to a main road, the area around the pond seemed inexplicably bleak.
‘I don’t think I fancy going for a dip in it,’ Sarah said. ‘But what’s so spooky about it?’
‘Years ago, this was where they brought people suspected of being witches,’ explained Trev. ‘They’d throw them in the water and stop them coming ashore. If they drowned, which a lot of them did because they couldn’t swim, then they were declared innocent. I’m not sure how much consolation that would’ve been.’ He smiled thinly. ‘If they managed to stay alive for a proscribed length of time, then obviously they must’ve been using dark powers to keep themselves afloat. So they got pulled out and hanged as witches, then and there.’ He gestured at the pond, which now looked even less inviting. ‘Hence the name, Hangman’s Pond. According to local legend, they did actually find one real witch, pretty much by accident I expect, and she’s supposed to have cursed the place.’ He sniffed. ‘I’ve always wondered why she bothered, because the curse seems to have had absolutely bugger all effect. In fact, if the witch-finders had known how rubbish her curses were they’d probably have let her off.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Well, in fairness to her a couple of kids have drowned here in recent years, but that’s what happens when you drink two litres of cheap cider and go for a midnight skinny-dip.’
‘For someone who doesn’t believe in spooky stories, you seem to be pretty well up on the subject,’ said Sarah, looking at Trev with a trace of amusement.
‘Blame my Granddad for that,’ replied Trev. ‘He lives and breathes this town. I had to put up with his local history lessons for years. His house is full of books, maps, photos and all sorts of other Brackenford-related crap.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, let’s get moving.’
They walked back to the car. Trev navigated Sarah around the outskirts of Brackenford, then back in toward their destination, Fancourt Street. On the way he pointed out a few more of the town’s notable areas and sights.
‘There are some really nice properties around here, lots of period stuff,’ he said. ‘You’ve no doubt seen the black-and-white Tudor buildings in the town centre, right? The tourists and big-city people love those. It’s an old town, this. Predates the Domesday Book by a long way.’ He pointed out of the window at some ugly pebble-dashed houses. ‘To balance things out there are couple of iffy council estates like that one, but that’s par for the course. House prices ought to be higher, and they would be if it wasn’t for the crime rate and, as you put it, the town’s “interesting reputation”. Left here, and pull in behind that red car.’ Sarah did so. ‘Welcome to Fancourt Street.’
They got out of the car. The house was a two-bed Victorian terrace, similar to the one Phil had valued the previous day but in better condition.
‘Do we wait outside?’ asked Sarah, hurriedly studying a copy of the house’s sales particulars.
‘No,’ replied Trev. ‘If you’re doing an accompanied viewing, always get there early. Open the curtains, switch on the lights. Try and make the place look as welcoming as possible.’ He jingled the keys. ‘Come on then.’
They mounted the steps and entered the house.
Four
The house was double-glazed and Fancourt Street was a quiet road, which meant that the interior of the property was completely silent when Trev and Sarah entered.
‘There’s a tenant, but he works during the day,’ said Trev. ‘He’s out on his ear once the house sells, so he’s not exactly helpful. The last time I did a viewing here he’d left his porn magazines lying around all over the lounge. I managed to pick them up and hide them, but I didn't have time to check upstairs, so I missed one.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘The people I was showing round were an elderly couple. They went into the master bedroom and got an eyeful of Beautiful Big Butts magazine, volume four if memory serves, whic
h the tenant had left open on the bed.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Sarah, trying to look shocked but stifling a laugh. ‘What happened?’
‘The old boy’s face lit up like Christmas and he went in for a closer look,’ recalled Trev. ‘At which point his missus clouted him around the head with her handbag and dragged him out of the house by his tie.’
‘Oops,’ said Sarah.
‘“Oops” pretty much covers it,’ agreed Trev. ‘The moral of the story is this: the tenant here is a bastard. And also, don’t forget to do a quick once-over of the whole property before the viewing. I’ll take the upstairs, you take downstairs.’
Sarah nodded. ‘OK.’
Trev jogged up the stairs and onto the upper landing. The master bedroom was on the left, and he went in for a cursory look. This was the bedroom the tenant used, so Trev expected the worst. To his surprise the room was very tidy, and no dirty magazines were on show. The carpet looked as if it had been recently vacuumed, there were no clothes scattered about the place like there usually were, and there was even a pretty vase of flowers on the windowsill.
In fact the only thing that spoiled the overall effect was the life-size inflatable woman tucked up in the bed.
‘If I ever get to meet this tenant I’m going to kick him in the knackers,’ muttered Trev, dragging the doll out from under the covers and shoving it beneath the bed.
Satisfied that everything else was in order, Trev moved on to the bathroom. The only fly in the ointment there was a pair of discarded underpants lying on the floor. Not wanting to touch them, Trev used the tenant’s toothbrush to pick them up and gingerly carried them back to the master bedroom, where he kicked them under the bed to join the doll.
Back in the bathroom, he dipped the toothbrush in the toilet before returning it to its glass by the washbasin. ‘That’ll learn him,’ he said, with some satisfaction.
Trev then moved along the landing to the second bedroom, checking his watch as he did so. There were still a couple of minutes to spare before the prospective buyers were due to arrive.
He opened the bedroom door and stepped over the threshold. He knew from past visits that the second bedroom was unused; it contained just an old single bed and a battered wardrobe that appeared to be held together with a mixture of mismatched nails, duct tape and prayer.
A glance told him that was still the case, and it looked mercifully as if the room was free of any practical jokes. Trev took another step into the room, intending to open the curtains, but as he did so his eyes were drawn toward the corner of the room where the wardrobe stood.
There was a patch of very deep shadow there. Trev’s stride faltered. The pool of darkness appeared to be swelling and contracting, almost as if it were breathing. Trev stopped and stood transfixed, his eyes bulging.
The darkness continued to pulsate. It looked to Trev like some malignant cocoon that was about to burst open, and he shied away from the thought of what might emerge if it did. He felt he ought to do something, to somehow stop the shadow from releasing whatever was trapped within it, but both his brain and body seemed to have ground to a halt.
As he stood there, frozen, he began to hear a strange, faint rushing sound. It was a few moments before he realised that it wasn’t a rushing sound at all. It was the whispering of voices, hundreds or even thousands of them. It was impossible to distinguish the words being spoken, but nonetheless he sensed excitement in the voices, a kind of malevolent eagerness about them.
And then, among the whispers, he heard a low, unpleasant laugh that made his whole body shudder.
Trev’s right arm shot out like a piston and he hit the light switch with his fist so hard he skinned his knuckles, drawing blood. The room was instantly flooded with light and the misshapen, pulsing shadow disappeared, taking the whispering voices with it.
In three steps Trev was across the room and pulling the curtains open as far as they would go. He stared out of the window at the daylight, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
This is it, I’m cracking up, he thought. Time to get measured for one of those stylish jackets with the sleeves that tie up the back, so I can give myself a big hug while I’m relaxing in my comfy padded room.
With a concerted effort, he tore his eyes away from the window and back towards the corner by the wardrobe. It was empty, with nothing more frightening in it than a dusty cobweb and a couple of mouse turds.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right.’ He turned and walked from the room, though rather less casually than he would’ve liked.
Sarah was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
‘You took your time,’ she said, then saw Trev’s face. ‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a gh-’
‘I’m fine,’ Trev cut in. ‘Just a little off-colour this morning, that’s all.’ He straightened his tie, feeling his pulse-rate beginning to drop back down towards normal. ‘How are things down here?’
‘Well there was a big photograph of a very, er, uninhibited woman stuck to the fridge, which I took down,’ Sarah replied. ‘And an inflatable sheep in the back garden.’
‘An inflatable sheep? What the hell was that doing there?’ Trev asked.
Sarah shrugged. ‘Grazing, I suppose.’
‘Smart-arse,’ said Trev. ‘What did you do with it?’
‘I was going to put it in the shed, but it was locked. So I threw it over the fence into next door’s garden,’ said Sarah with a guilty expression.
‘Well they say the grass is always greener on the other side,’ remarked Trev. The door-bell rang. ‘Right, we’re on. Just watch what I do and try to get a feel for things.’
Sarah nodded. Trev went to the door and opened it, his face splitting into a wide smile. The buyers were a couple he judged to be in their late twenties. Trev hadn’t met them before in person, but he’d spoken to the woman on the phone at some length the previous day, mostly about things that were nothing whatsoever to do with property. Trev had eventually interrupted her monologue about how fantastic her best friend’s new carpets were to say that he was very sorry, but he had to go to a viewing and would see her the following day.
‘You must be Ian and Annabel,’ he said, shaking their hands. ‘I’m Trev, we spoke on the phone yesterday. Come on in.’
Trev ushered them inside. Ian was tall and muscular, with very short hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least twice. He was wearing a rugby shirt with the collar turned up, which gave the impression that he had no neck. His face wore a vacant expression with just a hint of confusion.
Annabel was at least a foot shorter than her boyfriend, with shoulder length brown hair that had been styled into twin plaits. She wore a businesslike blouse and skirt, and her piercing eyes regarded the hallway through designer-framed glasses. She was clutching a selection of interior design brochures, which Trev would usually have regarded as a positive sign. In Annabel’s case, however, he was worried that she might’ve brought them along just to talk about.
‘This is my colleague Sarah,’ said Trev. ‘She’s here for a look around as she’s new with us.’
‘First day,’ said Sarah with a smile.
‘Really? Aw, bless,’ said Annabel, giving Sarah’s arm a patronising squeeze. Sarah’s smile became fixed.
‘Right then,’ said Trev, hurriedly. ‘This is the hallway. You’ve got access to the lounge on your right, with the kitchen-slash-dining room straight ahead, past the stairs. All the carpets here are pretty new by the way, only a couple of years old.’
Annabel looked down. ‘Well, we’d probably take them up anyway,’ she said. ‘My friend Samantha has just had some wonderful carpets put in, you should see them, they really are–’
‘Shall we have a look at the lounge?’ said Trev, interrupting before she could get into full flow.
‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Annabel. Ian shrugged absently.
They moved into the lounge. The owner had kept the decor neutral, so the room was something of a b
lank canvas. Annabel began rifling through her brochures, holding them up to compare wallpaper styles.
‘Well we could have a nice flocked wallpaper on three walls, this one perhaps,’ she stabbed a finger at one of the brochures which showed a number of wallpaper styles, most of which made Trev’s eyes water, ‘and use the fireplace area as a feature wall, painted a dramatic colour, like orange or purple, and hang paintings on it.’ She made a tah-dah gesture as if this idea was little short of genius. ‘What do you think?’
Trev thought it would be an expensive way to spoil a perfectly good room, but he said: ‘I like your thinking,’ with a thoughtful nod. He gave Sarah a meaningful look.
‘Oh, er, yes,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve got something there. Definitely.’
Ian shrugged.
Annabel beamed. ‘I should do this for a living!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve always had a natural talent for design. My friend Samantha says that–’
‘Well, let’s move on through to the kitchen,’ said Trev, leading the way.
The “kitchen-slash-dining room” was spacious and airy with a large window that looked out onto the back garden. Like the lounge it was decorated in neutral colours.
‘This is a nice room, isn’t it?’ commented Annabel.
Ian shrugged.
‘Some real potential here, for someone with your eye for design,’ said Trev, as Annabel shuffled through her brochures.
‘You’re so right,’ she said, ‘you could do anything with this room. Look at this, there’s a company in Birmingham that makes kitchen appliances and units in all sorts of great colours.’ She spotted something and almost squealed in delight. ‘Amazing! They do a whole range in lilac, even the cooker! Isn’t it gorgeous?’
‘Certainly is,’ said Trev.
‘Absolutely,’ said Sarah, following his lead again.
Ian shrugged.
Trev turned his attention away from Annabel’s brochure and looked out of the window. To his consternation he saw that one of the neighbours was out in his garden. I hope that’s not the side Sarah threw the inflatable sheep over, he thought. His worst fears were confirmed when the man turned and walked towards the fence with a puzzled expression on his face. He bent down, disappearing from sight, only to pop back up again with the offending object in his grasp. Trev noted with a sort of horrified amusement that the sheep had a pink bow around its neck, and appeared to be wearing red lipstick.
