Dream House (14 page)

I pick up the receiver and dial it.

Ring ring.

Ring ring.

Ring ri—

“Hello,
Evening Hills
offices. How can I help you?”

After being passed back and forth from one person to another for a while, I eventually end up talking to somebody very helpful who lets me explain my request—a request for something which I hope will help Alfred realize that what
was
is now consigned, once and for all, to the past. As soon as I hang up, the exhaustion I've been accumulating for the whole day begins to make itself felt.

With leaden feet, I drag myself off to my bedroom, set the alarm, and let myself rest under the soft covers.

N
EITHER THE
pale morning sunlight coming through the window nor the alarm I set for half past nine before collapsing into bed last night manages to wake me, and by the time I've opened my eyes and looked at the clock it's closer to noon.

Without getting up, I lean over and tug the curtains open. Outside it's cloudy, but at least it looks calm.

I lie there in bed for a while. Obviously, I was even more tired than I'd realised.

It's strangely relaxing here, considering that the bed I'm lounging about in is inside a bedroom which belongs to two complete strangers who have mysteriously disappeared without leaving a trace, and that in the house my only human contact—I suppose I
can
still say that Alfred is human—is a spirit.

I know that my unwillingness to get up and face the day is at least in part because I know it's going to be a day of waiting for something to happen. Of waiting for the wheels that I set in motion last night to crank out a result.

And of hoping that the result is the one I want.

Eventually, the growling of my tummy gets so loud that I can't put getting up off any longer, though, so I haul myself out of bed and, still wearing the same fluffy pyjamas, walk down the corridor, putting my hair up in a bun as I go.

By the time I'm done, I find myself exactly where I want to be: in the kitchen.

I fill the kettle and put it on the hob, and when it's boiling I make myself some green tea. A quick rummage around in the cupboards reveals a packet of biscuits that I must have missed before, so I put a few on a plate and take them and my steaming mug over to the sofa.

I sit there slowly sipping away and nibbling on the delicious biscuits, listening to the slow, deep ticking of the grandfather clock and staring out of the French windows at the garden.

I could stay here all day.

It's like time doesn't exist.

Like it's not passing at all . . .

. . . until there's the sudden clattering sound of a bicycle being dumped on the pavement outside, and I hear someone banging the gate.

I look up at the clock—it's nearly five!

How can that be? I only just sat down here with my tea . . . but when I pick up the mug, it's stone cold.

With a shrug of impatience and frustration, I jump up, walk over to the front door, and unlock it. When I pull it open, the cold, fresh breeze caresses my cheeks.

I step outside onto the porch and race down the path, searching for the evening newspaper that should have just been delivered.

It's getting really foggy this evening, and my surroundings are so blurry that it's hard to see clearly. I walk barefoot down the path towards the gate and when I get there I'm relieved to find the paper I was waiting for wedged into one of its wrought-iron curlicues.

I pull it out and race back inside, my feet freezing from the icy flagstones, and once I'm indoors again I hold up the front page of the newspaper. There it is, right there: the article I need.

Feeling as though I finally have all the answers, I eat the last biscuit, wash it down with a swig of cold tea, and roll the paper up, tucking it securely under my arm as I head outside.

When I reach the shed I twist the door handle, but it appears to be locked from the inside, so I give a few loud, rapid knocks on the door.

It swings open immediately, and I gratefully bundle myself inside, out of the misty cold.

Before I can show the article to Alfred, however, he speaks.

“Sorry about that—it's a habit of mine. Nobody ever looks in here.”

“No worries,” I say, my mind on other, more pressing matters.

“Have you got some more questions for me?” he asks gently.

“No,” I reply, before adding quickly, as I see his expression grow sad, “I do believe that I might have some good news for you, though.”

He waits silently for me to explain myself, and so I unroll the newspaper I've been holding under my arm and pass it over to him. He holds it up in his strong hands, the paper crinkling between his tense fingers. There's confusion on his face, but it's also full of hope, and I study his expression, watching as his eyeballs flit across the words, until a small, lonely tear emerges, falling onto the dusty wooden floor.

When he's done reading, he turns the page to check if there's more, and realizing that that's all there is, he looks up at me and says, “Is this real?”

Suddenly gripped by worry about what his reaction is going to be, I step backwards, unable to reply to his question. Was I a fool to believe that just getting the paper to print an article about him would redeem him from the aftermath of such a life-altering tragedy? Is it possible that just reading the good things people have to say about Alfred Marshall won't have been enough to make him comprehend how much people in the village actually admired him?

The previous night I'd spent about an hour on the phone to a certain Miss Blake—one of the paper's young subeditors—explaining why
The Evening Hills
ought to collect local people's thoughts on Alfred and the Derfla legend. I'd managed to get her attention by explaining my point of view and pointing out a couple of things that hadn't really been given due consideration before.

She'd gone for the idea straightaway. She vaguely remembered the fire, she told me. In her early teens, she and her girlfriends had been
terrified
of the Derfla. Her grandmother had always said that it was awful to do that to somebody—turn him into a monster, even though the police had cleared him of any wrongdoing. Miss Blake hadn't even known that Alfred Marshall had hung himself, but she agreed that it wasn't right that the poor man's reputation should still be tarnished even after his death.

She'd agreed instantly to write an article based on the real facts about the man, and I was certain it would make him realize that by now people had moved on from the silly old legend which was holding him here in the mortal world, and that no one really blamed him for what happened—at least not anymore.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then Alfred suddenly launches himself towards me, arms wide open as if to attack me and a crazed look on his face.

Caught off guard, I back away, trying desperately to defend myself by throwing my flailing arms forward . . .

But before I know it, I find myself in the middle of what has to be the most awkward, yet probably the sweetest, hug I've experienced in my whole life.

I hug Alfred back and we stay like that, unmoving, for a few seconds. His big arms are squeezing me tightly, crushing me without meaning to, almost in a fatherly way—the same way a man would hug his little girl after not having seen her for a long time. I close my eyes, let my body relax, and think about what's coming next.

Crossing over.

I've read plenty over the last few days, all related to spirits, but not a single time have I stumbled across any details about the actual moment of crossing over itself. How does it happen? How can I possibly know if what I've done is enough to release a spirit?

As if Alfred is able to read my thoughts, he backs gently away from me, freeing me from that warm embrace. He brings his index finger to his lips and, gazing at the roof of the shed, he exhales a puff of air from the small gap between his lips, indicating I should keep quiet. I promptly grow attentive, unaware of what it is he might have heard.

His face is turned towards one of the small windows—the one that I stupidly broke during my irresponsible attempt to get inside—so I follow his lead and move closer to the other, which is still intact.

Outside, a blustery wind is shaking the trees and bushes in the garden. The sky has turned very dark, and is filled with churning black clouds which seem intent on swallowing us up.

There's something else too—a harsh cawing noise, distant but rapidly growing in volume.

I peer about worriedly, looking for its source.

And then, in a whirl of shiny black motion which appears to comes out of nowhere, an unkindness of ravens—scores of them—is suddenly spinning in a frantic circle above the shed, turning the already chilling atmosphere even more sinister.

The noise is absolutely deafening, but when I look over at Alfred I see that all his attention is still concentrated on what's happening outside.

One huge raven lands on the sill of the remaining window and, with a violent blow from its shiny beak, smashes the glass, sending me leaping backwards in fear. I run to take shelter behind Alfred—he doesn't flinch, but I can tell that in his head he's debating what to do.

He lets out a gasp and starts to raise his left hand, moving it slowly towards the doorknob.

I grab his arm, feeling my unease grow and becoming increasingly worried about Alfred's intentions.

“Don't go out there,” I say, my voice trembling. “We don't know what'll happen.”

“Well, we'll never find out if I don't,” he answers gently.

I'm still holding tightly onto his arm when he turns to me, his face calm and peaceful for the first time.

“Thank you, Amethyst.”

Accompanied by a sinking feeling comes the sudden realisation that this is the last time we two will speak to each other, and I start trying to wish him farewell—but nothing comes out of my mouth. So I just nod and concentrate on trying to keep my composure and hide the fact that my heart is fluttering madly.

He twists the handle, inviting the unwanted inside.

I don't move a single muscle, only watch intently as Alfred steps through the door, ready for whatever his destiny holds in store for him.

The screeching of the ravens intensifies, the sky gets darker still, the wind blows even more wildly, and for one brief, chaotic moment, all of the worst possible outcomes of what's happening start to play out in my mind—all the awful horrors that we might have released . . .

Only to be halted in their tracks by the appearance of an unexpected ray of blindingly bright sunlight.

It cuts through the clouds and strikes Alfred, illuminating his body, sculpting out its every contour.

For a second I can see him properly—I can see the real Alfred: a proud, dignified, handsome man, freed from the weight of guilt and shame that have been crushing him all these years. Even after his death.

At that very same moment, as though by some silent signal, the entire flock of ravens swoops down as one to perch, covering the ground, the tree branches, and the roof of the shed. The chaotic squawking and flapping noises vanish, and the atmosphere instantly grows peaceful.

I watch incredulously as the ray of unearthly light gradually softens my friend's form into nothingness.

An instant before his body fades completely away he manages to turn around and look me straight in the eyes, and he smiles. I take a mental picture of his happy face, happier than I've ever seen it before, looking for the first time at peace—as though the weight of the problems that had been keeping him bound to the earth was now dissolving, allowing him to fly away and return to his beloved family.

In what feels like both an eternal yet ephemeral moment of time, I feel as though I'm as light as the air itself.

Then, as one, the ravens take to the sky in a blizzard of wings, beaks, and claws, and the entire flock of them flaps silently off over the trees towards the hills.

I look at the lawn around me, strewn with inky-black raven feathers.

It truly is the quiet after the storm.

A
T LUNCHTIME,
I eventually roll out of bed. It's been a quiet, peaceful night—both as regards the weather and my mind. Right after Alfred crossed over, I seemed to just let go of everything, immersed in the happiness of the moment.

Carefully avoiding looking in the mirror, I take a hot, steamy shower before picking up my not-so-clean clothes from the floor, combing my hair back, and heading in the direction of the kitchen.

I walk calmly along the corridor, enjoying the sense of loneliness that comes from knowing that now it's all just about me. No more ghosts creating confusion. No more creepy nightmares.
Just me.

I reach for the same bowl I ate from during my first few days in the house, fill it with some milk—which I notice is coming up to its best-before date—then grab the last few cookies from the jar on the shelf and finish them off as well, filling up my empty stomach nicely.