She watched him while he took her phone and found the work number she’d programmed into it. He drifted away,
murmuring. She caught occasional words, but she could hear his tone and he sounded businesslike, to the point. It didn’t take long.
‘All done,’ he said. ‘I told them you might need a couple of days; they said it’s fine.’
‘A couple of days? Charlie, I don’t—’
‘Well, you have them if you need them.’
She paused, then said, ‘All right. Thank you. I really don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t turned up.’
‘I do.’ He glanced towards the stairs and gave a rueful smile. ‘It’s not worth thinking about. Look, just relax. I’ll stick around for a bit, make sure you’re okay.’
She took a deep breath. ‘You don’t have to – if you need to go, it’s fine. Something like that couldn’t happen twice, after all – anyway, I’ll make sure it doesn’t.’
‘I know.’ He spoke more softly. ‘But I
want
to, Emma. I don’t like to think about what might have happened if— but then, I suppose someone from work would have come looking for you.’
‘Maybe. They don’t even know I’ve moved, not yet. They will, of course.’
‘You’re staying here, then? Even after—’
‘Of course. It was just an accident. It could have happened anywhere.’ But it
hadn’t
happened anywhere. It had been here, in the house she loved. She frowned, thinking of the people who had drifted from her life, the ones who couldn’t come to help her any longer. She smiled back at Charlie. ‘Of course, it would be nice if you wanted to stay around a little longer. It’d be a pleasure to have you.’
Emma stared at the place where she had seen the man standing, watching her in the night. She was no longer sure she’d seen anything but a shadow, but still, on some level, the thought of him was with her all of the time. She realised she had been skirting it like a bad memory, walking around that piece of floor as if there was something wrong with it, or as if the air had gone bad,
something
. There was no one there and yet look how carefully she had been avoiding that
no one
with her gaze. She hadn’t opened the cupboard door yet either. She was being fanciful and she didn’t care.
Everything else was coming together, though, forming around her: dust and shadows were being replaced by smooth gleaming paint; the vision she’d had of the place was beginning to emerge. Everything she did looked as if it had meant to be that way, as if it
belonged
, and as she thought of the word it felt full of promise, drifting through her mind, bringing comfort as, somewhere, Charlie began to sing.
She went to the window and looked out across the lawn and into the lane beyond. She had barely left the house since she’d moved in. She’d decided to take some time off work after all. She was so close to the rest of the world and yet she felt enclosed
here, safe. Peaceful. Then she looked down and saw the man standing in her garden.
She froze. His back was turned but she knew it was him, the same man she’d seen in the night. He had found his suit. The greasy shine of the fabric was even more obvious in the daylight, as were the places it had worn thin. It looked a little too small, and he had one hand in his jacket pocket, stretching the fabric even more thinly across his back. In the other hand he held a thick black stick. As she watched, he raised it a couple of inches before banging it down again into the ground. He looked as if he was watching for someone coming down the lane, someone he didn’t like.
For a moment she thought of Charlie, playing a practical joke maybe, then she heard his voice, so close she felt his warm breath on her ear: ‘Who’s that?’
She jumped. ‘You see him?’
‘Of course I see him. What’s he doing on your lawn? Is he a neighbour or something?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Somehow she didn’t think that was it. The man was from here,
of
here. She could sense it.
‘I’ll go and ask him.’
By the time she’d taken in the words and whirled around, Charlie had already gone. His footsteps were on the stairs and she went after him, half feeling as if she was chasing nothing but a dream, the ghost of a sound; that it was Charlie, after all, who wasn’t real.
By the time she caught up with him he was standing on the gravel by the door. He too had his back turned. She stepped outside, the air cool but pressing in damply, like clammy hands. The man with the stick had gone.
‘He must have been passing by,’ Charlie said without turning. ‘I missed him.’ He made to walk towards the lane, but Emma reached out and caught his arm. She didn’t want him treading across that soft grass. She thought she could see a faint trace of her own footprints from the day she’d moved in, but there was nothing else, no other footprints, not even an imprint to show where he’d punched his stick into the ground.
She looked up. The signs of the failing day were already written in the sky; the top of the clouds were smeared with grey even as their undersides were turning to gold. It was cooler now and she remembered the night before, the way the chill had sunk into her. She shuddered, and she felt Charlie’s hand on her shoulder. That too felt cold.
‘You know, you don’t need to leave,’ she said.
He didn’t answer, and the words hung in the air between them.
‘There’s no rush, is there?’ She cleared her throat. ‘You could always stay here a little longer.’
*
Later, she opened a bottle of wine. They drank it sitting on the floor in the drawing room. Everything was quiet. She leaned back and Mire House enveloped her. She felt warm, even though the temperature was falling again, and she smiled at Charlie.
The wine was such a deep red it was almost black, and it was rich, dulling her thoughts. She liked the way Charlie looked, his muscles loose, everything so effortless. He hadn’t mentioned the man they’d seen in the garden again; perhaps he was right, it had been a passer-by, and she
had
only been dreaming the other night.
‘A penny for them,’ Charlie said.
She shook her head and pushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘I like this,’ she replied.
‘It is nice. But – well, I can’t stay forever, Emma.’
‘I know that. But for now – you’re okay here, aren’t you?’
He took a sip of his drink, his lips marking the top of the glass.
‘I know the room isn’t— Maybe we could sort out a better place for you to sleep.’ He didn’t answer, just kept looking at her with a steady gaze, and she looked away. ‘I mean—’
‘Why did we never meet before, Emma? Since we were kids, I mean.’ He frowned. ‘I suppose if my dad and yours didn’t get along …’
Emma stared down into her glass, peering at the murky fluid. The moment – the warmth – had gone and instead there was an empty space, waiting. It was always waiting; it was just that sometimes she managed to forget it was there.
‘I didn’t mean to remind you of anything.’
‘No, it’s all right.’ She couldn’t look up from the glass. Her eyes were stinging, as if tears were going to come. Thinking about it made everything worse.
She still didn’t look up as he sat at her side and put his arm around her. She closed her eyes. It felt good;
too
good. It would be easy to sink into him, to rest her head against his chest, as if he could take it all away, fix everything,
rescue
her, for God’s sake.
No. She wasn’t there to be rescued. Soon he’d be gone and she would get on with her life. She couldn’t start to rely on him – not on
anyone
– or one day she’d turn around and they wouldn’t be there any longer. People did that: they died or they left and she would be alone again. She needed to learn to
be comfortable with it. Still, even as she thought it, she felt hollow inside.
He rested his head on hers and she found herself leaning against him. Her flesh was tightening, as if in anticipation. Then he shifted away and the moment passed, like so many other moments had, each small possibility fading away into nothing.
Then they turned and leaned in towards each other, and their lips met. Even as they kissed she thought, it was only
now
, but it felt good,
right
even, and they drew in closer, his arms around her after all, his hand grasping at her shoulder. She felt the coldness of his skin through her clothes and she opened her eyes and saw that his were open too and he was looking right back at her.
Emma lay awake, thinking of Charlie sleeping at the other side of the wall. He had taken the bedroom next to hers. He couldn’t have stayed in the other room, the one where he’d woken at daybreak. Now he was only a short distance away.
She pulled the covers tighter and bit her lip. Soon he would leave: he would pretend to be sleeping one morning when she left for work and when she got back he would be gone. He probably wouldn’t even leave a note. He’d go back to wherever he’d come from and she would never see him again.
His arms around her had been so warm, his touch on her shoulder so cold. He hadn’t acted embarrassed when they pulled away from their kiss and cool air filled the space between them. She told herself it was all right. Everybody needed someone, didn’t they? And they were connected – they were all that remained of family lines that had been joined at some time in the distant past, before they were even born. She reminded herself that they were not so closely bound as to make it wrong. She didn’t have to be alone, not all of the time. She felt her lips pulling into a smile as she remembered their kiss.
When they’d turned in she’d stepped towards him, stretching onto tiptoe and kissing his cheek, just brushing the corner of his
lips. She’d poured glasses of iron-smelling water for them to take up. The stairs were hard under her feet, the sound of their steps loud against the silence. She imagined having his arm around her while she slept – warm, solid,
there
– and she pushed the idea away.
He had taken the room next to hers
. She wondered now if that meant anything. But Charlie had needed a place where he could sleep without being woken by the sunrise. He’d looked into the other rooms before he’d made his choice.
And then she’d entered her own room and closed the door. She’d looked towards the place she’d been avoiding – the one opposite the foot of her bed – and she’d taken a deep breath and gone towards it, stepping deliberately into the space. There was nothing, no sudden chill, no sense of anyone watching, no breath. Nothing there at all.
But when she’d seen him last, the old man had been outside. She walked to the window. The lawn was a silvered patch of moonlight, the shadows of trees reaching their spindly arms across it. There was no figure standing among them. Now that her back was turned to the room, though, she could feel the shadows gathering behind her; it felt as if the air were coalescing into some more solid shape, taking on form, hands and limbs and eyes; eyes that looked at her from dark hollows.
She turned and the room was empty. Of course it was empty: she was alone. There was no one in the house but her and Charlie. And then a thought struck her and her mouth twitched. He had taken
the room next to hers
. Charlie had the master bedroom after all. Of course it didn’t mean anything. Sometimes things were simply what they were. For now she had a comfortable bed, warm covers and a whole night in which to sleep before she rose and saw him again.
Emma raised her head from the pillow. She didn’t know if she was dreaming or waking or half-asleep but she could hear a sound. It meandered through the air, almost like words, almost taking form before drifting again. It felt like something from the distant past that had never left; the house had stood through the years and now she felt the things within it had lingered too, not just solid things but memories.
She shifted, trying to find a cool place on her pillow. The air on her cheek was cold but everything else felt hot. She knew that she was dreaming when she got out of bed and found herself in the corridor, standing in her bare feet, and she did not shiver.
Then the words rang out, clear and harsh:
You little
… and nothing more, the sentence cut off, curtailed as if with violence. Then there was a loud clatter, as if someone had crashed through a door or hammered against a window. She pictured fragile glass jumping in its frame.
The landing was illuminated by moonlight that flooded in through uncovered windows and open doors, spilling through the banisters and down into the dark well beneath. Somehow Emma was not afraid. She went to the edge and looked over into
the hall below just as a shape moved out of vision. She had the impression it had been heading towards the front door.
Emma froze. Dreaming or not, now she did feel cold. There was another presence in the hallway below; she could sense hostility. She could almost hear them breathe. And then the words came again, so clearly they might have been spoken next to her ear:
Get out
.
Emma left the house early, stepping out into a thin, mean autumn morning. The sky was a pale glow of unsteady light; it looked like it might fail completely rather than grow. The car started with a dry wheeze that deepened when she pressed on the accelerator. She didn’t take off the handbrake, not yet. She pictured the journey, the country roads all the same, with endless hedges edging drab, empty fields beneath the grey shroud of the sky. Then she would reach the motorway, join the tide of dull humanity being drawn towards the city. It was all impossibly far away.
She remembered the kiss, Charlie’s mouth against hers, the way it had sparked feelings within her she thought she’d forgotten, like something awakening.
Life
, she thought. And she smiled and she switched off the engine. She surely had a little more time. Work wasn’t as important to her as it once had been. She had a life here now.
She sat there, her eyes half-focused, letting the world blur around her. Everything looked distant, even Mire House: a reality that lay on the other side of some transparent but indissoluble veil. When she focused again she saw Charlie. He was
standing at the bottom of the steps, by the side of her window. His gaze looked unclear and his hair was dishevelled.