EIGHTY-THREE

‘Hello, I’m outside. In the lane. Outside the gate. I must say you’re well hidden. I been past your house three times already!’ A happy, excitable voice, satisfaction or relief that the obscure destination had been found, human warmth generating from the other end of the call; it took a long time to pierce Amber’s preoccupation with such unworldly matters.

‘Hello? Hello?’ the voice continued, the enthusiasm ebbing to confusion.

Amber swallowed. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper, her larynx thick with tears.

‘Amber? Ms Hare?’

That was her new name, yes, the name of the lonely, pale, rich girl prone to tears, but it seemed an odd signifier, one strangely detached from who she was right now, right here, hunched over in the garden of a defiled dream house, her face wet with tears, her heart so laden with dread she wondered if she would ever have the strength to move her feet again.

‘Sorry, Ms Hare? Can you hear me?’ Confusion was turning to concern at the other end of the call.

Amber recognized the woman’s voice. This was Carol, the prospective live-in housekeeper and companion she had interviewed by phone on Thursday, just two days ago, the day after she’d met Peter in her Plymouth hotel. She’d conducted four interviews by phone with applicants recommended by the home help agencies for the residential opening at her farmhouse.

How could she allow anyone else to enter this place that had gone so bad so quickly? A place contaminated, toxic with nightmares, infested with the dead, soiled by dust and rank with the stench of killers. What kind of house was this to keep? And what kind of person would seek a companion to share hell with them?

During the interview Carol’s warmth and her sweetness, through the sound of her voice alone, had immediately attracted Amber, reminding her of those surviving sensations of her mother that she still held dear. Carol had quickly become a shortlist of one.

She’d arranged for Carol to visit the farmhouse this morning, Saturday, to meet more informally, to see what she thought of the house. Amber almost laughed at that now; a woman to keep this dirty shrine to old magic, murder, the restless dead, and the tomb of a still-living mad woman. It would be inhumane to expect another to cohabit a place so unstable. In her desperation, what had she been thinking?

Amber sniffed, wiped at her nose again. ‘Yes, Carol. I can hear you now.’

‘Oh good. I was saying I am outside.’

‘Fine.’ She had to turn her away. But the woman had driven all the way from Tavistock for the appointment. Carol had been looking forward to the trip; that’s what she had said on the phone. Carol was a widow and her daughter had recently emigrated to Australia with her husband, taking Carol’s sole grandchild away to the other side of the planet. Carol had confided all of this to Amber during the phone interview. She’d spoken directly, candidly.

Carol had once supervised the canteen of a stately home open to the public, had nursed her sick mother to the end of a life blighted with cancer, nursed her husband to the end of the horror of Alzheimer’s, then cared for her granddaughter five days a week, while her parents worked to save for their future, in Australia.

Carol had cared for the young and the old, the sick, the confused, the dying. Amber had sensed compassion, patience, a bedrock of kindness, an innate understanding of the troubled heart, a soft and nurturing presence that sought to share a rare goodness with another, a stranger like her.

‘I can’t let you in.’ Amber walked to the side of the house and glanced through the patio doors. The dust. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’ The statement was absurd; she wished she had said nothing.

‘Don’t worry.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve been away.’ Amber couldn’t think of anything else to say, and her dread and fear swiftly warmed into a heat of mortification. If Carol saw the dust and the dross she would think badly of her; think she was a dirty girl. Irrelevant to even think this way. Why did she even care? Her own innate nature was a banality that didn’t cease in the face of black miracles. And there was no job now, not here.

‘A bit of mess don’t frighten me. Maybe this is something I can help you with.’ Carol’s words bounced along melodically, given flight by an eagerness to help, to please.

Amber moved past the garage extension and stood on the front drive, stared at the electric gate. ‘It’s not safe.’

‘Pardon,’ Carol said.

Amber swallowed. ‘Sorry. It’s . . . it’s not safe here. In here. Not safe.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I can’t let you in. Can’t let anyone in. I’ll pay for your time. I will. Your petrol. But I can’t let anyone in here. Not now. I’m not really who you think I am, Carol. I want to be who you think I am, but I can’t be. They won’t let me. Because it’s getting worse. And I’m so tired. So tired by it all . . . And it’s happening again. Quickly. Soon it will get worse, like it did before. Right here. Something followed me. It waited. But it’s inside here now.’

Carol ended the call, and never called Amber again.