I reach out a hand for the door knob and twist. It wasn’t locked.
I step over the piled-up letters, leaving the door open behind me, and stop, waiting for my eyesight to adjust from the brightness of the late summer afternoon outside. The hall is big, panelled in dark wood. The air is cold, that chill that you get in houses that have been closed up too long. The envelopes under my feet spill across the floor, years of circulars, now covered in dust; the postman must have stopped visiting long ago. I smell old paper and dirt. It’s so still.
I walk further in.
Doors circle round this dim central hallway; the stairs to my right, grandly curving round and up to an open landing. I’ll start with the door on my left, standing just slightly ajar, the old-fashioned key still in the lock under the handle; I remember Lily saying they let the rooms, individually.
I push on the heavy dark wood and enter slowly.
There’s a flicker in the corner of the room: a dark shadow creeping forward.
Adrenaline shoots through me. I jerk back, recoiling, and freeze.
The movement stops.
Then I realise, suddenly releasing my hands from my throat: it’s just a mirror, propped in a corner, reflecting my own cautious entrance into the bare room.
I find the light switch now, and flick it on. The bulb flickers on, then with that electric ting, goes off again – it’s blown.
But already I can see better in the darkness. The furniture’s long gone, packed up, or sold; even the wallpaper’s been stripped. Just the plaster detail on the high ceiling hints at the old grandeur of the house. A huge crack running across the mirror, fracturing my reflection, tells me why it wasn’t taken with the rest.
My heart’s still pounding, my body processing the shock. I can’t lie to myself: I’m scared.
I work clockwise around the ground floor: more empty rooms, bare wires poking out of the walls where telephones or lamps have been unplugged, faint oblongs on the walls where pictures once hung. The boarded windows, high on the walls, let chinks of light in round their edges, enough to see. I’ve a mad impulse to tear the boards down, to let fresh air and sunshine into the stale rooms. But it’s easy enough to get into them – the doors are just standing open, the keys still in the locks, like whoever cleared the house out didn’t bother to shut up the emptied rooms behind them.
What was the kitchen is at the back of the house, down some steps: it’s gutted already, the units gone, bare pipes spilling out of the wall. And there’s a little hall, with more doors off it. I keep going, quicker now, exploring the rooms in this part of the house – servants’ quarters once, perhaps; small and plain and mean. There’s nothing to suggest people have been here in years, not even trespassers.
I head back to the main hall and take a breath, steadying myself on the panelling. It takes me a second to realise: I feel them under my hand, first, then I look. Little wooden flowers. The floral motifs are repeated here too, running around in a band at waist-height, repeating up the side of the stairs.
Slowly, with the inevitability of a dream, I take the first step.
39
SOPHIE
Everything’s changing. For so long, I’ve been desperate for something to happen, but now it is and it’s too fast. And it’s all because of the phone call, I’m sure of it.
He told me maybe a week or two ago: we wouldn’t be doing a postcard this time. I’d make a phone call instead. My heart leapt. It’s working, he’s trusting me. I’d been trying so hard …
And then he said we’d practise first. He was going to coach me in what to say.
‘What?’ he said. He must have seen the disappointment I tried to hide. ‘You think I’m going to let you slip a message out, to tell them whatever you like?’ It was so near the truth that I froze.
But he stayed calm, almost reasonable. ‘Sophie. If you were ever to do anything stupid or dangerous’ – I realised I was holding my breath – ‘you know, it wouldn’t take me more than a moment. Before anyone got here, police or otherwise.’ He wasn’t even looking at me. ‘You understand that I’d have to, for my own safety. I couldn’t let someone jeopardise all I’ve worked for.’ He managed to sound almost sad. ‘Even you.’
And then he told me what he needed me to say.
Finally, one night, he decided it was the moment. He went out briefly and when he came back he got out a clunky mobile phone. He made me wait for a bit: made a call, then hung up.
‘Come here,’ he said at last, and I went to the sofa next to him. ‘Now, are you going to be sensible?’
I nodded.
‘Whatever happens?’
I couldn’t think what he meant. ‘Whatever happens.’
He dialled in a number, and put the phone between us, clicking it onto loudspeaker.
‘Hello,’ the voice said. ‘Message in a Bottle.’
I parroted what I had to say. The reception was terrible: it kept cutting out, it must have been the thick walls. The woman was older, friendly-sounding. And I was so relieved, just to hear a grown-up’s voice other than his, after so long.
‘I’ve got to be quick,’ I told her. ‘I need you to tell them not to worry any more about their daughter – that she … that I’m fine, really I am …’
The line started skipping, yet again, then her voice cut through: ‘What? Who? Who do you want me to tell?’
‘They’re not to worry if they don’t hear from me after this, it only hurts us all.’ I hated that. ‘I’m Sophie Harlow,’ I said, at his nod. ‘My parents are Kate and Mark Harlow. Hello? Hello?’
‘Sophie,’ the woman said, almost thoughtfully. Then calmly, really: ‘Sophie, is that you?’
There was that moment of confusion, just before you realise something, like a cartoon character windmilling in the air before he falls off the cliff.
This wasn’t in the plan – I looked at him: there was not a trace of surprise in his face. He nodded.
My stomach dropped.
Of course. Of course it’s her. He planned it, all along. Letting me talk to her, so she’ll think I’m fine …
‘Are you still there, Sophie?’ Tears filled my eyes. Stick to the script. I couldn’t risk veering from it. ‘Are you still there?’
It was then the fear hit me in full. This is it. He’s covering his tracks.
‘Yes, yes, I’m here.’ And as I said it, I realised: that was my cue – my only option. Trust her. I gave the phrase every bit of meaning I could, like I was stamping on the words.
Slowly, deliberately, I said: ‘I’m still here.’ I didn’t dare look at him.
But she just replied: ‘Love you, So.’ She sounded so sad. Defeated. Not like Mum.
The line went dead.
‘Love you, Mo,’ I whispered. I always have to finish, it’s what we do.
I lifted my head, slowly. His hand kept pressing down the button on the phone for another beat, just to be sure, and then he picked it up and took out the battery, his movements deft.
He didn’t explain why he’d arranged that – and I know better than to ask. But if he’s trying to convince her that I’m OK, but that she won’t be hearing from me again … what’s he planning to do next?
The diary shook me, when he showed it to me. I’d brought it here when I left, and never wrote in it again. I couldn’t write what I really felt about him. But he must have found it, and taken it away.
It wasn’t like I’d been telling it everything anyway. Took the dog for the walk, things like that, just little reminders that only I’d understand, if anyone looked, because I couldn’t write the truth – Took the dog out and he picked me up in his car at the end of the road. And I was right to, because Mum did find it. I was so angry – scared I’d slipped up. But I’d been careful enough.