14
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
The house was a rectangular monolith with little to recommend it in terms of elegance. The spindly lamp over the porch wanted a jet of gas to cast light on the sweep of drive, once a turning circle for barouches and phaetons; weeds flourished through the gravel. Jack spotted an alarm box on the wall, although nothing signified it was active. This time he kept out of the range of the camera, although he doubted it functioned either.
Mallingswood House had a tired air. Jack was familiar with boys’ boarding schools that limped along on a shoestring, dependent on parents who, saddled with unwanted children or living abroad, were perhaps less concerned about educational standards than with snatching at privilege. His father had deposited him in just such an establishment.
He had walked from the Great West Road and was on the south side of Weltje Road. His rucksack, packed for his stay with his new Host, was light. She wasn’t a proper Host; he would be her guest only for as long as it took to get back his street atlas. He had been tempted to go in from the front: a bold move, certainly, but people seldom saw what was under their noses. His most effective hiding places had been in plain sight. Except that the woman who had picked up his book had seen what was under her nose. He walked slowly back along Weltje Road, looking for a means of entering without breaking.
The back was even more featureless than the front. The few windows were in darkness; trade gates, warped on their hinges, were secured by a chain. He looked again and found the chain was looped around a bolt: he could just unwrap it. Casual intruders might be fooled, but not him. His Host had issued him an invitation. He hitched his rucksack on to his shoulders and eased open the gate; then he replaced the chain exactly as it had been.
Jack found himself in a dark concreted yard and, wasting no time, flitted over to the building and immediately found his point of entry. The putty in a rotting box sash came away in strips when he ran his hand along it. Methodically Jack arranged these on the ground in order like a jigsaw. Gently he levered the pane out and rested it against the wall.
In one movement he vaulted on to the sill and, twisting, insinuated himself through the opening. Inside, he took a moment to gauge whether he had been heard. Nothing, but he would not make himself at home yet. Efficiently, his movements economical, he lifted the snib on the door. Outside he replaced the glass and the putty, regretful that his Host could not appreciate his care. He retrieved his rucksack and slipped inside, closing the door. He could come and go as he pleased.
His torch revealed a long passage, the ceiling lowered by tracking that supported heating and water pipes; he dipped his head to avoid them. He passed closed doors either side, which he would explore once he had his bearings.
One door was open. Jack crept inside and, certain now that he was alone on this floor, tried a switch by the door. A warm comforting glow from a yellow fabric shade gave all the feel of a friendly sitting room but what he saw was mundane. A black plastic bin bag, cardboard boxes spilling out brown and white envelopes of different sizes. One step and he kicked a stack of filing trays; one cracked when it hit the stone floor. He turned off the light and went behind the door and counted to ten.
When no one came he risked the light again and saw a plastic crate filled with cellular blankets like the ones at his school, the initials MHPS stitched along a hem. The room swooped. Jack grabbed a swivel chair and kept his balance. He was a seven-year-old boy devising his escape in the basement of his school.
The air was still and deathly cold; sunlight never reached this room. Jack was an Underground train driver: he preferred the tunnels, bricks coated with centuries of dust, to the daylight. But here a sense of evil was suddenly palpable. He forced himself into the present and, keeping to the wall, stole along the passage.
The heating was not on or the pipes above his head would be hot. Basements in institutions generally housed the generator and the boiler and were stifling and stuffy. Mallingswood House was saving on heating bills; this too was familiar.
At intervals a green ‘Fire Exit’ sign affixed to a cross beam confirmed his direction. The silence was unremitting and Jack almost wished to hear some sound, even if it signalled danger.
At last his torch picked out a flight of steps. The trick was to enter the bones of the house and build up an affinity that made it more likely he would be invisible to his Hosts. He had noticed that however alert they were on the street, even they tended to relax in their own homes. On the top step he was enveloped by a smell he knew well: stale rice pudding and polished parquet floors. He was surprised to find it reassuring.
There was the front door of studded wood. The diamond lights that framed it projected shapes across black and white tiles. To his left rose a grand staircase not diminished by worn brown lino. A curving balustrade ended with a volute newel supporting by six balusters thickened by layers of faded cream gloss paint.
The bottom three stairs had been spared the lino and a sleek sheen of marble lessened the institutional grip on the Victorian mansion. However, the once magnificent hallway was compromised by a boxed enclosure, with ‘Reception’ above a grille on which a wooden notice was slid to ‘Closed’.
He peered through. A swivel chair was half turned from the hatch, a cushion on its seat moulded by some absent sitter. He tapped the counter. One. Two. Three. ‘Come out, come out wherever you are,’ he whispered.
No one came.
A notice was stuck on the glass to his right, he shone the torch on it. Term dates for 2011–2012. Summer term was due to start on Monday, 7th May, boarders returning on the 5th. This was even later than his own school.
He swept the light up the staircase to the balustrade on the half-landing – where a debutante would have been marvelled at by the crowd below before making her stately descent to the party. He was certain that no one was there now.
He felt a vibration in his pocket; the accompanying buzz, while inaudible in most places, was insidious in this hollow space where there was no other sound. Stella had left him a voicemail. He listened to her message and decided to call her in the morning. Then he changed his mind: he had once before delayed a call to Stella and had regretted it; he would not make that mistake again.
‘You’ve got a cleaning job for me.’ His face was in his sleeve to muffle his voice.
‘Why are you whisp— Oh, never mind. Yes. No.’
‘Great that you’re clear. I love that.’ He risked teasing Stella.
‘I mean it’s not cleaning.’ She went silent and he was just about to check she was still there when she said: ‘It’s a case.’
‘A detective job?’ He forgot to whisper. He had been disappointed that after last year Stella had played it safe and concentrated on cleaning. He wanted to shout with joy.
‘Probably nothing.’
‘But you think it’s probably something,’ he breathed.
‘Yes. I think it is.’
‘See you in the morning, then.’ He turned his phone off and put one foot on the marble step. He held his breath and tuned in to the creaks and sighs of the house in which so many inhabitants slept. Far above he heard a door closing, then footsteps, a purposeful tread. As he had hoped, he was not alone. Jack twisted off the torch and began to climb.