‘He hangs around the school,’ I say, trying to keep my voice as close to neutral as I can. The words feel like a betrayal in my mouth. I can picture Catlin hearing us, her features twisting into anger, hate.
‘Does he now? He might want to rethink that.’ Brian’s face is grim. His voice is lower, different. I do not know this man, I think. Who is he?
‘I’ll have a chat with your mam,’ he says. ‘When she gets up. Don’t worry, Maddy. You did the right thing there, confiding in me. I’ll take care of it.’ His voice is sure, confident. This must be the kind of Brian he is at work, why people fly him all around the world.
‘Thank you, Brian,’ I say, and really mean it.
‘You look tired, Madeline.’ He reaches an arm out to take my cup. ‘The tea’s gone cold. I’ll put the coffee on.’
I do feel tired, I realise, all of a sudden. Exhausted even. Brian rises to go. ‘See you downstairs,’ he says, and walks out purposefully, like the business-dad he is.
His office is really warm. The underfloor heating must be turned way up, I think. The shrunken head is lolling just a little to one side, balanced on the dark wood of the lintel, all wizened and remoulded. Soft grey bread with nostrils, cheeks and eyes. Those features lie, the truth of them forgotten.
Corpses in the mountains, in the house.
I stagger up. I’m feeling very drained, for some strange reason. I press my hand to the wallpaper, feeling the soft relief of shapes. I haven’t been in here for more than a few minutes before. And never by myself. I haven’t had the time to take it in. I should move, I should head downstairs. Brian will be waiting. The wallpaper in his office is off-white – darker than cream, with patterns carved in. Can you say carved with paper? I don’t know. They look like they’re carved. There’s something natural about them. To the touch, it feels like the pelt of something. A solid, organic texture. I shake my head, trying to shed my mind-fog. Outside, I see the curl of the blue path to the courtyard, spot a little creature hurrying down the trail. I close my eyes. It could be a rabbit or a rat. A little dog. It’s hard to tell from here. It feels like I’m inside a computer screen, in a story or a film, and looking out but I can’t break the barrier between me and the world. I can’t get through. There’s something I’m not doing, and if I could just …
But, as my eyes swim, something like a pattern is developing. A sort of shape that’s underneath the shapes. There’s something wrong about it, like one section is slightly paler than the others. But not in colour. In another way. In something else. I touch my hand to that part of the wall, to the left of Brian’s desk, and it is warmer. There is something here. The wild roses and birds, linking intricately together. The cruel downturn of beak. The sharp of thorn and claw. I sigh, and press my hand harder against the wall.
It gives beneath my hand. It starts to open.
30
Chickweed
Little receptacles line the walls. Jam jars, bell jars, vials and old glass bottles full of dried-up little things. Feet. Eyes. Skin, leaves, powder. Shards of bone. There is only a very little light. The door clicks shut behind me and I start.
When we first moved here, Brian told us there were places that he didn’t know about, things his father built inside these walls. But this is some next-level wizardly nonsense. I’m not sure how to feel. Secrets are unnerving, but secret passages are kind of … magical. The proper kind of magical. That real good scary Christmas-morning feeling.
My excitement wanes a bit as I realise that the dark has enveloped me entirely. I cannot see my feet or hands. They say when you are sensory-deprived, your other senses start to compensate. I wish they would. I wish I had my phone, some sort of light. The stone is rough and jutting – unpredictable – and I am very glad of my thick boots.
My mind keeps replaying the conversation with Brian. Fluttering between two kinds of guilt. Does it count as betrayal when you’re worried about someone’s safety?
It will to her.
She’s going to be so mad. Maybe I should stay here in this musty, cobwebby passageway, and forge a new life among these cool jars. I could work my way up through the ranks of the jar-folk, carrying small and large items alike and being respected because of my pockets.
I inch my feet gingerly along the path. Baby steps. There could be a drop here, easily. Eroded steps. A surprise torture dungeon. Brian’s decent, but his house is weird as hell, pieced together by his father’s wants. Castle upon castle. Halls in walls. I wonder if it is a murder castle. How long have I been walking step by step? It seems to take me ages, tightrope-walking foot in front of foot. My mind is clear. I do not have to worry about the fallout from Catlin, or the story with Oona. I only have to get back to the light. I breathe the air in, dusty and thick with unfamiliar stuff. It’s coating my oesophagus with paste. Coughing doesn’t help. I need to keep on moving. Through the dark.
The walls feel rough and dry beneath my fingers. Brick meets brick until I reach an edge. I feel the sharpened slant of wall beside me. Two paths diverge. And I don’t know what’s right. I close my eyes, breathe in a layer of scum and try to think. Place my two hands flat upon the ground. It isn’t earth. It’s concrete, and it’s harsh. There is an unfinishedness about this place. I get the sense that there is something here I will not like. Or that there has been, maybe, in the past. I’m not sure if it’s intuition, fear.
I choose to venture on and see what happens. It feels strange to be eaten by Brian’s house. I keep on searching, hoping in the dark. My hand finds a door, thick and smooth with varnish. I grasp the handle, turn and it doesn’t give. I kick and bang. Scrape at it until hard flecks are caught beneath my nails. It doesn’t help. I might be here forever. Like the bones inside the steamer trunks.
I leave the door and carry on, piece by piece. There are some letters carved into the wall. I can’t make out the words. A zigzag, a circle, then some random scratches. Someone else was here before me, I think. And for long enough to do this. Pass the time with chipping glyphs into stone. I shudder.
I keep on walking, feet upon the path. The cement turns to flagstones, to pebbles, then to something soft. A fleecy damp. I put my hand down, pull at it, and smell it. It’s moss, or something that’s a lot like moss. I hope that’s a good sign. I still can’t see, the walls are close and it is getting colder. I wish I had something to keep me warm.
I move until I meet a metal door. I feel for, find, the latch. It’s fastened with a padlock that has rusted. I can feel it flake beneath my touch. There’s dust on it too. I don’t think it’s been used for quite a long time. My fingers search the ground for anything at all to bash it open. I find a stone; it’s small and thin and sharp. I saw and saw at the little lock. I have to hold it steady with one hand for this to work. It takes a while. I feel it start to give. My hand slips and the sharp edge slices deeply down into my palm. Blood drips. I use the stone again, my left hand stinging. Warm blood on the smooth surface. The shackle gives.
I push it open. Stumble into brightness. There are steps overgrown with ivy, brambles, nettles and herb robert. I see some bottles poking underground. Glass and stings are nothing. I am free.
The fresh air feels so healing in my lungs. I cough out dust and make my way down the steps and down and down again until I hit a road. My clothes are thick with dirt. I turn and walk until I hit the main street of the village. I make my way towards the long road home. My muscles ache. The sky is grey. I wonder how long it has been. Since I pushed in that door.
The bright red car pulls up beside me. ‘State of you,’ she tells me. ‘Hop in.’