MICHAEL MARSHALL SMITH
I’m going to tell a little fib to start off with. Don’t worry—I’ll let you know what it was, later on. What I leave you with will be the truth. I promise.
But I’ll tell you the other stuff first.
And I’m pregnant.
When it started, I’d been out for the evening. A work dinner, which meant a few hours in an Italian restaurant in Soho while my boss rambled over the challenges facing his company in these tough economic times, and was fairly good about not glancing down my blouse. He’s not a bad guy and he’s married and I know he wants to stay that way, so I let the looks pass. I’m sure that the sisterhood—or the sleek academics and marketable malcontents that pass for it these days—would argue that I should give him a hard time about it, preferably in public and accompanied by a brisk slap upside the head, but I can’t be bothered. Men have been sneaking peeks at women’s bodies (and vice versa, let’s speak true, our waiter had a butt you could have bounced a sugar lump off) since we were covered in a pelt of fur, and I don’t see the practice dying out any day soon. It’s all very well for the sisterhood. They work in free-range all-female collectives where the issue doesn’t arise or else sit preening in universities where the guys are all so weedy and beardy and institutionalized that they don’t dare step out of line. Try pulling that Camille Paglia shit in the real world and you’ll wind up quickly unemployed, not to mention notoriously single.
It wasn’t a long dinner, and even after tubing back I was still home by half past nine. I own a very small house in an area of North London called Kentish Town, not far from the station and the main road. Kentish Town is basically now an interstice between the nicer and more expensive neighborhoods of Hampstead, Highgate and Camden, but before it was subsumed into urban sprawl it had been a place of slight note, open country enlivened by the attractive river Fleet—sourced in springs up on Hampstead Heath but long-ago so snarled and polluted that it was eventually lost, paved over for its entire length and redirected into an underground sewer.
My narrow little house stands close to where it once ran, in the middle of a short mid-Victorian terrace, and is three (and a bit) stories high with a scrap of garden out back, halved in size by a galley-kitchen extension put in by the previous owner. Originally, so I was told by said owner, the homes were built to house the families of men working on the railway line, and it’s remarkably unremarkable except for the fact that one side of my garden is bounded by an old stone wall, inset into which is a badly weathered stone plaque mentioning St. John’s College. A little research turned up the fact that hundreds of years before the land that these houses were built on—and a chunk of Kentish Town itself—had belonged to the College, part of Cambridge University. Why a college would have owned a garden a hundred miles away is beyond me, but then, I’ve never understood the appeal of reality television or Colin Firth, either, so it’s possible I’m just a bit dim.
Here endeth the tour.
It’s a very small house but I’m lucky to have it at all, given London’s lunatic house prices. Well—not just lucky. Oh, how my friends took the piss when I bought my first apartment and shackled myself with a mortgage straight out of university, but now that I’ve been able to swap up to a place with an actual staircase and they’re still renting crappy two-bed apartments in excessively multicultural neighborhoods, it’s not so damn funny, it appears (except to me, of course).
Once indoors I hung up my coat, kicked off my shoes and undid the top button of my skirt in an effort to increase my physical comfort in a postpasta universe. Thus civilianized, I wandered through the living room (an epic journey of exactly five paces) and into the kitchen, where I zoned out while waiting for the kettle to boil. I’d drunk only two glasses of wine but I was tired, and the combination put me into a fuzzy trance.
Then, for no reason I was conscious of, I turned and looked out into the living room.
The kettle had just finished boiling, sending a cloud of steam up around my face, and yet there was a cold spot on the back of my neck.
Someone’s been in my house.
I knew it without doubt. Or felt I did, anyway. I’ve always believed it a romantic notion (in the sense of “sweet, but deluded”) that you would somehow know if someone had been in your house—that the intrusion of a stranger would leave some tangible psychic trace; that your dwelling is your friend and will tattle on an interloper.
A house is nothing more than walls and a roof and a collection of furnishings and objects—most chosen on the grounds of economy, not with boundless attention or existential rigor—and the only difference between you and every other person on the planet is that you’re entitled by law to be there. And yet I knew it.
I knew someone had been in my house.
What if he’s still here?
The kitchen extension has a side door—my back door, I guess—which leads into the garden. I could open it, slip out that way. I couldn’t get far, though, as the neighbors’ gardens are the other side of high fences (in one case built upon the remains of that old wall). I didn’t like the idea for other reasons, too.
It was my fucking house and I didn’t want to flee from it, not to mention I’d feel an utter fool if I was discovered trying to shin my way over a fence into a neighbor’s garden on the basis of a “feeling.” That’s exactly the kind of feeble shit that gives us chicks a bad name.
I reached out to the door, however. I turned the handle, gently, and discovered . . . it was unlocked.
I knew the front door had been locked, too—I’d unlocked it on my return from dinner. All the windows in the kitchen were closed and locked, and from where I stood, still frozen in place, I could see the big window at the front of the living room was locked, too.
There was, in other words, only one possible way in which someone could have got into the house—and that was if I’d left the back door unlocked when I left the house that morning.
I didn’t know anything about the tactics of housebreaking, but suspected that you’d leave your point of entry open (or at least ajar) while you were on the premises, to make it easier to effect a rapid exit if the householder returned home. You wouldn’t close it.
My back door had been closed. Which meant hopefully he wasn’t still on the premises.
I relaxed, just a little.
I tiptoed back through the living room to the bottom of the stairs and peered up them, listening hard. I couldn’t hear anything, and I know from experience that the wooden floors up there are impossible to traverse without setting off a cavalcade of creaks—that sometimes the damned things will creak in the dead of night even if there’s no one treading on them, especially the ones on the very top floor.
“Hello?”
I held my breath, listening for movement from above. Nothing. Absolute silence.
So I went on a cautious tour of the house. The bathroom and so-called guest room on the first floor; the bedroom and clothes-storage-pit on the next; and finally the minuscule “attic” room at the very top, situated up its own stunted little flight of five stairs. According to the previous owner, this would originally have been intended for a housemaid. She’d have needed to be a tiny fucking housemaid, I’d always thought.
The space was so small that any normal-sized person would have to sleep curled up in a ball. She wouldn’t have been able to stand up in the space, either, as I’d confirmed only the day before. I’d finally got round to hoicking out and charity-shopping a few old boxes of crap that had been languishing in there since I moved in. During the process I straightened at one point without thinking, banging my head on the dusty old beam hard enough to break the skin, causing a drop or two of blood to fall to the wooden floorboards.
I could still see where they’d fallen, but at least the tiny room was tidy now.
And empty, along with all the other rooms.
The whole house looked exactly as it had when I’d left that morning, i.e., like the lair of a twenty-eight-year-old professional woman who—while not a total slattern—isn’t obsessed with tidiness. Nothing out of place, nothing missing, nothing moved. Nobody there.
And there never had been, of course. The sense I believed I’d had, the feeling that someone had been inside, was simply wrong.
That’s all.
By the time I reached the ground floor again I was wondering whether I was actually going to watch television (my previously intended course of action) or if I should have a bath and go to bed instead. Or maybe just go straight to bed, with a book. Or magazine. I couldn’t quite settle on a plan.
Then I thought of something else.
I shook my head, decided it was silly, but wearily tromped toward the kitchen. Might as well check.
I flicked the kettle back on to make a cuppa for bed (having decided on the way it was now late enough without spending an hour half-watching crap television, and showering tomorrow morning would do just fine, given the emptiness of my bed). Once a teabag was in the cup waiting, I turned my attention to the bread bin.
My mother gave this to me, a moving-in present when I bought the house. It’s fashioned in an overtly rustic style and would look simply fabulous if placed within easy reach of an AGA in a country kitchen (which my mother has, and would like me to have too, preferably soon and in the company of an only moderately boring young man who would commute from there to a well-paid job in the City while also helping me to start popping out children at a steady clip). In my current abode the bread bin merely looks unfeasibly large.
I don’t actually eat bread either, or not often, as it gives me the bloat something chronic. I was therefore confident that it should be empty of baked goods but for a few crumbs and maybe a rock-hard croissant.
Nonetheless this is what I had come to check.
I lifted the handle on the front, releasing a faint scent of long-ago sliced bread. Then I let out a small shriek, and jumped back.
The front of the bin dropped with a clatter which sounded very loud. I opened it again and blinked at the interior, then cautiously reached out.
Inside my bread bin was a note. I took it out.
It said:
It’s very pretty. And so are you
I need to backtrack a little here.
Years ago, in the summer after I left college, I went on a trip to America. I can’t really describe it as “traveling,” as I rented a car and stayed in motels most of the time—rather than heroically hitchhiking and bunking down in vile hostels or camping in the woods, dodging psycho killers, poison oak and ticks full to bursting with Lyme disease—but it was me out there on my own for two months, and so it qualifies for the word “trip” in my book.
In the middle of it I lodged for five days with some old friends of my parents, a genteel couple called Brian and Randall who lived in decaying grandeur in an old house in a small town near the Adirondack Mountains of New York State, the name of which escapes me. It was a pleasant interval, during which I learned that Mozart is not all bad, that my mother had once vomited for two hours after an evening sampling port wines, and that you can perk up cottage cheese no end by stirring some fresh dill into it. Fact.
I noticed something the first night I was there. Randall had gone upstairs to bed. Brian, by a slender margin the more butch of the two, sat up with me awhile longer, conferring advice on sights in the locale that were worth a detour (almost none, according to him).
As we said good night in the kitchen, I noticed that he checked the house’s back door was shut (without locking it, however), and hesitated for a moment in front of a small wooden box affixed to the wall immediately opposite it before giving it a little tap.
The next morning I was up early and as I made myself a cup of tea (Brian and Randall were fierce Anglophiles, having spent several years living in Oxford, and had a bewildering array of hard-core teas to choose from) I drifted over and took a look at the wooden box.
It was small, about two inches deep, nine inches wide and six inches tall. There was a hinged lid on the top and upon this had been painted the words LOOK INSIDE!
I didn’t feel that I could or should, however, and it was a couple of days later—after I’d seen Brian go through his late-night ritual twice more—that I finally asked him about it. He rolled his eyes.
“Silly idea,” he muttered. He gestured for me to come over. “See what it says?”
“‘Look Inside,’” I said.
“What does that make you want to do?”
“Well . . . look inside.”
He smiled. “Good. Go ahead.”
I opened the little box. Inside was an envelope. I looked at Brian. “Go on,” he said.
I pulled it out. The envelope was unsealed. I removed from it a cheerful greetings card which had the words WELCOME, FRIEND printed clearly on the front. Inside was another envelope, a little smaller than the first. I let this be for a moment and read the message which had been inscribed in the card:
Dear Uninvited Visitor.
Welcome to this house. We have called it ours for a long time now, and we like it very much. We hope you will find good use for what is in this card, and that it will be sufficient incentive for you to go on your way, without further loss or damage to our dear home. If so, you leave with our thanks, and our very best wishes.
Regards,
Randall & Brian
I frowned, and looked up at Brian.
“Look inside the second envelope,” he said.
I put the card down and opened the envelope. Inside, held together by a large paper clip with a smiley face on it, were bills totaling two hundred and sixty dollars.
“We started with a hundred,” Brian said. “And have raised it by twenty every year. So it must be seven years, now, I suppose. No, eight. Time does trot along, doesn’t it?” He gestured vaguely to indicate the house as a whole. “Nobody’s going to break in through the front door,” he said. “It’s right on Main Street, and in a town this small, people tend to keep a friendly eye on each other’s properties. Someone could come around the side, but breaking windows is such a chore, and prone to be noisy. So we always leave the back door unlocked.”
“What? Why?”
“Otherwise that would be the obvious way to break in, my dear, and a broken door alone would cost several hundred dollars to put right, never mind the time and inconvenience—and who knows what they’d steal or damage once they’d gained entrance? The way it stands now, someone can simply open the door and come straight in, and once you’re in the kitchen the very first thing you see is that box. Hard to resist, don’t you think?”
I was smiling, charmed by the idea. “And does it work?”
“No idea,” Brian said. “I have never once risen from my slumbers—nor returned from promenading during the day—to discover the envelope gone. The whole thing was Randall’s idea, to be honest. I generally find it’s best to let the old fool have his way. Except when it comes to the proper method for making a nice, silky hollandaise, of course, with regard to which he is . . . so very wrong.”
A couple of days later I got back into my rental car and set off to wherever I went next (a vague trawl through the Carolinas, I believe, though as my route was completely without form, and void, it all gets a bit mixed up in my mind now). I evidently brought Randall’s idea back home with me to London, however—buried beneath the levels of conscious recall until I moved into this house.
In my previous apartment it wouldn’t have made a lot of sense, what with it being on the third floor. Quite soon after I moved into my house in Kentish Town, however, I saw a little wall-box in a local knickknack store and the idea popped back into my head as if it had been waiting patiently for attention all along.
I bought the box and picked a spot on the wall, about six feet up the corridor from my front door. I spent a happy evening rather painstakingly painting the words LOOK INSIDE! onto the lid. You’d have to be charitable to describe the result as artistic, but it was legible. When I’d finished, however, and hung the result on a nail, I felt foolish.
Not because I’d done it—I was still charmed by the notion—but at stealing the fruits of someone else’s personality. This was Randall’s idea, not mine. In the house he shared with Brian (the latter sheepishly colluding, out of love) it was a song of individuality, like the mandatory dill stirred into their cottage cheese. If I did the same thing, I was merely a copycat.
So I changed it a little. Instead of putting an envelope of cash in the box on the wall, I left a note there telling them to look . . .
In the bread bin, in the kitchen.
And I didn’t make an offering of cash. I left a piece of jewelry there instead. It wasn’t a piece that meant the world to me, admittedly, but it wasn’t without emotional value, either. I’d found it in Brighton years before, paid more than I could afford at the time and had real affection for it. I chose it for the offering on the grounds that a genuine sacrifice could not be made without cost. It was probably worth about a hundred quid too, or at least that’s what I imagined you could get for it, should you show it discreetly around one of the area’s less reputable pubs.
Like Brian, I’d never yet woken or returned to find evidence that the note in the box in the hallway had been found.
Never, that is, until now.
I walked quickly back out into the hallway. I stopped when I was a few feet from the box and approached cautiously.
It looked the same as always, though to be honest I’d stopped noticing it some time ago. I looked inside.
The envelope there had been opened.
Of course it had. It had to have been. Without reading the message I’d written on the card—almost the same as the one Randall had concocted—the person wouldn’t have known to look inside the bread bin and find what was there and leave me the note.
Suddenly all the strength seemed to go from my legs, and I tottered into the living room and sat down on the sofa just in time.
The house was still empty, of course. I’d already established that, and what I’d just discovered made no difference. There was nothing to be frightened about. Nothing in the present situation, anyway.
But . . . yes, there was.
I’d been right after all. Someone had been in the house. They’d prowled around, found the box in the hallway and the note and then the jewelry in the bread bin, left a note and then . . . Gone.
What should I do? Call the police?
Well, obviously I should. Someone had been in the house and taken something. Though it was something I’d invited them to take, of course.
Unless . . .
I did another quick tour of the house and couldn’t find anything else missing. My iPod, iPad and iLaptop were all where they should be, along with my near-worthless television and DVD player. So was my other jewelry, the stuff I didn’t store in the bread bin. I even dug out my underused checkbook from the bedside drawer and established there were no checks missing from the middle (a cunning ruse I’d read about in some magazine or other—steal a few from the middle, rather than the whole book, and nobody notices they’re gone until it’s too late). I’m not sure even thieves use checks much anymore, though, and apart from a few knickknacks of purely sentimental value, there was nothing else worth nicking in the entire house. And none of it had been nicked anyway.
But someone still shouldn’t have come into my place, even if their only score was a piece of jewelry I’d effectively offered to them.
I grabbed my phone and went back into the kitchen to retrieve the note from the counter, to have it to hand over when the police arrived. Did one dial 999 in these nonurgent circumstances, or were you supposed to look up the number of the local station? I had no idea.
I hesitated, and put the phone down.
The next day at work was hectic and slightly bizarre, as the woman who shares my office appeared to have a teeny tiny mental breakdown in the late morning and stormed out, never to return. I’d always thought she was a bit bonkers and so I wasn’t totally surprised, though I was impressed by how much chaos she left in her wake.
My boss took the event admirably in his stride. He looked dispiritedly around at the mess she’d made, told me to leave it for now but asked if I’d mind answering her calls until she either came back or he could hire a replacement. This meant I was busy as hell all afternoon, but I prefer it that way. The working day slips by far more quickly when you don’t have time to think, and I’d already spent more than enough time screwing about on the Internet during the morning.
I had time to think on the tube journey home, however, and of course what I mainly thought about was what had happened the night before.
I hadn’t called the police, in the end. It was late and I was tired and although the event had freaked me out a little, I couldn’t face dealing with them.
Also . . . I just thought, Well, that’s the end of it. The police wouldn’t be able to find the thief (who wasn’t even technically a thief, of course; I suppose “intruder” is all I could legitimately say he’d been), and so it’d end up in a dusty log in the local police station and they’d give me a crime number which I could use in dealing with the insurance company if I chose to try to claim something back for the piece of jewelry.
Before I’d gone to sleep the night before I’d tidied the event away in my mind, electing not to think any more about it, and I reinforced this on the tube and throughout the five-minute walk in the freezing rain from the station—during which, wanton hedonist that I am, I also stopped at the corner shop to buy a frozen ready-meal to zap in the microwave for my tea. Plus a small tub of ice cream. And some biscuits.
This time, however, it was obvious that something was wrong the minute I stepped through the door.
One of the advantages of living by yourself is that you get to be in sole charge of certain types of decision. The central heating, for example. My father is a total miser when it comes to gas bills, and my parents’ house is so cold in winter that it’s just as well my mother does have an AGA, so she and I can go huddle around it when Dad’s not looking. Living by myself means no man gets a say in how warmly I spend my evenings. I have the heating set to come on midafternoon, so the place is nice and toasty when I get home. As soon as you close the door behind you, you’re enveloped.
Not tonight, however. The heating was on, as I could tell from touching my hand against the radiator in the hallway, but the house was chilly.
I went into the living room. The windows were all shut, but through one of them, I could see why the house wasn’t as warm as it should be.
The back door was wide-open.
It had been both closed and locked when I left for work that morning.
I thought so, anyway. I knew it had been closed, at least, but I hadn’t actually checked that it had been locked. Hadn’t even checked the key, for I knew it was in its normal place, stuck there in its lock.
I remembered my thought of the day before, that an intruder would be likely to leave a means of escape open if he was on the premises, and found my eyes drifting warily upward, to the living room ceiling and the floors beyond.
What if he was still here this time?
I got out my phone. I dialed 999, but did not press the call button.
“Is somebody here?” I called up the stairs, backing into the hallway and toward the front door. “If so, you should know that I’m calling the police. Right now.”
There was no sound from above. I knew that if there was someone in the house and he chose to get violent, I could be a bloody and broken mess in the corner of the living room before the local cops had got halfway here through the traffic on Kentish Town Road.
So I opened the front door a little and walked back to the bottom of the stairs. “The front door’s open,” I said. “I’m going to get out of your way. I’ll . . . go in the kitchen, so I won’t see you.”
Was this a good idea? Or a really stupid one?
Stupid, I decided.
“Or,” I said, “here’s another plan. I’m going to leave. I’m going to go back out of the house and stand around the corner. I won’t look this way. Shut the back door to let me know you’ve gone.”
And that’s what I did. I went out of the front door, closing it behind me, my finger still hovering over the call button on my phone. I walked quickly to the corner.
I waited ten minutes. I didn’t see anybody come out of the house. The front, anyway.
I walked back. I let myself back in, cautiously.
The back door was now closed.
I quickly ran up to the next floor, making as much noise as possible, and found it empty. Then I went right to the top, including poking my head into the tiny attic room. Nobody anywhere. No sign of anything disturbed.
When I made it back down to the kitchen, however, I realized that the back door wasn’t actually shut. The intruder had pulled it to when he left, but hadn’t closed it properly.
I pushed it open and stepped out into the garden, on impulse, even though I knew he could still be out there.
To the side of my kitchen there’s a tiny concrete patio. Beyond that is my “lawn”—a scrappy patch of grass that would be about ten feet square if it was actually a square; in fact it’s a kind of parallelogram, barely six feet wide at the far end. Because of the high hedges that surround it, the grass rarely gets much light even in summer, and it’s ragged and muddy in the winter.
And soggy enough this evening, I thought, that you should be able to see the foot marks of a departing intruder, indents from shoes or boots.
There were none.
Something else caught my eye, though, and I stepped gingerly on to the grass to have a closer look.
The garden gets its shape from the fact the left-hand wall slopes radically toward the back, and it’s this that’s made of stone and features the faded old plaque. The plaque’s low down, as if to be at child-height, not very large and made of the same basic stone as the rest of the wall. I’d been in the house for nine months before I’d ever realized it was there. All it says is—
[. . .] GARDEN
ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE
—the first word is so weather-worn and chipped that it’s unreadable. The wall must predate the buildings that now overshadow it by several hundred years, this scrap of it left by early Victorian developers because it happened to more or less coincide with the layout of the minuscule back gardens they were affording these somewhat perfunctory workingmen’s cottages.
Something was lying on the grass, close to the point in the wall where the plaque is.
It was my piece of jewelry.
Half an hour later I was in the living room with a cup of tea. The brooch was on the coffee table in front of me. The house was nice and warm now that the back door had been shut for a while.
It was my brooch, without doubt. It had a distinctive triangular design, capped at each point with a dot of some green semiprecious stone. When I’d found it in the antique store years before, I hadn’t been convinced it was even an antique. The shape was so minimalist—literally a triangle, albeit one of unequal sides and with a slight curve to all the lines—that it had looked pretty modern to my admittedly untutored eye.
It looked different now. When I’d got it back to the apartment I was living in at the time, I’d intended to have a go at cleaning it. I realized I rather liked the tarnish, however, and decided to leave it be. Over the years since, it had become darker and darker, and when I’d put it in the bread bin months and months ago, the metal had been a very dark gray indeed.
Now it shone. The silver—and there was no doubt that’s what it was made of, which meant I’d probably got more of a bargain than I’d realized—was so shiny it seemed almost white.
It didn’t merely look clean—it looked fresh-minted.
Whatever process had brought this about had revealed something else, too. There were designs all over it. Etched very lightly into the silver was an incredibly fine and detailed series of lines and curves and interlocking Celtic shapes. At first glance it seemed chaotic, but the more I looked—and I’d been sitting there for quite a while—the more I sensed there was a pattern that I hadn’t yet been able to establish. It looked beautiful, and otherworldly, and extremely old.
The problem was I was pretty convinced that the pattern hadn’t been there before.
Yes, it had been tarnished when I got it, as discussed—but in the early stages of oxidation you’ll often find that any engravings (or imperfections) in metal are more, rather than less, obvious. It’s easier to spot hallmarks, for example. You’ll glimpse a pattern, at least, especially when looking at something as closely as you do when you’re considering blowing hard-earned cash on it. I hadn’t seen any such thing.
So what was it doing there now?
I belatedly realized I hadn’t done anything about my shopping from the corner shop and had dropped my shopping bag in the middle of the room, when I’d seen the back door hanging open. I hurried over and grabbed the bag. The tub of ice cream was glistening in that way that says it’s well on the way to melting, courtesy of my generous central heating policy. I carried it to the kitchen, still worrying at the problem of the design on the brooch, and stowed the contents in the freezer of my poxy little fridge.
When I straightened, my eyes were directly in line with the bread bin. Something, I’m not sure what, made me reach out and open it.
The same smell of old bread greeted me again, though it seemed stronger this time, which made no sense.
There was a piece of paper in there, too.
I knew it couldn’t be the one I’d found the night before, as I’d put that one in the drawer of the bureau in the living room (an old and cheerless piece of crap that belonged to my grandmother).
I picked the paper up and read it.
I hope you like what I have made on it
I didn’t need to compare the handwriting on it to the other paper. It was clearly the same.
But then I realized there was another line of writing, an inch further down the page. Why hadn’t I spotted that right away? Because it was much fainter. Not as if faded, however—in fact the opposite.
As I watched, feeling the hairs rise on the back of my neck, the writing, at first so faint it was barely visible, gradually strengthened until it was as distinct as the line above.
It said—
I have designs upon you, too
No, I didn’t call the police. I could have. Probably should have. I could have told them that both lines of the message had been visible when I found the piece of paper, and I didn’t have to tell them it had been left in my bread bin. I didn’t have to say that I was convinced someone had somehow etched a faint and intricate design on an old piece of jewelry so that it looked as though it had always been there.
The problem was if I wasn’t truthful about these things, I wouldn’t be conveying the reality of the situation. They’d assume some local miscreant was making a habit of breaking in, and I already knew that wasn’t what was going on. I’d known this, or at least suspected it—and now I must finally start to be honest—since the beginning. Since I told my fib.
It was a small fib, but significant.
When I came home the night I had dinner with my boss, and first had the intuition that someone had been in my house, and checked the back door, it was unlocked. That’s what I told you, anyhow.
But it wasn’t true.
The back door was locked.
It was locked, from the inside. So were all the windows, on all the floors. So had the front door been too until I unlocked it on my way in. Nobody could have got into the house from outside to find my note in the box in the hallway and then the brooch in the kitchen.
Whoever did these things had already been inside.
I don’t know for how long. Perhaps always. That’s what I’ve come to suspect. At least since the house was built, upon land that had once been a garden meadow on a little hill, near woodland and a pretty stream now trammeled far underground.
Before the day went pear-shaped—after my coworker went sweeping out of the office and saddled me with all her work—I’d spent an hour covertly using the Internet, doing some digging I probably should have done long before. I’d always assumed that the missing word on the stone plaque on the wall in my garden was MEMORIAL—the sign put there to cordon off a patch of garden where people came to remember those now dead.
I could find no reference to such a thing in the area, however, even though the records for this part of London are pretty good, and I’d never understood why the plaque was positioned so low, as if for the eyes of people well below normal height.
I did find a single mention of an “Offering Garden.” An uncited reference on a rather amateur-looking local history site, claiming that the old stretch of open countryside belonging to St. John’s College had featured an example of the long-forgotten practice of securely walling off a portion of any meadow or hillside or forest that had a reputation for being home or playground to wood-nixies or elementals, coinhabitants of our world that could not be seen, the idea being, apparently, that any such creatures would remain within such walls. Forever.
The people who eventually developed the area, several hundred years later, would not have known this. The practices and the beliefs supporting it had long ago died out. They could not have been expected to notice, either, or to care, that the weathering on the plaque was very uneven, almost as if someone had chipped away at the first word in order to obscure the wall’s original purpose.
Just before my ex-colleague had her meltdown and I had to stop looking, I finally tracked down a website with a very old map of this part of Kentish Town. It had been badly reproduced and was hard to make out, but seemed to show a small, boundaried portion within a fifty-acre parcel belonging to a Cambridge college. The circumscribed area was not named or labeled, but by superimposing it upon a modern-day Ordnance Survey map of my street, I was able to establish both that the plaque must have been placed on the inside of the wall, and that the area it had encompassed had not been very large.
Just big enough to include my house.
I eventually microwaved my dinner and ate it in front of the television, turning it up loud. The frozen curry tasted a lot better than I expected. The ice cream was really good too, and I finished the entire pack of biscuits. My appetite was greater than usual, despite an odd tickle of nervousness in the pit of my stomach.
I had a bath. As I dried myself afterward I thought I noticed some very fine lines on the skin of my shoulders, not quite random, and when I went up to bed I discovered the room smelled faintly of new bread.
Not quite of bread, in fact. Though the odor was reminiscent of a fresh-baked loaf, now that it was divorced from the bread bin in the kitchen I realized it was actually closer to the smell of healthy grass, warmed by a summer sun. Warm grass or recently opened flowers, perhaps. Something vital, but secret.
Something very old.
I saw that the cover on my bed had been folded back. Neatly, as if in hopeful invitation. A piece of paper lay in the area that had been revealed—
Soon, pretty one
—was all it said at first.
As I watched, however, another line revealed itself. It was delivered to me slowly, as if brought to life by the moonlight coming in through the window.
All I need is a little more blood
It was then that I heard the first faint creaks, like small feet on very old floorboards, coming from the little attic room above.
Though it turns out he’s not so small.
If you know what I mean.