Leave This Place (6 page)

Oona was confused until she realized that Aggie was offering the sugar bowl. “Oh, no, thanks.”

“Quite right, you’re sweet enough. So all he said was, ‘leave’. That’s it. I tried talking some sense into him, but being a stubborn fool he just raised his voice. ‘Leave!’ So, well, we left. Arthur fixed up his door for him and we contacted his children.”

She took a sip of tea and then almost spat it out.

“Children! That sounds so silly. They were older than us! So they traveled up from London and we explained that their dad just wasn’t capable of living on his own anymore. Turns out they’d been trying to convince him to move to a residential home for years, but he wasn’t having it.” She offered a plate. “Biscuit?”

“Ooh, don’t mind if I do. Thanks.”

“They went to speak with him, but it was no use. He refused to leave, and that’s the way it stayed for a few weeks. But we tried again in the autumn, and when we insisted he barricaded himself in. He might have been a frail old bugger, but he managed to move an armchair to block the door, and even the organ from the dining room. We tried talking him out, to no avail of course. Eventually we broke the door down, ran upstairs and we found him, in the bedroom, standing by the window with a—”

Aggie put a finger to her throat. Oona’s eyes widened.

“Well anyhoo, without giving you all the gory details, he killed himself, right there and then, in front of us. There was just so much—” She grimaced, waving away the rest of the sentence.

Oona paused with a biscuit inches from her mouth. She placed it back down on the plate.

“Poor old bastard, bless him, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the cottage. He’d rather die than leave. And that, my dear, is why we keep a picture of the old boy on the bedroom wall. So that he will always be home. So that he will never have to leave.”

Oona nodded slowly, feeling quite sick. She focused on a cheery little fridge magnet that read:
Never Trust a Skinny Cook.

“I’m sorry, dear. Didn’t mean to put you off your biscuit.”

“No, no,” Oona said. “I asked. Thank you for your… detailed explanation.”

“I tell you what,” Aggie said, her warm smile returning, “I’ll make it up to you. Let you into a bit of a local secret.”

Oona leaned forward. This sounded promising.

“You must try the food at the Waymarker Inn. Best hot meal in the county.”

11

A
terrible fear crept through Silas’s bones as he wandered the lower level of the cottage, singing happy tunes to himself in an attempt to hold off the silence. If he stopped for a moment, the memories intervened…

(Screeee—screeee—screeee—screeee—)

…so he just kept on singing.
I Feel Good
,
Walking On Sunshine
,
Don’t Worry Be Happy
,
The Bright Side of the Road
- he had exhausted his repertoire and still Oona wasn’t home.

He found a large kitchen knife in a drawer in the kitchen and jabbed the air with it, pretending to be Norman Bates in the shower scene in Psycho. He discovered an organ in the dining room, lifted the lid and played a few bars of the
Twilight Zone
theme. In the living room he took the poker from the fireplace and, wielding it like a sword, began fencing an imaginary opponent.

“Ack! You got me!”

He fell to the floor, writhing in mock agony. When his eyes opened he saw something that instantly grabbed his attention.

A canvas painting on the wall behind the sofa. He scrambled to his feet and went over to it. A picture of the cottage, as seen from some distance away, along the tracks. The building was a solitary structure amidst the swirl of the moors, like a rudderless boat drifting on a gray and troubled ocean.

It was a miserable, dull, depressing painting, an odd choice for the wall of a holiday home, particularly as it cast the cottage itself in such a gloomy light.

There were brush strokes of gray in an upstairs window creating something that Silas couldn’t quite make out. Leaning closer, they were just blotches of paint. He stepped back from the canvas until the marks formed something. A shape.

It was nothing, he reasoned. Just scratches made by the paintbrush in the oils. He was projecting something onto the painting that wasn’t there, like a bad art critic.

But the scratches sure did look like a tall, thin figure with a long face.

At that moment he heard a noise from directly behind him. Something else was there, in the room. He spun around.

“What the hell…?”

12

A
howling wind swept across the heath as Oona made her way back to Cairn Cottage, and she quickened her pace. But it wasn’t just the weather that caused her to speed up; it was a growing sense that something was terribly wrong.

She didn’t know quite what she was afraid of - it wasn’t as if she had left a child home alone. Silas was almost forty years old and more than capable of looking after himself. But something told her that he was in danger, somehow, and that leaving him alone in that godawful place had been a mistake.

The cottage appeared before her as she crested the hill, and she glanced away. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the building in case she, too, saw something standing at the window. Even if it turned out to be Silas, she feared that single moment of terror might be enough to rape her of her sanity.

Her heart thumped in her chest as the rising panic took hold. Her strides grew longer and longer until she found herself running, the impact of her heavy boots on the unforgiving terrain causing her knees to ache and her calves to burn.

She was out of breath as she reached the cottage door. She fumbled with her key in the lock, her mind awash with awful thoughts. The door stuck. She put her weight behind it. When it finally gave way she almost fell into the kitchen.

“Silas?”

Silence.

“Silas?”

She called up the stairs, marched through the hall to the living room, and stopped dead when she saw him.

He was sitting in the armchair, a weak smile on his face.

The cat was curled up on his lap.

“It doesn’t seem to want to leave,” Silas said. It purred as he stroked its head.

Oona was woozy from a cocktail of confusion and anger. So many questions.
How had it made it back? Why had Silas let it in?
But all she could bring herself to say was, “I thought you didn’t like cats?”

“But this one seems to like us,” he said. “She’s persistent, you’ve got to give her that.”

“Well, I want it gone. It could have rabies or something.”

Silas laughed, lifting the cat’s face to his own. “You haven’t got rabies, have you? No, you haven’t.”

He kissed it on its head and Oona felt sick. “Get away from that thing!” She snatched the cat from him and stormed out.

“Hey!” Silas leapt up and followed. “What are you doing?”

She kept the creature at arms length as she carried it through to the kitchen. “I’m not kissing you, Silas,” she said, “until you thoroughly wash your mouth out.”

“Whatever. You never kiss me anyway.”

Oona opened the door and hurled the cat out. It turned back and gave her a doe-eyed look.

“Don’t give me that! Now get lost!” She slammed the door.

Silas looked hurt. “What did you do that for?”

“It’s a wild cat. It could have all manner of diseases.”

“Oh, give me a break…”

“Since when have you been such a fan of cats, anyway?”

He shrugged.

Oona released her frustration with a roar, hung up her coat and headed to the living room.

(Think positive thoughts. Chill your boots.)

She found her magazine on the coffee table and curled up on the armchair.

Silas entered and sat opposite her, opening his book. She felt a rush of anger and let it subside.
 

(It’s all good. Calm yourself.)

She watched as he turned back a page, then flipped forward and started reading.

He glanced up at her. She returned her eyes to the magazine and pretended to be heavily into an article about a woman who used to be a man who used to be a woman.

She shuffled in the chair. The seat was terribly uncomfortable, as if all the padding had worn away and the springs were pressing through the fabric. She felt beneath her and brought back a handful of hair.

Ugh.
She wiped it away. That cat had really made itself at home while it was here. She noticed that a collection of the same light hairs were stuck to the sleeves of her sweater
and
the underside of her black leggings. She leapt to her feet and brushed herself down.

“Gross. Seriously gross.”

Silas didn’t pay her any attention. He seemed to be too engrossed in his book.

Out in the hall she passed a black rotary dial telephone.
 
Beside it on the small table was a book on a polished wooden stand. The word
Visitors
was stamped in calligraphic gold onto the worn, brown leather cover.

Curious, Oona removed the book from its stand and leafed through it. An unpleasant musty smell emanated from inside. Each page was divided into columns for
Date
,
Name
,
Address
, and
Comments
. She read a random entry from the middle of the book:

6/9/04, Janet & Tony Padlow, Cheshire

‘Love, love, love this place. The cottage was spotless and cosy. Will definitely consider revisiting.’

Oona shook her head.
Spotless?
Did these people walk around with their eyes closed? Or was the place really that different back then?

She flicked on.

7/10/07, Mrs M. Deal, Barnet, London

‘We have no hesitation in recommending Cairn Cottage. The only drawback - having to leave.’

9/8/09, A. Gibbs, Shropshire

‘Had a wonderful week in Cairn Cottage. Very peaceful and relaxing. Have already recommended to family and friends.’

5/11/10 Ivor Baldwin, Isle of Wight

Everything perfect as usual, even the weather! Great for long walks on the moors and bike rides. And the Waymarker Inn - what a find! You can’t beat lovely pub grub.’

Oona slammed the book shut with a growl, her cheeks hot, her face flushing red
(can’t beat lovely pub grub)
.

An image flashed through her mind of Silas lifting the cat up to his face and talking to it like it was a baby. A bolt of fury shot across her shoulders and down her arms, exploding out of her hands as she hurled the book across the hallway with a scream.

13

“C
lear your mind of the people, places or things that are troubling you,”
the third chapter of
Don’t Stress It!
advised,
“by practicing deep breathing. Step one - close your eyes.”

Silas checked to make sure Oona wasn’t around and closed his eyes. It wasn’t that she would make fun of him for it - she had given him the book, after all - but having her around would make him feel silly and self-conscious. Plus, if he was honest, he didn’t want her to think he was getting into all this kind of stuff. The next thing he knew she’d be inviting him to yoga classes and lecturing him on the benefits of positive thinking.

Of course, with his eyes closed he realized he couldn’t read the next step. He opened one eye and peeked.
 

“Step two - breathe slow and deep. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

Slow and deep.
He closed his eyes. Sat up straight. In through the nose - or was it the mouth? He carried on anyway, concentrating on every breath.

Slow and deep. Slow and deep.

At that moment there was an almighty crash from the hallway. Silas jumped so high he thought his body must have left the seat entirely.

“Oona?”

He leapt up, his heart racing, and darted out to the hall. He found Oona kneeling in front of the telephone table, her face red and her eyes wild and watery.

“Are you okay?”

She shot him a look, a vein twitching in her forehead. “Oh, I’m just fine and dandy. And how about yourself?”

Silas knelt down beside her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s this place. It’s getting to me.”

“We can leave, if you want.”

“No, no, of course not. You need your holiday.”

“I really don’t mind.”

“No. We’re here now, we’re going to make the best of it. Even if it kills us.”

Silas laughed, and he thought he saw the hint of a smile on Oona’s lips, and then his laughter subsided, and suddenly nothing seemed funny anymore.

They sat in silence for a while.

Silas brightened. “I know something that will cheer you up.”

He took her to the dining room and asked her to take a seat. He opened the bureau and took out a pack of playing cards.

“Gee,” she said, curling her lip. “You know me so well.”

“Five card stud? We used to enjoy that.”

She motioned to the bureau. “Any board games in there?”

“Nah, we should be so lucky. Some dusty old books and a photo album.”

“Great. When we’re really bored we’ll look through that.”

Silas shuffled the cards. Some of them were faded and torn. He wondered if they had been the old man’s pack. If he, too, had played cards around this table.

The storm was building outside. Wind battered the windows. The lights flickered.

“You know,” Silas said, “we could always spice this game up a little. Turn it into strip poker.”

Oona rolled her eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause that’s what I need in this place. Less clothing.”

“Good point. Didn’t really think it through.” He started dealing.

She picked up her cards. “It wouldn’t be so bad if, I don’t know, we were, say… under the bedcovers.”

Silas cocked an eyebrow, but then he considered the reality of what she was suggesting.

Oona registered the look on his face. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He finished dealing. “Does it have to be the bedroom?”

“What do you suggest? The busted couch covered in cat hair? The cold stone stairs? The stinky bathroom carpet?”

Silas nodded. She had a point. He threw his cards down. “Race you upstairs.”