TWENTY-THREE

Stephanie sat on the bed and stared into space. It had been two hours since Knacker and Fergal had left her room, but Fergal’s final comment had eclipsed her lingering horror at having to endure their company.

Fergal knew something about the strange nature of the house. The same thing she half-knew, suspected, denied, suppressed, and ultimately resisted; suspicions more than facts that were prone to being side-lined as soon as she left the building, because of her desperation to earn money to get out of there. But Fergal had made an admission she’d been unable to prise out of Knacker. So why had he admitted to what was tantamount to the building being haunted?

Had he?

She recalled the tall, thin figure leaning into the ground floor door.

What was that about?

She wanted to believe the two men were merely socially inept, unaccustomed to the role of landlord, and unable to rent out the rooms because of their awful natures. Or perhaps there were actual people living here too: a girl next door, a Russian girl upstairs, a smelly man on the ground floor, a woman somewhere below the bathroom? Illegal immigrants? Such an idea would actually bring her comfort. And maybe Fergal had been referring to the other tenants?

Or perhaps something far more sinister was at work inside the house, something the cousins were able to ignore, or even colluded with for reasons not yet disclosed. Maybe something had happened here that they were covering up. The latter scenario she tried to deny and repress, because it was an idea best considered once she’d permanently removed herself from the address. Nothing here was certain, but if she were honest with herself, the McGuires now frightened her more than anything she’d heard through the walls, under her mattress, or sensed sitting upon her bed in her first room.

‘They can’t hurt you.’ But we can. Was that the subtext of Fergal’s parting shot? And that horrible, angry stare: was that an act?

Knacker was evasive, disingenuous, quick to anger if she hinted at what she’d experienced, but he was a bullshitter, playing second fiddle to his maniac, druggie cousin. She knew that much now. She sensed that Fergal considered her a nuisance while Knacker was keen for her to stay. Money. She couldn’t bear to think that Knacker’s motivation could be anything else. Unless he was preparing the ground by circling her, working on her, hoping to erode her resistance to his concealed intentions. Amorous intentions. Stephanie stopped the train of thought before it brought her closer to nausea.

She went and checked the corridor outside her room.

Empty and silent; the rooms either side of her own emitted no light from beneath their respective doors, and no sound. Her instincts persisted in suggesting they were unoccupied and had been since she’d arrived at the address.

So what made the noises?

From the next floor up, seeping down the stairwell from the landlord’s flat, came the distant thump of a bass drum.

She thought of her remaining friends in Stoke, none of whom she had heard from in a few months. She was still without the internet; the connection was impossibly slow on her old phone, and her stepmother, she suspected, had disabled her laptop before she left home. Val hadn’t been able to stand her using it, though Stephanie was never sure why. The machine had not worked since she left home and she’d not had enough money to get it fixed. Her friends must all communicate on Facebook, Skype and Twitter. Either that or no one called her any more. Stephanie hoped they still thought of her. Their silence might simply be the result of their preoccupation with their own struggles, while they waited for news from her. Is that how it worked with home town friends? When she’d torn out of Stoke she hadn’t looked back. Which now felt like a horrible mistake.

If her three friends in Stoke couldn’t accommodate her, she would have to tolerate the situation at Edgehill Road for a bit longer. And endure what was inside the house. Or spend what she had at a hostel. How many nights would £120 cover? Maybe a week until it was all gone. She’d then have to work every day next week to pay for the following week, or she’d have no money and nowhere to stay come Friday.

Maybe if she stayed outside the building all day Saturday and Sunday, without spending much money, that might help. She could stay awake at night and take naps in a park. And if she refused to open her door to Knacker again, and only spoke through the door, he might get the message.

She’d only had a nightmare last night. Hardly surprising. But at least there had been nothing in her room. Nothing under the bed . . .

Stop now!

The confused voice in the bathroom, that may or may not have been a recording, was just a voice and offered no physical threat.

This room had no disused fireplace either.

The girl next door – the presence, if that’s what it was – only cried and walked up and down the hall.

It’s not so bad. Psychological damage she just might have to risk for the time being.

Even thinking in these terms, and weighing up so many earthly and unearthly considerations, struck her as absurd. But then her life was just that. She was being coerced into thinking in terms of the impossible and the unnatural to such an extent, she wondered again if she were schizophrenic. Her reality was becoming warped and she was hearing voices. Maybe even seeing things that were not there.

Stephanie checked the time: ten forty-five p.m. Too late to call one of her friends back in Stoke. But she would do, in the morning, to assess her options should she need to leave here in a hurry. If one of them would take her in tomorrow, on Saturday, then tonight could be her last night here.

Her room still smelled of Fergal and the uncapped wine. She opened a window. Turned her duvet around and upside down, so the part he had been sitting on would be near the foot of the mattress. Took the wine bottle to the kitchen and emptied it down the sink, all the time wincing at the memory of Fergal’s uncouth mouth gulping from it. She tried not to touch the glass where his mouth had been.

Back in her room the travel clock told her the time had now passed eleven p.m. She set her alarm for eight in the morning. Once she was up she could head into the city centre and check in with the stores, pubs, bars and cafés where she’d already left her CV.

Leaving all of the lights and the muted television switched on, Stephanie undressed to her underwear and climbed into bed. She lay still and continued to think herself into ever decreasing circles to avoid any contemplation of another night in the building.