The Unquiet House (7 page)

There was no one there, had never been anyone there. She’d heard the sound of the radio and that was all because she had done this to herself. It was just her and her own stupidity, and now she was stuck and she had to
think
.

She sat with her back to the door, running her hand across her face. She’d propped the rail against the wall and now it had fallen across the door. It must have jammed behind the boxes. She tried to replay the sounds she’d heard: the scrape and slide of something against the plaster, the duller thud as it came to rest.

And the door handle? She tried to picture the rail somehow catching under it and preventing it from turning, but she couldn’t. She remembered that feeling, the way she’d
sensed
somebody standing there, gripping it from the other side, and she tossed her head, trying to dislodge the thought. Now she really was being fanciful. No one was there; this was a problem of her own making, only that, and she was the one who would have to get out of it.

She’d simply have to push harder, hard enough to move the door and the rail and the pile of boxes that was keeping them in place.

She knew it was useless before she even tried.

She’d been so enthusiastic when she’d carried everything up the stairs. The books had been the worst. The boxes had grown heavier in her arms as the day wore on, until she’d been stopping to rest each one on the stairs partway up. Now they were stacked outside, all in a pile, and they were
heavy
…

No. It
had
to be possible. They couldn’t be
that
heavy, could they?

She reached above her head and held the handle down and pushed backwards with her whole body, trying to brace her legs against the floor. Her feet slid over the worn carpet, but whatever was on the outside of the door
didn’t
slide, didn’t even move. She screwed up her face, but stopped herself. She wasn’t going to cry. It wouldn’t help. She knew that from before; she’d allowed herself to cry at the funeral and then made herself stop and she knew she couldn’t allow herself to start again, because then she
wouldn’t
stop, there’d only be the pit and blackness and despair …

My God, my God
…

The DJ was talking again, some burble that no longer sounded like language. It didn’t make sense any more, nothing did. There was only this narrow room and no way out of it, no way back. She hid her face in her arms, as she had when she was a little girl afraid of the dark.

She shook her head, trying to shake loose the negative thoughts, and pushed against the door once more, as hard as she could, but it was no use. She’d given it all she had and it still hadn’t moved an inch. She curled her hand into a fist and hit the wood, hard, a resounding blow. What the hell was she going to do? No one was going to come – no one even knew she was here. Even Charlie had gone. She was due at work tomorrow; she had to get out of here before then – she had to
sleep
before then, in her own bed, or she’d be useless. They’d be angry with her.

She took a couple of steps back, then paced forward; moved back, then forward. She thought suddenly that maybe she wouldn’t make it into work at all. She might still be stuck in here, not even able to call them. No: surely that wouldn’t happen? At least, if it did, she would be missed. They’d come looking for her, wouldn’t they?

At the address she’d given them when she took the job: the address in Leeds
.

She made a choking sound, but fought it back. It was bad enough she’d got herself stuck in here; she wasn’t going to sound pathetic too. That would mean she’d given up. It would mean she’d failed.

She had to find something to use as a lever, something to force her way out. She looked around, though she could see nothing. She reached out, touched a cloth she’d left on the shelf,
a useless lumpen thing. And there was the bottle of bleach, and a bowl of dirty water. There was nothing else …

That wasn’t true: there
was
something else. She couldn’t see where the pipe had fallen but she knew it was there. She lowered herself to the floor yet again, and had to force herself to put out her hand, to run it over that grimy carpet. When she touched the wood, smoothed by someone else’s hand, she caught her breath.

She bent and tried to slip the stem of the pipe under the door. She wasn’t really sure how it would help, but anyway the mouthpiece –
the thing he’d held between his lips, slid under his tongue
– jammed against the floor. She cupped the bowl in her palm, feeling the old grain close against her skin. The stem wouldn’t fit into the narrow gap. She forced it anyway, and after a moment, she felt the pipe give. It twisted in her hand, almost as if it were a living thing, and then it cracked. She pulled her hand away. The pipe had splintered; it was useless.
Useless
. The shards were sharp. She flung it back into the corner and it banged against the wall and she heard something spatter dryly across the carpet. Then she smelled it, deep and rich in her throat. She had a sudden image of the man she’d seen, looking for his pipe as well as his suit, throwing open the door and finding her instead.

But no one did open the door. No one came.

She realised she was thirsty and she thought at once of that bowl of greying water on the shelf, the scum floating in it, the bubbles of bleach. She imagined being stuck in here so long she was desperate enough to sip the caustic liquid and she bit back a laugh.

My God
.

Her head was beginning to ache. She put a hand to her forehead and realised it was throbbing in time to the music. The DJ was playing something older still now, softer and somehow mocking, and she thought,
I’ll turn that damned thing down
, and she screwed up her face as Buddy Holly began to sing ‘It Doesn’t Matter Anymore’. She sat there, focusing on nothing, thinking of nothing, resolutely forcing herself not to cry.

*

It was the tone of the music that roused her, a subtle change she hadn’t even noticed at first. She wasn’t sure what had been playing before but now the tone was crackly and distant, as if she was listening to an old scratched record, not the constant prattle of the radio DJ and a stream of modern pop songs. She didn’t recognise this. It was Big Band music, a jaunty, endless tune. She wasn’t sure there were any words, but then a wavering voice began to sing, the voice cut-glass, the sound fragile, almost as if at any moment it might break.

She let her head tilt back. The light under the door, low as it was, was fading. The music didn’t fade, though; it swelled around her, and it was
right
, somehow, for the way the house felt. It was
old
. She imagined those notes moving through the empty corridors, reaching the drawing room downstairs where people had once danced, taking each other in their arms and spinning, spinning, across the floor.

She opened her eyes onto the tight black space within the cupboard and closed them again. She was hungry; dull pains in her stomach were echoing the ones in her head. No one had come: of course, no one had come. Emma was alone: that was the way it was, the way it would stay, for ever and ever, amen.

Her throat hurt. She thought of the bowl.
Thirsty
.

No: someone must come. Someone would surely come.

After a while she curled up on the floor. It was cold there, and hard. She had no idea what time it was. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. It wouldn’t hurt any more if she could only sleep.

*

Emma lifted her head and listened to the sound of footsteps outside the door. Someone was walking about the room. The music was still playing, but the sound was distant, as if it were coming from a long way away. It could be the middle of the night, but she had no way of telling. It went around and around and the footsteps moved with it. Now she imagined two people, and in her mind they were dancing. She opened her mouth to speak, but somehow she didn’t make a sound; she didn’t want to – she didn’t want to see who was out there, didn’t want them to see her.

The sound cut off suddenly, music and footsteps and all, and there was only her own rasping breath. Her throat was dry. The feeling was coming back into her limbs, pins and needles where her arm had been trapped beneath her, soreness in her hip from lying on the floor, pain in her hand where she’d banged it against the door. Her head was the worst, the ache dull and
heavy
; she couldn’t think. Silence was thick in the air and all around her, pressing in close.

There had never been any sound, never been anyone there. She must have been dreaming.

After a moment she lowered her head again and she slept.

*

Eventually, the light came back. In the distance she could hear a dull
beep-beep-beep
and she realised that her mobile phone was ringing somewhere.

Dad
, she thought, and shook her head. No, not him. Not now, not ever again.

She pulled herself up, her limbs stiff and cold. There was more light coming under the door. Her head felt a little clearer. It was simple, wasn’t it? Door, rail, boxes: all she had to do was move them. Had she really spent the night in here?

She’d turn the handle and the door would open, just like that. She turned it, paused, and pushed. The door didn’t move. She thought of the dirty cloth, the bowl with its dirty water. She needed the loo. Soon she would need it badly. At least if she had to go to the toilet in the silly little bowl she wouldn’t be so tempted to raise it to her lips; to close her eyes and drink.

*

The sound was small at first, and yet familiar to her now. It felt, on some level, as if she’d been hearing it on and off for hours, though when she tried to think, she couldn’t identify when it had started. It was footsteps: footsteps on the stairs.

She half-sat, staring into the darkness. It didn’t matter, wouldn’t help: it was the old man, that was all, looking for his suit or his pipe. He’d never really find them because he wasn’t really there. He wouldn’t be there again tomorrow or the next day; it didn’t matter how many times she heard him or saw him.

She shook her head. The footsteps were coming up the stairs: slow this time, very slow.

‘Emma?’

She frowned. The voice was quiet, so low she wasn’t sure she’d heard it. How did the ghost know her name? Did it know
her
, really – had it been watching her all along? Then recognition came, and with it a flood of warmth.

‘Charlie!’ Her voice was dry, little more than a croak. She stood, ignoring the stiffness in her limbs, and hammered against the door. Her hand hurt but she didn’t care. The door shook under her blows. She could hear his voice again, more words, though she couldn’t make them out. It entered her mind that it was the radio, only the radio, but then there were scraping noises and the banging of things being thrown aside and the door opened.

She froze, her hand still raised. Charlie was there, his face creased in puzzlement, and there was so much
light
; it was day again and she could step forward and just walk out of there, but she didn’t move. She could barely see his face for the brightness. It was Charlie who stepped forward, putting his arm around her, saying something to her, but she still couldn’t make it out. It was his warmth that she clung to, and she realised that she was crying after all; the tears had crept out of her while she was too stunned to stop them and her face was wet.

It wasn’t until Charlie wrapped the duvet around her that Emma started to shiver. It was as if the cold had been buried deep inside and now it was leaving. She sat on the sofa in the drawing room surrounded by that perfect green paint and he put a mug of hot tea into her hands. She could get up and walk around if she wanted. She had been to the toilet and drunk about a gallon of water. She could have a shower, let the heat bring her back to warmth and life and reality.

She thought she’d explained what happened but she couldn’t really remember. Her head felt fuzzy.
Someone came
, she thought, and a smile spread across her face: she couldn’t help it.

Charlie didn’t smile back. He still looked worried.

Maybe he isn’t really here
, she thought.
He’s gone and you’re still lying upstairs, only now you’re dead
. She shuddered.

‘Are you all right, seriously? I thought – I didn’t know what to think. Were you really in there all night?’

She nodded and took a sip of tea. It was too milky but she didn’t care. Then she thought of something. ‘How – I mean, why are you—?’

‘Why am I here?’ He spread his arms, let them fall again. ‘Emma, I really have no idea. I didn’t intend to be; I’m not sure
what made me come back. Yesterday – I got a call from my mate, just as I was heading off, and he said his girlfriend was feeling better so I dropped in after all. I don’t think they’re getting along so well – she’d gone off to her mum’s – so we had a boys’ night in, drank some beer, watched a film, and I stayed over. I was passing close to here on the way back, so – I don’t know, I just suddenly thought I’d pop in, I suppose. I expected you’d be at work, to be honest, but – well, this house, it gets under your skin, you know? I thought I’d take another look at it before I left. And then I knocked, and you didn’t answer but the car was there, so—’

Emma was staring. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘
Work
. Christ, Charlie, what time is it?’

‘Just after ten – Emma, you can’t possibly be thinking of going in. Tell them what happened – they’ll understand, won’t they?’

‘I have to get dressed.’ She fought her way clear of the covers, her hands shaking; tea dripped across the carpet.

‘Emma,
stop
. You’re in no fit state. Sit back down, I’ll call them for you. Don’t worry, I’ll say I’m a friend and I’ll tell them you’re sick – you
are
sick, for God’s sake.’

She sank back down. He was right, she felt dizzy. Her stomach was empty and it hurt. She needed warmth and – and
safety
, at least for a time. She supposed she should sleep, but the thought of settling into another confined space, wrapping herself tight in the bedclothes and closing her eyes, narrowing down the world – no, she didn’t want that, even though she knew she needed it.