LUCY STUDIED SAM as she hung back, trailing behind him and his sister, watching as they skirted the lawns that dropped from the front of the big house, happy to follow them along their alternative route that avoided the overgrown pathway, and the potential dress-snagging opportunities that went along with negotiating it.
She hoped her public freak-out hadn’t in any way harmed their friendship; that would truly upset her. With the obvious exception of both her mother and her grandmother, she cared about Sam – about his feelings – more than anyone.
She turned her attention to Hilly, who no longer seemed to be needing the comfort of her brother’s embrace. Good, she thought…
*
Hilly’s mind was swirling in a dream-state, rerunning through her mind what she saw, or at least, what she thought she saw, rising from the stagnating waters of the pool. As insane as the idea was to her, it did look so utterly real, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was, however unlikely the premise, or preposterous the idea.
No, she thought to herself, don’t be so ridiculous. It can’t have happened.
One of the few things Hilly and her brother could truly claim they shared, was a deep and abiding love of all things horror, and it would be a regular occurrence, against their father’s wishes, but he would say ‘better judgment’, to take in a horror movie together, to exercise their fear emotions. So she knew, or at least she felt she knew, that she wasn’t one to scare easily. Or do I? she now had to wonder.
She pondered the possibility that her father’s fears about her watching ‘those types of film’ were justified? Giving consideration to what was effectively a moot point with more of an open mind and less of a defensive stance than she normally would.
Could they be influencing my perceptions, twisting them to see the macabre, before seeing what’s real? she considered – with far less ridicule than she ever had before in the light of recent events.
But she shook her head clear of the idea, trying to shrug off any notion that she actually saw a hand rising from the pool. How could it have possibly been a hand, she thought, feeling more than a little ridiculous about delivering such an out-of-character outburst…
*
Sam turned to check on his sister… She seemed fine, if a little distracted. ‘Thank Christ for that,’ he muttered under his breath.
He spun a look behind to Lucy. She quickly snapped her head away, pretending she was looking elsewhere.
Sam dropped a smirk to the ground, heart warmed at receiving any form of attention from one he unquestionably had feelings for.
*
What the fucking hell did you do that for? Lucy thought to herself. It’s perfectly normal to just be looking, now he’s going to know I was watching him. She rolled her head in despair. ‘Weirdo!’ she muttered, berating herself and her actions.
She flicked a momentary glance back towards him through the corner of her eye, but he was no longer watching, far too gallant to hang back and see if she would look back at him.
That’s the one thing she’d always liked about Sam, in many ways, somewhat of an old-fashioned ‘gent’.
Although a full year younger than Lucy, because he was so much more knowledgeable about stuff, about the real world than Lucy was, or likely would ever be, she often found herself looking on him as the eldest of the trio.
Lucy tilted her gaze. She actually thought him really rather handsome, but she tended to try and steer her mind clear of such thoughts, not wishing to risk ruining her most prized friendship.
She watched him strolling down the bank, his frame tall and strong for one so relatively young. He slowly extended an arm up to grasp some low-hanging leaves from one of the trees that encircled the lawns. Lucy’s eyes tracked his fingers, the flexing branch attempting to follow his grasp until the leaf stems relented.
She watched his hand drop again from the recoiling limb, clutching the liberated foliage… The sight catapulted her consciousness back up the hill to the side of the pool: to the carvings, the butterfly, the watching windows, to the contorted terror worn tightly across Hilly’s face, and the sheer abnormality of the sight she’d claimed she saw.
Lucy recollected a story that Mary Tucker from the newsagents in Deerbourne had regaled with an inappropriate level of effervescent levity only a week before. A tale of how the local priest, a father Dylan, had ridden to Hobswyke to question Mallette about yet another child missing from the local area, strongly suspecting Mallette’s involvement.
A land worker witnessed the heated exchange. Hot words were swapped, threats made, and the priest eventually departed in a haze of bad blood, but he never made it back.
His shattered remains were found two days later on the bridleway that ran between Hobswyke and Deerbourne. His body was so broken, and his spine so twisted that his head and shoulders faced fully backwards.
The horse was also dead, something apparently so startling it that it ran into a tree with force enough to break its neck and shatter both front legs.
Lucy pirouetted to walk backwards, staring up at the gothic monstrosity that seemed to be calling to her from the top of the bank… The keys, she thought, where are those keys?
They all eventually reached the bottom of the slope, and ducked through a break in the hedgerow that cut back onto the path by the fork.
‘I’m going to go home for a bit,’ Lucy announced. ‘I’ve erm – I’ve got stuff to sort out, things I need to do. Okay?’ She turned to Hilly. ‘Are you going to be alright?’
Hilly nodded quietly, forcing an embarrassed smile.
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Sam, giving her shoulder a brotherly shake. ‘Too much Stephen King, that’s all.’
Lucy forced a temperate smile towards the young girl to mask her concerns. ‘You’ll be okay. And I’ll see you both later.’
She smiled her goodbyes, and turned to make her way up the path…
‘Oh!’ she remembered, spinning on her heels. ‘Can you tell your dad our kitchen taps are dripping? Mum asked if he could pop over to take look at them.’
‘Okay, Luce,’ Sam replied, ‘I’ll do just that.’
Lucy showed her gratitude with another parting smile, and set off up the path again.
Sam stood watching her leave, tilting a fond-filled gaze, before remembering he wasn’t alone.
He snapped from his dreams, and turned to collect his sister. They made their way down the lane towards their cottage…
*
Lucy reached the top of the path. She could see her mother ahead of her up a ladder, pruning the roses that blanketed the outside of the gatehouse. She strode up the bank with conviction to hide her apprehension…
She had questions tumbling through her confused mind about the old house that she begged to have answered. She was unable to shake the notion that there was way more to everything than she knew, and her mother – for whatever reason – was keeping it from her.
She sensed that there was something very wrong with Hobswyke, call it a hunch, or intuition, together with reconsideration of some of the more unusual events from the past that she’d not thought relevant until now. But five years had passed, she was five years older, five years wiser, and unlike before, now, she could feel it.
‘Hi, love, how are you enjoying your new, school-free existence?’ her mother quipped airily over her shoulder.
‘Yep, I can’t deny it, it’s really rather nice,’ she replied, trying to ignore the subliminal images of the steps, the house, the pool, the fingers rising from the inky depths flashing sporadically through her thoughts.
‘Where did you walk?’ her mother asked, amputating a length of Virginia creeper that was growing aggressively through the roses.
‘Oh, you know, just around, towards the lake, that sort of thing.’
‘Well, it’s certainly a beautiful day for a stroll. Some vitamin D on your skin won’t do you any harm. You’ve not been getting much of that of late, cooped-up in a classroom, aye.’
‘That’s for sure,’ she agreed, faking a laugh, trying to find an in within the standard banter.
‘I um… I also went over to take a look at the big house. I’ve not been to that side of the grounds for quite a while, so I wandered across to have a look,’ she announced, as nonchalantly as she could.
Her mother suddenly ceased pruning, and stood motionless on the ladder… She just stared straight ahead at the wall. ‘…You went to the house?’ she asked. Her voice seemed strange.
‘Well? Yeah. I’ve not seen the place for ages, so I thought – you know – I’d go up and have a look around.’
Her mother said nothing, just stared at the wall. She dropped her head slightly. ‘And, did you… ’
‘Did I what?’
‘…Did you, see anything?’ she asked, twisting her face subtly towards her shoulder. A peculiar tone was infesting her voice, like she was feigning disinterest within her interrogation of Lucy’s movements.
‘Like what?’
Her mother didn’t reply, she just hung static on the ladder… ‘Nothing,’ she chirped, erupting back to life.
Lucy’s mother climbed down from the ladder, then paused at the bottom facing the rungs…
She turned to front Lucy. ‘Listen, love. I-I don’t want you going over there, to that house – the house, I mean.’
‘Why?’
‘I… I just don’t. I don’t want you going anywhere near the place. It’s dangerous.’ She stooped to look into the confusion in Lucy’s eyes. ‘Until I’ve managed to raise the money, and we can afford to get it renovated, it’s not safe, that’s all.’ She dropped a smile into Lucy’s searching eyes. ‘I just don’t want you getting hurt, love, okay?’
Lucy gazed back at her, trying in earnest to mask the disbelief burning her cheeks. How the hell can she lie to me like that, she thought, knowing that money had absolutely nothing to do with any of it.
But one thing was for certain, now more than ever: Lucy wanted to find those keys!
A bright but insipid bell rang out. A bicycle approached along the main drive. ‘I hear you’ve got a bit of a drip, and I’m not talking about Lucy.’
Peter Fletcher arrived on his heavy, ex-postal service bike, flashing mocking eyes at Lucy.
She returned the favour. ‘You can talk. The only drip in these parts, is you,’ she crowed, smirking. ‘Get the garlic everyone! Run for your lives! It’s Count Dripular!’ She held out crossed fingers towards him and screamed. He laughed.
Lucy was extremely fond of Mr Fletcher, he was what she would describe as a lovely man.
Having never had an actual father in her life, Lucy – on occasion – would allow him to fulfil that role for her. She was also aware that her mother would sometimes utilise him as a sort of surrogate husband, whenever she felt the pang of single motherhood.
‘How are you then, young lady?’ he asked, unhooking a bag of tools from his handlebars.
‘Yeeeeeah. I’m good thanks, Mr F,’ she said, genuinely happy to see him.
He strolled up the path towards her. She walked down to meet him, turning to join him, and linked her arm through his.
They ambled up the path together in rhythm. ‘Sam was telling me your exams went well?’ he enquired, with genuine interest, you could almost say fatherly.
‘Yeah, they did. Well – I think they did. I had no problems, so, we’ll see. Only time will tell I guess.’ She flashed a smile across at him as they sauntered towards her mother.
Over the years, Peter had witnessed Lucy gradually bloom into the caring, beautiful young girl she now was. He had known her, and been there for her, for pretty much the entirety of her life.
They’d always had a very strong bond, but it had changed colour of late as Lucy had become far more adult in her ways, bringing them more on a par as people, becoming more like friends than ever before, with a far more pally feel to their interactions, and Peter couldn’t feel prouder of having played even the smallest of parts in raising the girl that now linked his arm.
‘Hi, Pete,’ choired Helen, slipping her gardening gloves off as she crossed the lawn to greet him, leaning in to deposit a friendly kiss on his cheek.
‘Hey, Hel. How are you?’ He smiled. ‘Those roses are looking great. They’re really starting to come through.’ His elated gaze painted the walls of the cottage, admiring the mass eruption of colour blanketing the brickwork. ‘They’re erm, they’re hanging over a bit. Would you like me to help tie them back while I’m here?’
‘Aw would you? That would be great,’ she responded. ‘But, before you do that, could you possibly take a look at the—’
‘The taps?’ he cut in. ‘Of course. I’ll sort it out for you right now. It’s top of my list.’ He beamed at Lucy and gave her arm back. ‘It shouldn’t take too long, no doubt it’ll just need a new washer.’
‘Thanks, Pete,’ Helen beamed.
He nodded a gracious, parting smile towards the two beautiful women in his life, then made his way round to the front door.
Lucy turned to face her mother, prompted by the rasping of aluminium being dragged against the undulations of sandstone blockwork. Her mother struggled to reposition the unwieldy ladder across to the next floral explosion that needed quelling.
Lucy squinted, the mechanics of her mind in full reciprocation, deciding how far she was willing to push her naturally honest nature out of its comfort zone. She pondered whether a decision to withhold information constituted a lie… Somehow, she managed to convince herself it didn’t.
‘Mum. Can I borrow your necklace, the silver one I like?’
‘Yes, of course, love. You know where it is,’ she agreed, happily. ‘Oooooo,’ she sang in a mocking tone. ‘First, your favourite dress, and now jewellery. Who is Lucy out to impress?’ she jibed.
‘Oh – whatever. No one. We’re not all desperate for constant male attention you know,’ she fired back acrimoniously. Her mother laughed.
Lucy turned to make her way inside ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she called, glancing back to check she wasn’t being followed… She wasn’t, her mother was already halfway up the ladder again.
Lucy rounded the corner nonchalantly, then gradually sped up her walk, until she was in a full sprint through the door, across the hall, and up the staircase.
She thundered along the landing and darted into her mother’s bedroom, instantly making for the jewellery box on top of the chest of drawers.
She pulled it towards her, flipped the lid open, and began scanning the tangle of chains, clasps and earrings.
She stirred the chaos with her fingers, scanning for a glimpse of a shape she recognised… She found what she was looking for, and frantically began pinching her fingers towards it before it was lost in the tendrils of the mess again…
‘Got it!’ she fizzled, triumphantly, drawing out the necklace and carefully folding it into her hand.
Having fulfilled the prerequisite for why she was searching in her mother’s room, she now retuned her focus to what she was actually there to find. ‘The keys,’ she said out loud, ‘where are those bloody keys?’
With the jewellery box still open, she continued sifting through the detritus left over from a lifetime’s worth of dressing-up, but now, harbouring an image of the keys she so desperately wanted to find… But after a minute rearranging the chaos, she realised they weren’t there.
‘Fuck!’ she hissed, closing the box and turning to scan the rest of the room. ‘Where would I keep them?’ she muttered, attempting to channel her mother.
She strode urgently across to the wardrobe, flinging the doors open.
She scanned the inside of the cabinet, and made for the handbags, opening them all one at a time, scooping her fingers through all of the pockets and compartments, listening for the telltale jingle of slithers of metal shackled together by a common fob. But nothing! ‘Shhhhit!’ she spat.
She closed the doors again, spun around, and rested her back against them. She rescanned the room… The drawers! she thought to herself. It’s got to be the drawers.
She strode back across to the chest of drawers, and started pulling them out one at a time, sliding her hands beneath the stacks of neatly folded clothing, feeling for anything not fashioned from cloth. How much tidier they looked compared to the jewellery box.
She heard a noise behind her, she sucked in breath and snapped her head round, half expecting to see her mother, standing in the doorway, wearing a mixture of shock and disappointment across her face. But she wasn’t there.
Lucy hung static in the silence, her breaths shallow, listening for any perceivable sounds from the stairwell…
A metallic clank rang out from the kitchen and echoed up the staircase. It was Peter.
She exhaled, expelling the coiled panic from her knotted stomach.
She turned back, took a breath, and continued to ransack her mother’s belongings…
‘Nothing!’ she hissed in frustration. ‘God damn it!’ She was all out of ideas, realising that if the keys weren’t hidden somewhere that she would expect find them, then they’ll likely be stashed in any one of a thousand possible places that it was going to be near impossible to find.
But what she was now certain of, was that there had to be a very good reason why her mother was hiding the keys, and she wanted desperately to know what that was.
‘Lucy. Did you managed to find it?’ her mother called, starting up the staircase, every creak of a tread hailing each footstep she was nearer to the bedroom.
Lucy shuddered as panic flooded her whole body with adrenalin. She began to straighten and close every draw before the shadow of her mother appears in the doorway behind her…
She could hear the footsteps getting louder, closer, then become muted. She was on the carpeted landing!
Lucy quickly slid the jewellery box back towards her, while her other hand roughly straightened the last drawer, before rapidly pushing it closed, and at the same time, slowly sliding the jewellery box back to where it usually lived in an attempt to mask the sound of the drawer.
Her mother stepped through the door just in time to see the box settle, and Lucy turn to face her – she’d timed it perfectly.
Lucy attempted to look nonchalant, but inside, she was quaking.
‘Did you find it, love?’ her mother asked, as she rounded the end of the bed.
‘Yes, I-I did. Here it is.’ She opened her sweat-glazed hand to display the trinket.
‘Do you want me to help you put it on?’
‘No! I mean – I can do it,’ she said, not wanting her mother to feel the panic-perspiration coating her neck. ‘I need to wash first before I put it on. I-I got quite hot outside before.’
Lucy forced a smile, and pushed past her mother’s bemusement, feeling guilt-manifested disappointment in herself for going through her mother’s belongings without her knowledge. Something she had never done before, and likely will never do again.
Lucy nudged the bathroom door shut with her hip and locked it.
Her shaking hands stuttered a cold flannel over her face and neck, trying to calm her shredded nerves.
She washed her hands clear of the guilt-sweat and its silver-tarnishing properties, then dropped her chin to her chest, and carefully fastened the ornate trinket around her neck.
She looked at herself in the mirror, inspecting the glinting embellishment to a slender neck. It looked good on her.
Her eyes drifted up to meet her mirrored gaze. ‘That, was really bloody stupid,’ she said, berating her reflection. She sighed. ‘What the hell do you think you were doing? Idiot! Stupid bloody idiot.’
She shook a regretful head, disappointed in herself, and her actions. ‘Let it go now, okay,’ she instructed the solitude, ‘there’s nothing in this, it’s all in your imagination. Just let it go, it’s just a bloody house.’
She eventually unlocked the door and made her way downstairs, ambling into the kitchen just as Peter was refitting the handles to the taps.
‘All done, young lady. It was just a washer.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ she replied, brightly, but with having no real interest in taps. ‘Would you like some tea, Mr F?’
‘Ahhhh please, I could murder a cuppa,’ he replied. ‘But Luce, before you do that, could you do me a quick favour?’
‘Yeah, of course. What is it?’
‘Could you look under the sink for me, and watch for leaks while I run the taps, sweetheart? Your knees are younger than mine.’
‘Yeah sure,’ she agreed, happy to oblige, wishing to exercise her usual helpful ways in an attempt to appease the gods of ‘karma’, after her recent foray into mild dishonesty.
She crouched down and pushed her head in amongst the city skyline of cleaning product bottles. The smell of stale detergent, shoe polish and mildew hit her nose. She snorted at the chemical stench. ‘Go on then, ready…’
The interior of the unit erupted with the drumming sounds of pressurised water ricocheting off thin-walled stainless steel. She scanned for droplets forming on the bottom of the pipework.
‘Anything?’ a voice shouted from within the drone.
‘Nope, nothing yet,’ she confirmed.
Something caught the corner of Lucy’s eye, something beyond the pipework, swinging to the harmonic of the running water.
She repositioned her head a little to better see, and could just make out a loop of old string suspended within the snakes of copper tubing. She manoeuvred to get a better look, and inhaled sharply. ‘The keys!’