Despite her anxiety, within minutes of going to bed Emily fell into a deep sleep. Jason lay awake for a long time, reading a Linwood Barclay thriller she had given him for Christmas, but unable to concentrate. He kept staring up at the thin, jagged crack all the way across the ceiling, watching to see if it worsened.
Finally, shortly after 1 a.m., he put the book down and switched off the light. He woke with a start a while later. The clock showed 2.24 a.m. Emily was still sound asleep, breathing deeply. Not wanting to wake her, he reached across, lifted his phone off his bedside table, switched on the torch app and shone it upwards. So far as he could judge, the crack was still no larger – if anything it actually looked less bad, but that was probably because of the weak beam of light.
He slipped out of bed, went up to his studio and checked the ceiling there. It was definitely no worse than earlier, either. He went on to check all the rest of the rooms in the house. Finally, satisfied there had been no further movement, and no cause for alarm, he went back to bed, relieved, closed his eyes and fell asleep a short while later.
When he woke again, his clock showed 7.42 a.m.
The bedroom was bathed in a weak glow. Emily was still asleep. He switched on his bedside lamp and looked at the ceiling.
And frowned.
The jagged crack had gone.
The ceiling looked fine.
He again climbed out of bed, slowly, pulled on his dressing gown and walked out of the room onto the landing. The mirrored walls either side of the staircase below were also no longer cracked.
Hurrying up the spiral stairs, he went into his studio. There was no longer a crack in the ceiling, nor in any of the windows.
Am I dreaming, he wondered? He went down and checked each of the spare rooms on the first floor and found that the cracks had gone from their ceilings and windows, also. It was the same downstairs.
Nothing.
He stood in the kitchen, staring up at the ceiling and then at the windows. Nothing. Nothing. He looked at the refectory table where, last night, flakes of plaster had fallen. There were none there now.
How could that be?
He switched on the Nespresso machine, waited for the green lights to stop blinking, then popped a capsule into it.
Am I going mad? he wondered, looking up at the ceiling again, and then at the windows. Everything looked completely normal. As the coffee machine rattled away, he walked over to the window, where there had been a massive, jagged crack last night. There was no trace of it.
‘Hi, darling!’
He turned, as Emily walked in sleepily, barefoot, swathed in a white towelling dressing gown.
He went over and kissed her. ‘How did you sleep?’
‘Like a lamb! Wow, I was just out for the count. Just as well, I’ve got a lot to do today. How did you sleep?’
He pointed at the window. ‘Notice anything odd?’
She walked to the sink and peered out. ‘There’s a whole bunch of ducks on the lake – have you seen? They must have flown in! We must buy a milk churn or some other container for feed. There’s Wishing Wells Farm at Hickstead, which sells all that stuff. We should go there when we’re not too busy.’
‘Sure. But what I mean is, the window.’
‘The window?’
He pointed upwards. ‘And the ceiling.’
She gave him a strange look. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘The cracks!’ he said. ‘They’ve gone!’
‘Cracks?’ She looked genuinely puzzled.
He waved a hand in front of her face. ‘The subsidence – we were discussing evacuating the house last night because of all the cracks. They – they’ve gone.’
Emily stared at him. ‘Darling, I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what you are talking about.’
‘Last night . . .’ He fell silent for a moment. She was looking at him extremely strangely. ‘Last night, the house was cracked all over, right?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The mirrors up the stairs. All the windows, ceilings?’
Again, the strange look. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’
He glanced up again at the ceiling. At the white paint and the down-lighters. There was absolutely no sign there had ever been a crack. Like the glass in the windows.
‘We – we discussed moving out and going to stay with your parents,’ he said.
‘You must have had a weird dream.’
‘You don’t remember any of that?’
‘I have a slight headache. All I remember is that horrid stuff the P-Ws kept pouring down our throats. I’m not surprised it gave you nightmares!’
Puzzled, he walked over to the coffee machine and poured the hot froth into his cup. ‘Want a coffee?’
‘I’m going to have one of my teas.’
‘I’ll boil the kettle for you.’
He emptied the kettle, refilled it and switched it on. ‘I . . .’ He began, then fell silent.
‘You what?’
He sat down at the table with his coffee. ‘Last night we came back here after tunnelling out of the Penze-Weedells, and we heard a loud crack, right?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘How pissed were you?’
‘About the same as you!’
‘First the mirrors either side of the staircase, then the windows, then each ceiling. You wanted us to go to your parents because you thought the house was falling down, and we had a bit of a row. You must remember.’
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘we came back here from the Peenies and you were totally pissed, and zonked. That’s what I remember.’
He stared at her, feeling very strange. Was that the explanation? He sipped some coffee, trying to reflect back, to think clearly.
Had he dreamed it all?
Everything in the house was as pristine as the day they’d moved in.
That had to be the explanation. There wasn’t any other that made any sense.
‘You don’t have a hangover?’ she asked.
‘I don’t.’
‘You sure deserve one!’
Relief was flooding through every vein in his body. He must have dreamed it . . . and yet. He was certain he hadn’t. Was there something wrong with Emily? he suddenly wondered, very concerned. She had no recollection of the Reverend Fortinbrass turning up last week. Now she had no recollection of all the cracks last night.
He tried to think it all through. Emily’s partner, Louise, had no recollection of Fortinbrass, either.
Emily put her arms around him. ‘You’re under a lot of stress with your exhibition looming, my love. Maybe you should go and see Dr Dixon again and get him to help you calm down?’
‘Maybe,’ he agreed, hesitantly. Perhaps she was right. Something was not making sense at the moment. He looked up at the ceiling again. Not any sign of a crack.
He kissed her, feeling troubled. ‘What’s your plan for today?’
‘Full on, prepping for the anniversary dinner tomorrow, and I’ve just had a call from Louise; she’s down with flu. She’s going to stay in bed today and try to shake it off, so she can be with me tomorrow, come hell or high water. Great, eh?’
‘Can I help you?’
‘You need to get on with some more paintings for your exhibition. I’ll manage. Got the glorious task of peeling seven hundred prawns, to make eighty prawn cocktails. I took them out of the freezer and put them in the fridges overnight.’
‘I don’t remember you doing that.’
With a teasing grin, she said, ‘I don’t think you remember very much at all after leaving our sweet neighbours. Do you remember the porcelain donkey?’
‘Twenty thousand quid, on Antiques Roadshow.’
‘I’m impressed. So, you weren’t totally smashed.’
‘I’ll be working in my studio. Shout if you need anything.’
‘I’ll be OK.’
‘Adore you.’
She kissed him.