Bricking It
Authors: Nick Spalding
OTHER TITLES BY NICK SPALDING
L
OVE…
S
ERIES:
Love… From Both Sides
Love… And Sleepless Nights
Love… Under Different Skies
Love… Among The Stars
L
IFE…
S
ERIES:
Life… On a High
Life… With No Breaks
C
ORNERSTONE
The Cornerstone
Wordsmith… The Cornerstone Book 2
O
THER
W
ORKS
Fat Chance
Buzzing Easter Bunnies
Blue Christmas Balls
Spalding’s Scary Shorts
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2015 by Nick Spalding
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503948426
ISBN-10: 1503948420
Cover design by Lisa Horton
To anyone who has ever tried to renovate a house.
You have my deepest sympathies.
CONTENTS
HAYLEY
April
£0.00 Spent
W
hat an absolute shit pile.’
I turn and give my brother a tight-lipped smile. ‘It’s not
that
bad, Danny.’
‘Not that bad?’ he replies in dismay. ‘Half the bloody roof is gone!’
‘It’s certainly seen better days, I can’t argue with you there.’
‘When exactly were they? Before or after someone set fire to it?’
I peer over the vast thicket of overgrown brambles, and look at the large soot marks scorched across the left-hand corner of the house. ‘I don’t think the damage is too bad, actually.’
Danny gives me a look.
‘I’m just trying to stay positive,’ I tell him, through only slightly gritted teeth. ‘This was Grandma’s last gift to us.’
‘Gift?’ he replies incredulously.
‘Yes. It was very generous of her to leave this place to me and you.’
‘Really?’ Danny rolls his eyes, crosses his arms and gently pushes the garden gate open with his foot. The gate, its hinges rusted completely through, falls over onto the cracked garden path with a loud clatter. Birds in the trees and bushes around us take flight, startled by such a loud noise in such a quiet place.
‘Very generous of her,’ he says drily. ‘And what exactly did she leave Mum and Dad again?’
‘£75,000. All her life savings,’ I reply, as quietly as I can, so it doesn’t sound so bad.
‘And just remind me again, sister dearest. What are they doing with all that lovely cash?’
‘You know what they’re doing with it, Dan.’
‘No, no. Come on. Say it again.’ He jabs a finger at the derelict house in front of us. ‘I want that thing to hear.’
‘You’re mental.’
Danny stares at me. He’s not going to let this one go. ‘They’re going on a year-long cruise around the world.’ I sigh.
Danny nods angrily. ‘Yes, indeed. That’s what our loving parents are doing with their part of Grandma’s inheritance.’ He waves a hand at the crumbling house. ‘While we get to stare at this crap magnet and decide what the hell to do with it.’
‘It could be very nice with some work,’ I counter.
‘Would said work involve several sticks of dynamite?’
‘Oh, give it a rest. It’s not that bad. Just try to see the potential.’
Danny opens his mouth to argue, but closes it again, noticing that my eyes have gone flinty and narrow. Instead of making yet another smart-arse comment he returns his gaze to the house. ‘What did you say it was again?’ he asks me, trying to sound more upbeat.
‘A Victorian farmhouse. Built around 1890.’
‘Right.’ Danny stands and stares at the place a little longer. ‘I like the windows.’
‘They are nice.’
‘And the place is quite . . . symmetrical I guess. That’s good.’
‘It is. Double-fronted, I think it’s known as.’
‘The walls haven’t fallen in yet.’
‘No, that’s very true.’
‘Chimney stacks are quite good as well. One on each end.’
‘They are.’
A few moments of silence follow.
‘I’m sure the front door was nice once. You know, when it wasn’t quite so rotten.’
‘You’re reaching now.’
Danny throws his hands up. ‘Oh, give me a break! I’m trying my hardest here.’
‘Sorry.’
He rubs his face with both hands. ‘And nobody knew Grandma owned this place?’
‘Nope.’
‘Not even Mum?’
‘Nope.’
‘Why the hell would she keep it quiet all these years?’
‘I have no idea, Danny.’
‘And why the hell would she leave it to us in her will?’
‘I have no idea about that either, Danny.’
‘And what is that brown pile in the middle of the doorstep?’
‘Ah, I think I can help you there. That, Danny, is a big pile of cow shit.’
‘I thought so.’ He rubs his face again and groans. ‘What a shithole.’ Without saying more, Danny walks over the fallen garden gate, and starts to make his way down the cracked path, pushing the brambles out of the way as he does so.
I let him go.
Sometimes it’s best to not talk to my brother when he’s in one of these moods. He has a habit of dragging you down with him.
Instead, I look back up at the house and try to picture it in all its former glory.
This is a very hard thing to do, since that former glory was a good fifty years ago – if not far further back, considering the house’s age. Since then, the place has been gently rotting into the picturesque Hampshire countryside, and is now what you would charitably describe as a ‘fixer-upper’.
Victorian farmhouses are quite impressive when they’re in decent condition, but the only thing impressive about this particular example is the fact it hasn’t caved in completely after several decades of neglect.
‘What the hell were you thinking, Grandma?’ I say under my breath, as I follow Danny up the garden path towards the house.
We were both gobsmacked to be told that we’d inherited this place. My brother and I knew very little of Grandma’s past before she married Granddad in the sixties, and moved into the vicarage with him. This must have been the house she left behind when she did. But how did she come to own it in the first place? And why did she keep it all these years without telling anyone?
These questions have been buzzing round my head for weeks. They will probably continue to do so, as I have no real way of getting any answers without the benefit of a medium or a Ouija board.
I join Danny, standing in front of the doorstep, looking down at the cowpat.
‘It’s still steaming,’ he remarks.
I look around for the cow that left it, but none is immediately apparent.
Danny bites a fingernail. ‘You know, I can’t help but feel that this is a sign.’
‘Shall we go inside?’ I say, as I pinch two fingers over my nose.
Danny peers through the large crack in what’s left of the oak front door. ‘I’m not sure I want to. There could be anything in there. Rats . . . spiders . . . the Grim Reaper.’
‘Well, I’m not standing out here smelling that thing for any longer,’ I tell him, and step over the cowpat, being very careful not to let it get anywhere near my new Nikes. As I pull the front-door key from my jeans pocket, I am forced to reflect that I probably haven’t dressed sensibly for this expedition into the unknown reaches of my grandmother’s secret, derelict farmhouse. Brand-new trainers and £60 jeans you picked up in town a couple of days before is not ideal attire when entering a house thick with the detritus of fifty years’ neglect. I should have taken a leaf out of Danny’s book and worn ripped old jeans, battered motorcycle boots and a Call of Duty T-shirt. Mind you, this is what Danny wears
all of the time
, so I doubt he put much thought into it.
Nevertheless, into the dirty house I must go, so I’ll just have to avoid brushing my crisp, white shirt up against anything as much as is humanly possible.
‘If I hear any low, ominous laughter when you turn that key, I’ll be back up that path and on the bike in a nanosecond,’ Danny says, his eyes wide.
‘Very funny,’ I reply, trying not to wince too much as I turn the door key to the right. This does very little, other than dislodge some rust from the surface of both key and lock.
‘Try the left,’ Danny offers.
I do so, with no improvement.
‘Wiggle it?’
‘I am wiggling it.’
‘Do it harder?’
‘Shut up, Danny! I’m wiggling it as hard as I can!’
No matter what I do, the lock just will not budge. The whole mechanism feels like it’s completely rusted shut.
‘Let me have a go,’ Danny says and pushes me gently out of the way. I let him take over, safe and secure in the knowledge that he won’t have any more luck than I did.
Indeed, a couple of minutes go by that contain a great deal of swearing, but no real progress on the door opening. The smell from the cowpat is starting to get really bad, and I’m just about ready to give up and leave, when another thought occurs.
‘Give it a kick, Dan,’ I tell my brother.
‘What?’
‘Kick the door in.’
He looks horrified. ‘I can’t do that. That’s breaking and entering.’
‘It’s our house, you goon!’
Danny looks nonplussed. ‘Good point.’
‘Well. Go on then. Give it a kicking.’
‘Okay.’ Danny steps back slightly – avoiding the cowpat by mere inches – and then lunges forward, giving the front door a solid kick with his thick black boot. This is easily the greatest trauma the door has suffered in years, so it immediately gives way with no resistance whatsoever. Danny shrieks in surprise and falls into the farmhouse, sending up a cloud of dust as he stumbles across the entrance hall, and nearly brains himself on the end of the large wooden bannister that runs up one side of an expansive staircase.
‘Fuck me!’ he shouts, as he veers off down the hallway towards the kitchen.
I take a deep breath and enter more carefully, fearing that any sudden movements may result in a severe case of tetanus. It is quite, quite disgusting. The floorboards beneath my feet are warped and rotten. The walls are covered in peeling wallpaper that gives off a deeply unpleasant aroma, and the ceiling is covered in spiderwebs full of dead or dying insects. There is some kind of unidentifiable brown substance smeared on the huge ornate cream lampshade above my head that doesn’t bear thinking about. I’d still prefer to touch that than the thick black carpet of mould that runs along most of the skirting boards, though.
To my left is the dining room. At least I assume it’s the dining room, given that there is a three-legged table leaning drunkenly against one wall. To my right is what could be a living room. There’s certainly a fireplace in there. What horrors may lurk in that dark recess are anyone’s guess.
Both rooms are bloody enormous, and continue the theme of peeling wallpaper, mouldy skirting boards and decades of old filth. Lovely.
On a more positive note, they also feature some rather ornate architraves and ceiling roses that once looked very grand, I’m sure.
I venture slowly down the hallway towards my brother, and what’s left of the kitchen. As I do, I notice a doorway under the staircase and steps leading down into the darkness below, to what I can only assume is Stephen King’s basement.
Suppressing a shudder, I enter the kitchen and walk over to where Danny is sat on a rickety chair, nursing his ankle.
‘Are you alright?’ I ask him.
‘The bloody door gave way a lot quicker than I thought it would,’ he replies darkly. ‘I think I’ve sprained my ankle.’
‘Can you walk?’
‘Yeah. I’ll be fine. No real damage done.’ He looks around. ‘Unlike this kitchen. It looks like somebody came through here with a machine gun.’
Danny is exaggerating, but only slightly. Cupboard doors hang off their hinges. The sink is full of holes, which is something of a pity as it means that the slow drip of rusty water seeping from the cold tap is going everywhere. Shattered pieces of tile are strewn across the floor. The cooker looks like it’s managed to fuse itself into the floor, and the fridge is green.
I don’t mean the fridge is the
colour
green, I just mean that the interior has
gone
green, for some horrible, horrible reason.
‘The flies seem to be enjoying the place,’ I point out, waving one hand in front of my face.
‘At least somebody is.’ Danny stands back up, testing his ankle. It seems to hold his weight okay. ‘Shall we go upstairs? I haven’t been grossed out quite enough yet.’
I nod and turn to leave the kitchen as quickly as my denim-clad legs will carry me.
At the bottom of the staircase, we pause.
‘Do you think it’s safe?’ I ask Danny.
‘I have no idea. Why don’t you go first?’
‘Why me?’
‘Because I kicked the door in.’
I attempt to argue, but the sibling code dictates that I should suck it up and be the one to go up the staircase first. Chivalry simply does not exist when you’re talking about the relationship between a brother and a sister. I know this. Danny knows this. I therefore take a deep breath and start my ascent, treading ever so lightly on every riser as I make my way to the first floor.
‘Oh, come the fuck on, Hayley,’ Danny remarks from behind me. ‘If it was going to give out on you, it would have done it already.’
‘Bollocks,’ I respond. ‘Every step is a new opportunity for me to fall screaming to my death.’
‘You haven’t put on
that
much weight recently. Get your arse up the stairs.’ To underline his impatience with my slow progress, Danny pokes me in the ribs.
‘Ow! You little shit!’ I exclaim, and slap him hard on the shoulder. I do also increase my pace, however, given that he is still in close proximity to my ribcage and will no doubt give me a harder poke if I don’t get a move on.
With a sigh of relief I reach the first-floor landing, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
‘It smells even worse up here,’ I note, holding my nose.
Danny takes a deep breath. ‘It’s not that bad.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I’ve been in your flat. I’m not surprised this place doesn’t smell that bad to you.’
‘Very funny. Which room do you want to catch a fatal disease in first?’
I look around the landing at the four closed doors leading off. I’m guessing three are the bedrooms, and the fourth is the bathroom. I think I’m going to need a bit of time to work up to the last room, given that it’s the most likely to contain something nasty, so I elect for the nearest bedroom door and move towards it.
Danny can’t help but draw a sharp intake of breath as I grasp the handle. ‘That’s really not helping, you know,’ I tell him.
‘Sorry, I’ve just watched one too many horror films over the years.’
‘I know. I introduced you to them.’
Trying my hardest not to also draw in my breath – I’ve watched all those movies a few times myself – I twist the flaking door handle and push it open. It reveals . . . well, not much in particular, actually. There’s a morbid part of my brain that finds this rather disappointing.
The bedroom is empty, save for a mustard-coloured carpet covered in unidentifiable stains, the same peeling wallpaper as is evident throughout the rest of the property, and yet another open fireplace, this one boarded up with a few hastily nailed-on planks of two-by-four. A large sash window dominates the front of the room, and here, unlike most of the windows downstairs, not one of the panes has been smashed.
