CHAPTER 1
That’s the sound of glass smashing. Someone is breaking into the house.
Waking with a fearful jolt, she sits up in the double bed, eyes wide in the darkness, focussing on the sound. Heart thudding, she strains her ears to scan the dark, now-silent, house.
Glancing at the unruffled side of the mattress, she tells herself, Sarah, this is down to you. Don’t. Be. Scared.
Moonlight is creeping through the curtains, casting wispy shadows over the thick carpet. She folds back the covers; cool sheets gliding over the half-empty bed. She slips her legs out of the sleep-warmed softness and plants her feet silently on the floor.
Crossing to the dresser, she eases out the top drawer as quietly as she can. The runner makes a faint groan. She rummages through neatly folded clothing, moving aside the cold, leathery, neglected Bible, her fingers rifling through the tangle of fabrics until she finds it – a thick and heavy torch.
She creeps to the bedroom door, pausing and listening, trying to control her speeding breath. She turns the door handle with a trembling hand and slinks out onto the landing. Don’t be scared.
She advances down the hallway, slowly, pausing at a bedroom door. The rainbow array of stickers that flock around the name plate have had the life sucked out of them; bleached blandly grey by the moonlight falling through the window at the top of the stairs.
She stops to listen at the door. All is quiet. She adjusts her grip on the torch and tiptoes down the stairs. Senses heightened, adrenaline pumping, she notices the scent of the colour-leeched flowers on the sill and the slight squeak of the bannister under her clammy palm.
She can’t hear any noises coming from downstairs and hopes she has imagined it in a dream. She presses on, stepping stealthily along the hallway, making her way to the kitchen at the rear of the house. She stops at the closed door, listening and summoning the courage to find out what is on the other side.
She holds her breath and the silence settles around her. Slowly, she raises the torch and, brandishing it like a weapon, bursts through the door.
Nobody is there.
She can see the muted moonlight through the kitchen windows, the scalloped edges of the blinds casting waves of shadow across the linoleum floor. The room is empty. She exhales with relief.
Grasses, leaves and branches dance percussively in the back garden, a multitude of grey fingers pointing in the whispering darkness. She hears the ghostly sigh of a lone gust of wind; the small cool breath of night air blowing through a jagged tear in the door pane. The gash is leaking earthy garden smells into the room.
She switches on the torch and peers at the back door. She was right about the smashed glass.
Swinging around her spotlight, she catches a glimpse of something surprising on the kitchen counter and steadies the pool of light for a closer look.
There on the work surface is some kind of sculpture: a pyramid of pans, dishes, mugs and cutlery all arranged in an impossible pile. It looks skeletal in its tentative, precarious arrangement and has no business being there. The chunky torch thuds, brick-heavy, onto the lino by her feet and Sarah darts into the hall.
She turns on the telephone-desk lamp and flicks through an address book. Her shaky fingers turn the dial to make a call.
‘It’s me. Something really strange is happening, can you come here? Now? Okay, tomorrow morning then. We need you.’
***
And in a dark hiding place, blood is coagulating, pulled by gravity to the parts of the body resting on the dusty floor. It reddens the flesh with blotches and leaves her face an unnatural pallor – the ghoulish complexion of the recently dead.
CHAPTER 2
In another house, in another town, a youngish man wears a child-sized wizard hat and cape covered in constellations. He is waiting for a kettle to boil and watching the dawn seep across the sky.
The boiling kettle breaks his reverie, and he pours the bubbling water into a waiting mug of instant coffee. He wanders through the downstairs rooms of the house, stopping to consider the odd painting or family photograph as he goes.
A shelf of toys catches his attention, and he rolls a miniature van along on its tiny wheels. It’s the mystery machine from Scooby Doo. Then he puts it back in place and heads towards the front door. Just before reaching it, he remembers to remove the starry hat and cape and leaves them on a toy box where he found them.
He ambles across the road to a similar house and pushes open the front door.
Inside, casually sipping the freshly made coffee, he paces around the ground floor, quite aimlessly, before discovering the living room.
Spying a bookshelf, the man glides across to take a closer look. He finds a showy library of familiar titles – books that everyone has heard of, but few have read:
The I Ching, A Brief History of Time, A Room of One’s Own…
He picks out a thick copy of Hamlet and pauses, sitting on his haunches, lost in thought. After considering the volume for several minutes, he finally decides to put it back on the shelf. He pulls out a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People, tucks it under his arm and retraces his steps to the suburban street outside.
The rising sun is colouring everything pink.
Drifting approximately down the middle of the quiet avenue, the man strolls along to the end of the row, reading the book jacket as he goes. At the end of the terrace, he rounds a low wall and starts walking up the path. Seeing a child’s bike propped by the wall, he pauses and sets down the things. Then he kneels to lift the small bicycle pump from the frame. After inflating the front tyre, he stands and smiles. He props the bike back against the wall and collects the mug and book.
He continues to the building, ascends a set of exterior steps and enters a small apartment on the third floor. The neat kitchen-living room connects with a well-appointed balcony. He sets the book down on the coffee table and slides open the balcony door.
A shimmer of sunlight carves itself along the thick metal ribbon that fences the decking. A spectacular view of the bay unfurls to the south-east, beyond a stretch of willowy grasses and shore-side reeds that flutter on the morning air. The dawn’s infant rays shimmer, mesmerically, in peaky troughs on the distant waves and angle a warm glow into the living room. After a moment, the man goes back inside and starts running the bath.
As it fills, he investigates a stylish record player that nestles among a decent collection of vinyl in the living room. He sips the coffee and flips through the collection before selecting Idle Moments by Grant Green.
He takes the record from its sleeve carefully, holding its sharp, thin edges between his fingertips, and places it gently on the turntable, easing the stylus into the groove. The silver arm rides along the disc in a perfect spiral, rising and falling in millimetre waves.
The sudden, soft crackle of the speakers coming to life is followed by a laconic piano and brush snare rhythm, guitar and vibraphone soon falling in. The perfect notes fill the space and spill out into the morning. The sunrise thickens over rippling water in the bay.
He checks on the bath, which is filling nicely, agitating the foaming water with his fingers. Then he retraces his steps to the front door and opens it fully, propping it ajar with a ceramic plant pot. He ambles back through the flat and steps out onto the balcony, taking a seat on the small, cushioned bench and resting his crossed legs on the railing. Salt-tinged eddies carry the scent of fresh-cut grass and the sickly-sweet buds of late summer. Soft morning breezes tickle his toes.
A couple of coffee bubbles break gently against the inside rim of his mug. After a few minutes of tranquil sipping, he places the drink on the decking and steps up onto the balcony rail. He wobbles a little before reaching a point of equilibrium and closes his eyes.
Then the youngish man jumps off – feet-first, like a child tombstoning into water from a cliff.
***
Zoya is freewheeling on her bicycle down a very steep hill.
The bike chain whirs. Fresh, cool air slides past her face invigoratingly, sculpting her mass of soft curls into shifting shapes that flame behind her as she accelerates, beaming.
High above the town fly fast-darting speckles – swallows yet to leave for Africa. The expansive glow of dawn glints from windows with a golden pulse, outlining tiles and gutters with shadow.
Further down the hill, where the incline flattens, Zoya peels off into a formidable yet familiar street of grand old Victorian town houses and decelerates to a safer, more acceptable, speed. Faded white lines track the centre of the road in broken Morse code dashes and the residences line the route like cardboard cut-outs.
She pedals and glides around the smooth streets, enjoying the clear air, the warming morning and the peace.
She passes Carl Ridgeway as he’s opening his garage, no doubt starting the day with some early-morning do-gooding. He waves.
‘Morning, Zoya!’
‘Morning, Carl!’
She arcs around the small park, its wrought-iron fencing casting rhythmic shadows that strobe-pattern the road. As she whizzes along the quiet streets, the regular pacing of the Victorian houses soon gives way to a jazzy percussion of architectural styles.
She freewheels.
The chain of streetlamps blink out as the sunrise bathes the town in natural light. Tiny songbirds flit from bush to bush.
Zoya cuts through a mews row in an even older part of town, just because she likes the street. She spots windows pinging to life with warm, yellow light and hears car doors thudding shut as early risers get on their way. The town is waking up.
She cycles on. In the valley of straight, formal streets by the old parish church, she encounters another cyclist coming her way – the unmistakeable outline of Quentin Tosca on his magic trike. As they draw closer, she smiles to see that the white-haired eccentric is accompanied by a large, white rabbit sitting serenely in the front basket.
‘Morning, Quentin. Morning, Mrs Miggles. Lovely morning for a ride, isn’t it?’
‘Good morning, Zoya. She won’t answer you, my dear; she’s a lagomorph. Pass my warmest regards to your father!’ he replies, his voice fading into the distance as the trike passes.
Cutting through an alleyway, she emerges at the corner shop, dismounts and leans her bike casually against the wall. She goes into the shop and hears the bright, familiar chime of the old-fashioned bell on the door.
Inside, Doris Pugh is behind the counter, looking at an attractively designed poster that the Audobon brothers have brought in. They all welcome Zoya with warm smiles. She heads to the refrigerator to collect a cold milk carton, clammy with condensation, and then joins them at the till.
Felix Audobon, sporting his habitual cravat and neat white beard, hands her a flyer.
‘Zoya, my dear! Are you coming to the fair?’
‘I hope so. I’ve told Tom and Rhoda I’d love to “woman” the stall there… This looks really good!’
‘Will your father be able to make it down for the fair, do you think?’ Caspar Audobon asks, thumbing his braces absent-mindedly. ‘Do invite him, won’t you?’
‘Of course. How’s it all coming along?’
‘Wonderfully. Can’t think why it has taken Shilly-on-Sea so long to come up with it.’
‘Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help…’ Zoya says brightly.
‘Thank you my dear, you are a sweetheart!’ Caspar exclaims, ‘but I’m sure you have plenty to keep you busy.’
‘We just hope to see you there, darling,’ Felix adds, ‘enjoying yourself.’
‘Okay, well, I have to get back with this milk – breakfasts are depending on it. See you soon.’
Zoya leaves the shop, stows the milk carton in the basket and mounts her bicycle. Pedalling off, this time, in the direction of the steep road that leads straight to the distinctive house on the hill.
CHAPTER 3
In the Stevens’ suburban semi, a flurry of police activity is taking place.
Officers are busy taping off the kitchen door and back garden, taking photographs, sketching plans, dusting for prints and generally making a mess of Sarah’s linoleum. A couple of constables can be seen through the open doorway, checking for footprints in the back garden beyond.
Sarah watches the changing choreography of uniformed figures with a worried frown as Chief Inspector Frank Barrow stands with her at the countertop. They are at the side with the cooker and the utensils arranged like flowers in a vase, not the other side… with the thing.
The Formica slab presses its angular corners into her palm as she leans anxiously on the edge, gripping a little too hard. Sarah’s eight-year-old son, Matthew, clings shyly to her other hand, his slim matchstick fingers warm in her palm. She catches the chemical scent of the fingerprint dust being brushed all over her kitchen door and windows. The smell is mingling with the whiff of the earthy soil being trekked across her recently bleached floor. She wrinkles her nose.
‘Thanks for coming over,’ she says, again.
‘We take all reported crimes seriously. And you’re still our sister-in-law, Sarah. At least as far as Vanessa and I are concerned. We know you’ve had a rough–’
‘Thanks anyway,’ she interjects, cutting him off. ‘Will you find the burglar?’
‘About that… It doesn’t look like anyone actually entered the house, and nothing’s taken, you say? So, it’s just the broken pane and…’ – he nods towards the awkwardly balanced kitchen sculpture – ‘that.’
‘Don’t move anything!’ Sarah pleads.
A constable stops before handling one of the mugs.
Then, calming down, she adds: ‘Please, can you just leave it where it is, please. I’ve got someone coming to look at that.’
***
Piping coffee pours into the stripey mug and Zoya nods at the customer who is thanking her for his refill.
She carries the jug back to its place behind the long, shiny counter and watches a small, fluffy cloud traverse the sky.
A friendly voice cuts through the moment.
‘Thanks, see you later.’
‘Bye, Cara, see you later!’ she replies, before her friend slips out through the glassy porch at the corner nearest the beach.
Zoya collects a warm plate of full English breakfast from the kitchen hatch. The smell of fried meats and eggs and toasting bread is even stronger there. She serves the meal to the customer, placing it on the table with a smile. On her way back to the counter, she notices Rhoda Sorrel crouched by a high chair, entertaining a small child. She is dancing a small plastic elephant along the tabletop towards the girl and doing a funny little voice. The toddler giggles as the elephant ‘jumps’ onto her shoulder.
The child’s mother emerges from the café toilet and thanks Rhoda for watching her.
‘It’s my absolute pleasure,’ Rhoda replies, standing up. ‘She’s a dream.’
Her husband, Tom, emerges through the staff door next to the kitchen and hands Rhoda a jacket. They are on their way out.
‘So, you’ll be alright until Lee is in at 11?’ Tom checks as they move toward the door.
‘Yes, that’s the breakfast rush over with now. Alan and I can manage perfectly well, don’t worry. We’ve only run the café several million times before,’ Zoya answers playfully. Then her features fall into a more serious expression and she lowers her voice. ‘Good luck with… everything today,’ she says, holding the gaze of Rhoda who smiles weakly back.
‘Thanks, Zoya,’ she almost whispers, a touch of emotion moistening her eye.
Tom strokes his wife’s long silky hair protectively and they turn to leave. Through the windows that curl from corner to corner, Zoya watches as they walk along the high street to their car. She sees Tom putting his arm around Rhoda protectively, the sea breeze catching their hair as they go.
The door swings open again, almost immediately, and the swell of seaside sounds flash suddenly into the café before receding again to the ambient window-muffled soundtrack of distant bird calls, seagull shrieks and gentle waves that accompany life in the small coastal town.
A young lad in baggy jeans and check shirt bounces in, swinging a bundled stack of magazines.
‘Where’d’you want them?’ he asks her, running his words together.
‘What’s that?’
‘Porden Chronicle. Hot off the press. Shall I leave them over here by your noticeboard?’
‘Oh yes, sure, thanks.’
Using his handy pocketknife to cut the bundle cord, Evan deposits the stack alongside other local flyers and adverts on the small table.
‘Actually, you’re in it this week. Not you personally, but Shilly. Page 17. Creepy!’
He grins, flicking his curtained hair off his face.
Zoya shifts behind the counter, looking slightly puzzled, so the delivery lad hands her the top copy before turning to head back to his van.
‘Thanks. Er… Don’t believe everything you read…?’
‘See you next time,’ Evan calls, chuckling, then leaves the café, hopping back into his van, which he had left running, radio blaring, at the kerbside.
Sunshine is pouring through the glass, causing the thin mullions to shadow-slice the airy space into segments like a cake.
Finding the café at a quiet lull, Zoya flicks through the local magazine to page 17 to find a small article headed POLTERGEIST SPOTTED IN SHILLY-ON-SEA.
Together with a black-and-white photograph showing some dining chairs stacked up in a weird arrangement, she finds an odd little story.
Spooky happenings have been observed in a suburban house in Shilly-on-Sea that the resident, a 35-year-old housewife, is at a loss to explain. A disturbance in the middle of the night led to the discovery of the ghostly sculpture made of kitchen utensils but no sighting of the spectre itself. Paranormal experts stated that this is the typical behaviour of a poltergeist, which is a type of ghost that moves physical objects around, often creating balancing sculptures out of dining chairs (pictured) or other household items, and stress there is no reason to be scared.
Zoya rolls her eyes and guffaws a little.
‘So, what’s the creepy story?’ Ray asks, between glugs of hot black coffee, his eyes twinkling.
‘Oh, some nonsense about a poltergeist stacking stuff up. Just some ridiculous story. I don’t know how they get away with putting stuff like that in.’
‘The Chronicle? Well known for it. I don’t know who runs that paper, but they seem to be frustrated ghost hunters. Always slipping in crazy stories and supernatural stuff. You don’t believe in that rubbish, do you?’
‘Of course not.’
***
In another café in another town, a youngish man in a striped T-shirt is sipping coffee and reading the paper.
‘You certainly drink a lot of caffeine.’
Looking up, he sees the slim, balding waiter who served him and notices that he is now the only customer in the place. It seems he is in for a conversation, like it or not, so he prepares to open up – but just a little.
‘I don’t sleep very well. Wake up tired,’ he replies.
‘Is that your van?’
The waiter is looking out of the window towards an old Volkswagen parked across the street. It stands proudly, like an oversized yet perfectly proved loaf of bread, the chrome work reflecting flashes of afternoon sun.
The man follows the waiter’s gaze, then, reassured that nothing is amiss, turns back to answer.
‘Yep. 1973 bay. Neptune Blue.’
The waiter smooths his linen apron and looks at the vehicle appreciatively. It is the colour of British seawater, topped with a pristine white roof, and is evidently well cared for, despite its vintage.
‘Are you new in town? I haven’t seen you around – until this week.’ He smooths his grey-green apron once more.
‘No. I live there.’ The man nods towards the camper van. Small sets of patterned curtains hang listlessly at the windows as evidence. ‘Just passing through,’ he concludes.
He returns to the pile of papers and starts leafing through a local magazine. The waiter hovers, imagining a life on the road.
‘Don’t you get lonely?’ he asks.
The man turns a page and spots an unusual story.
‘That’s near here isn’t it?’
‘Well, it’s a local magazine.’
‘Shilly-on-Sea – how far is that from here?’
‘Not far, I suppose. It’s the other end of the county but that’s not so far. There’s not much there, you know. Tourists usually give it a miss.’
‘What’s my best route?’
‘Well, you can take the main road and turn off at Axworth, follow signs to Kembleton, keep going; it’s not far from there. Or just follow the coast road. Shouldn’t take too long.’
The man tears the article from the paper and rises from the table to leave.
‘What about your toastie?’ the waiter asks, in a worried tone of voice.
‘Can you wrap it up for me to take away instead, please?’
‘There’s no rush, you’ll get there long before nightfall.’
‘Good to know, but I might make some stops along the way.’
A short time later, the waiter hands over the napkin-wrapped toastie and the man hurries towards the door. The waiter watches, perplexed.
‘Places to go, weird shit to see,’ he explains as he dashes off.
Across the road he slides open the camper door, opens a wall-mounted cupboard and adds the torn magazine story to a collage of other tattered articles. Then he hops into the driver’s seat and turns the key. The engine ticks over obediently and he sets off for the coast road.
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