The Unquiet House (12 page)

The old man’s garden was empty. There was only a bare expanse of uneven lawn, darkened with damp and pocked with holes punched by a thick black walking stick.

‘You should go inside,’ said a voice at his ear. ‘It’s your turn to do summat.’

Frank twisted away as if Sam had struck him. The boy was like the midges, he wouldn’t let go. It didn’t matter how much you batted at them. He wasn’t going inside, he was going home to eat his dinner and get pestered by Mossy.

Mossy
. He thought for a moment of the way he’d been last night, subdued and small. Yes, that was it; he’d seemed smaller than he usually did, and quiet and somehow warm, but not in a nice way. It was like he’d been last summer when the scarlet fever was about to take hold.

I wasn’t scared of the old man
.

No, his brother hadn’t been scared of the old man, and nor had Sam when he’d blown that raspberry as they’d walked up
this same path. And what had he done to them, after all? Nothing, just shouted at them. What was he going to do about it if they went inside? Frank could say he thought he’d seen his brother going in there and he’d gone to find him. He’d get told off, that was all. He might get marched around to his parents’ by the scruff of his neck.

He remembered the woman he thought he’d seen, standing behind him. There were worse things than sticks. But ghosts didn’t exist.

‘Well?’ asked Sam.

His tone made up Frank’s mind for him. If he went into the house he could tell Mossy all about it and his little brother would know that he didn’t have to be afraid any longer.

‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘We’ll go in together.’ He turned to face Sam. He saw that the older boy was trying to hide the fear in his eyes and that was good; it made him feel a little taller. And Sam would have to go in after all. It served him right for starting this whole thing. ‘You’re the eldest,’ he said. ‘It’s about time you acted like it.’

*

Of course the door would be locked. The old man hated them and he had seen them playing around his house and there was no way he’d leave the door open. That was what Frank told himself as he crept alongside the garden wall. Sam was behind him and Jeff in the middle. They hadn’t talked about what order they’d be in and he wasn’t sure how, once again, he’d ended up in front.

The man would come out and get him, or the woman would. He thought of her materialising out of nowhere, right behind him where he couldn’t see, and he swallowed.

He turned and Sam glared at him. Frank sighed. There was no point in putting this off; he might as well just go. He glanced up the lane towards home. He was hungry. He wasn’t sure how far into dinnertime it was but judging by the sun, which was riding high, he was going to be late.

He felt a hard nudge in his back. ‘Gerron wi’ it then.’

He crept out from behind the gatepost. When he’d gone a short way up the drive he stepped onto the grass and into the shadow of the house. The ground felt unpleasantly unstable under his feet, damp and soft and liable to shift at any moment. From here he couldn’t see into the upper windows – they reflected back only the sky – but lower down, he thought he could see the top of the chair the old man had been sitting in. He couldn’t tell if he was sitting in it now. He could imagine his expression, though, if he could see Frank. He might be readying his stick at this very moment. But he thought of Mossy, clinging, whining Mossy, and he went on.

It was only when he was part-way across the lawn that he thought to look down and saw the trail of perfect footprints they were leaving in the grass. Even if the man wasn’t watching him, he’d
know
. He might come after them.

He tiptoed across the remaining stretch of grass and across the top of the drive towards the porch. The noise of the gravel couldn’t be helped; it was just something else he had to do. The door looked taller than ever as he walked up to it, and unwelcoming. He turned and Sam was there, but he didn’t look so bold any longer. He gave Frank a thumbs-up that made him think of school and children,
little
children, and he wrinkled his nose and turned and reached for the handle. When he turned it there was a loud metallic noise and he felt the catch release.

The hallway was bare and unlit. He heard the sound at once, but for a moment he didn’t recognise it as music. It didn’t have the tinny quality of his radio; this sounded worse. It had a scratchy, fizzy tone that made him think of the old films his mother liked. It didn’t just sound as if it was coming from a long way away; it sounded as if it was coming from out of the past. It drifted down the stairs, through the spindles and along the balustrade and across the black and white tiled floor. He could hear footsteps but they weren’t dashing towards him; they were coming from inside the house, light little steps that made him think of dancing.

Warm breath huffed against his ear and he jumped. It was Sam, laughing silently. ‘Old git,’ he said. ‘Gerron wi’ it then.’

Frank didn’t bother to glare. He wasn’t sure he cared what Sam thought of him any longer. He turned his attention to the hall. There was a coat rack in one corner with an overcoat hanging from it, a pile of boots and shoes beneath that. They all looked like men’s shoes and Frank remembered something he thought he’d heard once: that the old man’s wife had died.

Sam pushed past him and let out another smothered giggle. ‘God, look,’ he said. ‘We’re goin’ ter be in trouble.’ He pointed down at the smeared footprints they’d left behind. Frank looked around at the floor. It hadn’t been particularly clean to begin with, but now it was worse. Jeff hop-skipped across it, shaking the mud from his boots.

‘Stop it,’ Frank hissed.

‘What for?’ Sam pointed upwards. ‘You deaf or summat?’ He turned to the nearest door and disappeared into the room.

For a moment Sam vanished; then his face appeared in the doorway. ‘What’s up? Come on then.’

Frank’s bowels clenched, as if he suddenly needed to go.

Jeff walked ahead of him and through the doorway. Now it felt more than ever as if they’d crossed some threshold Frank couldn’t see and didn’t want to. He glanced up the stairs, hearing the soft footsteps and the music, then he went after his friends.

It was the same room he’d looked into the day before. Now he could see it better, but the first thing that struck him was the smell; it was stale and cloying and he could almost hear his mum tut-tutting over it. She’d never let a room get in this state. The carpet was thin and gritty and the air didn’t feel clean in his lungs. It felt as if his skin was being coated with something greasy. He rubbed his fingers as if he could feel it, but of course they were clean, he hadn’t touched anything. He looked at Sam as the older boy reached out and touched the side of the chair the old man had been sitting in. Frank caught his breath in an audible gasp.

Sam’s gaze shot towards him. ‘Godsake. Nearly give me an ’eart attack.’ He whipped his hand back to his side and Frank could breathe again. Then Jeff pointed at the side table, two sharp jabs, and Sam went to it and picked up the pipe, just like that, and pretended to smoke it. He poked his nose in the air. ‘Call me sir,’ he said, ‘and summon the servants.’

Jeff laughed, a loud, high-pitched noise.

Frank looked around the room. He saw another chair just like the first but pushed back against the wall, and a big old dresser that must have taken four men to move. There was a table that might once have been grand but was old now, the top scratched and the legs chipped, and dining chairs and a fireplace and a set of fire irons on a stand. Everything was set back against
the walls as if someone was about to play some sort of party game. The air was wrong and
they
were wrong, and he realised those things didn’t matter, not really, because something else was very wrong indeed.

‘We’ve got to go,’ he hissed and they froze. He could tell from their faces they’d noticed it too: the music had stopped. He couldn’t hear the old man’s footsteps. He wasn’t sure when he’d last heard them, or even if those same footsteps had become a little louder before they’d ceased, as if each one was on the tread of a stair.

‘Run for it,’ he said, and he pelted for the door.

The old man was standing at the bottom of the stairs, motionless, as if he were listening. Sam and Jeff burst from the room behind him and into Frank’s back, sending him staggering. He stumbled towards the entrance and his foot slipped on the mud in the hall and he landed, hard, on his knees. He stretched out his arms to catch himself and saw only the flash of Sam and Jeff’s legs as they passed, the sound of their feet deadening as they cleared the threshold.

Frank ignored the pain in his knees and pushed himself up, and the old man grabbed his elbow and dragged him the rest of the way to his feet. He shook him and Frank’s head rocked on his shoulders. The man wasn’t gentle, wasn’t playing. Then he pulled him closer and Frank stumbled again but towards him this time; it was the old man’s body that kept him from falling. He could
smell
him, the same musty smell as the house but stronger and sharper, tinged with sweat and anger. He turned to stare up at him and caught the man’s sour breath full in his face.

‘Whe’er’s t’ other one?’ the man said, gripping Frank’s arm tighter. ‘Whe’er is he?’

Frank stared. He could see the old man’s stubble jutting from his chin, and some of it was dark and some of it was white. His nose was pocked with open pores and short black hairs were growing out of it. His waistcoat – such a smart thing to wear, so odd to have on in the house – was as dirty as everything else. ‘Whe’er’s ’e gone?’

Frank shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. His voice came out all breathy and jerky as if he was still being shaken. ‘’E’s nor ’ere. ’E’s at ’ome.’

The old man’s eyes were full of anger and hatred. The back of Frank’s neck prickled. The old man wouldn’t stop staring and he had the distinct impression he was looking straight through him.

‘The
other
one,’ he said again. ‘I saw ’im. Where’d he go?’ Frank knew that his eyes were wide open and fixed and he knew he shouldn’t stare like that, but somehow he couldn’t help it because he had realised something about the old man and it made his belly feel hot and loose and his legs turn to rubber.
He was afraid
. The old man was afraid.

He shifted his grip and got hold of Frank by both sides of the collar and pulled him up close. His breath was strong in his face and Frank could see the rheumy rims of his eyes and the veins threading through his skin.

‘Now see ’ere,’ the man said. His voice was throaty and each word was accompanied by a gust of that bitter smell. It made Frank want to wrinkle his nose but he didn’t dare. It was odd, though; the man didn’t sound angry any longer, just tired, really
tired
, as if he didn’t want to be saying these things but felt he had to. ‘See ’ere. Just you see he keeps away. I don’t want ’im ’ere. You tell ’im. Tell ’em all.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Your little friends – stop sodding about. Keep ’em away and it’ll be fine wi’ me and fine wi’ you. See?’

Frank didn’t see but he nodded himself and he felt his top loosen as the man relaxed his grip. It had ridden up, exposing his ribs.

The old man pointed towards the door, though his eyes still looked unfocused. ‘Get out.’ He gave Frank a push that sent him slithering backwards. ‘I said
get out
.’

Frank didn’t move, then he heard a distant shout, almost a shriek –
Jeff
, he thought – and he started to run. He expected a meaty fist to land on his collar and snatch him back, but it did not come; his fingers brushed the side of the door as he passed and then he was on the stone steps and the day was too bright but the air was blessedly clean and he welcomed it in, running freely now across the lawn and into the lane. When he reached the road he doubled over, gasping in more of that clean air. He could still smell the old man’s breath – he could almost taste it on his tongue. He rubbed his fingers against his trousers, brushing away the feel of those dirty clothes, seeing as he did how filthy his own clothes were – but this was
new
dirt – and he saw the back of his hand was grazed from where he’d brushed against the door and the knees of his corduroys were scuffed from falling in the hall, and red had smeared through where the skin had broken underneath. Suddenly he wanted to cry. He looked up the lane and saw no one; they had run away again, run off and left him, and then a shape emerged from the hedge and he realised they
were waiting after all, Sam and Jeff, and he sniffed back the tears.

He looked around once more, and saw another dark shape, this one standing in the doorway of the fine old house, watching him as he tried to walk in a dignified way up the lane, doing his best to hide the way his legs were shaking.

There had been someone else there
. Frank couldn’t banish the thought as he stared down at the thing Sam held in the palm of his hand. It was making him feel sick, not just the sight of the thing or the knowledge that Sam had stolen it but the
smell
. It was the same stench the old man had breathed into his face: the foulness of his breath and the trace of whatever sad meal he’d last eaten. Sam was holding the old man’s pipe.

He took another breath and closed his eyes. When he did that, the smell wasn’t so bad: it was burnt, but also rich and spicy. He opened his eyes and found he’d actually begun to reach out as if he was going to touch that slender smooth stem that had been in the old man’s mouth. He snatched his hand away and Sam laughed, though it wasn’t his usual laugh. Mossy laughed too. They’d found Mossy waiting for them. He’d been told to fetch Frank in for his dinner – they were waiting to eat – but he hadn’t dared go past their own gate. Now his eyes were fixed on the pipe and he didn’t blink.

‘Get rid of it,’ Frank said. ‘You shouldn’t ’ave tekken it.’

‘I din’t mean to. If ’e ’adn’t come down t’ stairs …’ Sam said this as if coming downstairs was the old man’s fault, as if they hadn’t been trespassing. Frank swallowed and looked back
down the lane. He kept expecting to see the old man marching after them, brandishing his stick, but there was only the lane, banked by tall hedges thick with wiry hawthorn, grown about with dog roses and underpinned by stinging nettles. Sam sighed and tightened his grip on the pipe –
Don’t touch it
, thought Frank – and drew back his arm as if to throw the thing away.