Too Near the Dead Read online

  I get a clutch of estate agents’ listings for the house. I click through some of those and read property no longer on the market, although one of them still has photographs of the house, including some of the interior. We’ve painted some of the rooms since they were taken, and cluttered the place with furniture covered in dust sheets, but it’s still instantly recognisable. This makes me feel a little uneasy. Anyone could look over our home, as easily as leafing through the pages of a book.

  Why would they want to, Fen? I ask myself sternly. I guess I’m just jumpy, because of the things that have happened over the last few days – my dream, Belle’s dream, the conversation in the dress shop, and the night I thought I saw someone or something on the drive. But what do those things add up to? Nothing really – nothing concrete. Bad dreams, a silly local superstition, a trick of the light.

  I think about that trick of the light, or whatever it was. I think about the drive, lined with trees; those didn’t grow to that height within the last two years. Beyond the trees are the massive stone gate posts that mark the end of the drive, weathered and lichenous as gravestones. Those aren’t new either. I’ve never really thought about them before. When you drive around Perthshire you’re constantly passing stretches of mossy wall, overgrown gateways and tumbledown lodges – relics of the past that no longer have any meaning for any living person. The walls trace boundaries that no longer exist, the gates lead onto nothing discernable at all.

  Perhaps, I think, there was something here before this house. I think about what Belle said about the house in her dream. Not a modern house like yours, but an old one with sort of little towers on it. I know the style she means; it’s called Scottish baronial.

  Idly, I draw circles on the mouse pad with my fingertip. What are you thinking, Fen? Are you thinking Belle dreamed about a real place, a building that stood here in the past? You know that’s nuts.

  But is it? I wonder if there is any rational way she could have, and then I try to think of one. Could the buried foundations of an earlier house create hotspots or coldspots or an electrical field? I’m a copyeditor, not a physicist, but that idea feels far-fetched. Anyway, even if the footprint of an older building could be felt in some way, that wouldn’t account for Belle imagining turrets.

  A more logical explanation is that Belle has read something about the area in the past and simply forgotten that she did.

  You’re assuming that there really was an older house, I remind myself. Maybe there wasn’t.

  I sit forward. After a moment’s thought I type in Barr Dubh House + history and run a new search. This time I get more hits, but none of them useful. As far as I can tell, they are all about the history of properties with vaguely similar names. I click through several pages of them, but it’s clear there’s nothing about our little patch of Perthshire. I try old Barr Dubh House, but that’s the same story. If there ever was another house on this piece of land, there doesn’t seem to be a scrap of evidence for it anywhere.

  “Fen?”

  I jump as James comes into the kitchen, carrying his empty coffee cup.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says.

  “Really?” I say, but it comes out as a squeak. I try again.

  “Really? It’s so quiet here. You made me jump.”

  “I’m glad it’s that,” he says, “And not that I’m inherently terrifying.”

  “No, not terrifying,” I tell him. “More like slightly alarming.”

  I can see he’s going to come over, so before he can do so, I slide off my bar stool, taking care to close my laptop first.

  James puts his coffee cup down. “Let’s go out,” he says.

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere,” he says with a sly grin. “Just out.”

  I deduce from this that he’s struggling with whatever he’s writing and wants a break; these urges come over him whenever he reaches a sticking point with his work. I don’t have to think about it too long anyway, because I’ve reached a dead end myself. That’s not the real reason I say “Yes,” though. James can say he’s going anywhere and I’ll go along too, just for the joy of being with him.

  I was wrong; sometimes it is terrifying, loving someone this much.

  Chapter Ten

  There is a ceiling rose directly above me. I have been studying it for long enough to memorise every detail: the design of fruit and roses, executed in bone white plaster that stands out against the grey-green of the ceiling; the border of stylised foliage. I stare up at it, unblinking. Fruit. Roses. White. Green.

  I think: There is no ceiling rose like that in Barr Dubh House.

  I know I’m not mistaken. Barr Dubh House is a modern building; there is nothing in its construction that is as antique-looking as that ceiling rose. It’s a mystery that I can be lying here looking up at such a thing. I puzzle over it without feeling any impulse to move, to look around me at the rest of the room. There are other questions to consider, as well as Where am I? – for example, What time is it? It should be nighttime; I have a dim recollection of getting into bed beside James. But it is the clear light of full day that is showing me the ornate plasterwork above me.

  It is very quiet here, and cool. Tiny sounds carry well. Somewhere in the distance I hear the harsh caw of a crow. An insect bumps gently on a window. Then there is a stretch of silence broken at last by a faint metallic rattle. Keys in a lock – not in this room – somewhere else in the house.

  Still I don’t move. I listen to the distant sound of hinges creaking, and then the crisp sound of a door closing. Whoever has entered the house does not bother to announce their arrival by calling out. Instead I hear one – no, I think two – pairs of boots or shoes, low-heeled ones, crossing a hard floor, and then a rug, judging from the way the sound is suddenly muffled. The footsteps come closer and still no words are spoken.

  Now they are in the room. I hear one of them breathing heavily: an older man, I judge, or someone very unfit. There is a whisper of coarse cloth. A soft grunt as someone exerts themselves a little, lifting something perhaps. A scraping sound.

  I can smell something. A blend of odours, I think. There is a faint human smell of perspiration but the strongest scent is tobacco – familiar, but not often smelt these days.

  A shadow falls across me. One of them is standing between me and the daylight streaming through the window, a long dark shape at the very edge of my vision. If I turned my head, I would be able to see him clearly, but I don’t do it. I keep lying there, eyes wide open, staring at that ceiling rose. I don’t even blink. The entry of the men into the room has stirred up dust, and now I see motes of it descending gently through the air towards me. Some of them land on the surface of my eye and still I don’t blink.

  Deep inside me, there is a silent shriek of terror. It is unaccompanied by any burst of adrenaline, urging my muscles into life. My fear is frozen inside me, like a stinging insect trapped in amber. I have guessed who these men are now, and what they are here to do.

  They lift it into view: an ominous geometric shape that is instantly recognisable. The lid that will exactly fit the casket that encloses me. I hear it scraping against the side as they heave it up and begin to slide it into place. They do this with care. Respectfully. Slowly, slowly, the lid slides across, narrowing the light.

  I want to scream so badly – so very badly. But the desire is somehow theoretical. I cannot translate it into sound or movement. I lie there in the coffin and let them cover me.

  When the lid is halfway across, and half my face is in shadow, half in light, the men pause for a moment. The older man is wheezing. It is the younger one who speaks, his voice brittle with distaste.

  “Why’d they no’ shut her eyes?”

  The other man mutters something under his breath. Then the lid resumes its grim passage across my face, the gap narrowing until the light is cut out altogether. I am in darkness
.

  Sounds from the room around me are muffled now, but pretty soon I hear something very clearly. The descent of the hammer on the very first nail, sealing me in forever.

  This time I awake screaming. James is holding my shoulders, shaking me gently, saying my name. At first I feel his grip and I think in my panic that it is the coffin restraining me, pinning me down. I fight him, flailing, struggling. Then I roll away to my side of the bed. I am convulsed with a fit of coughing. I hang over the side of the bed and cough until I am almost retching. I have screamed myself hoarse; my throat is burning.

  “Fen,” says James. “Fen, calm down.”

  There is a click as he turns on the bedside lamp and the room is flooded with soft yellow light. I roll onto my back again and stare at him wide-eyed, my chest heaving. I try to tell him why I was screaming, but at first I can’t say anything coherent at all. “I,” I say, “I was...” Then I’m choking and shivering, unable to get the words out.

  James sits right up in bed.

  “God, Fen. What’s the matter? Shall I call 999?”

  “No,” I manage to say, grasping his arm before he can turn away and reach for his phone. “Don’t. I’m okay.”

  This is patently untrue, since I’m still panting and shaking, but he doesn’t pick the phone up. He waits, but his eyes are wide with alarm. His dark hair is sticking up all over the place. At this moment he does not look like a suave literary author; he looks like an onlooker at the scene of a terrible accident.

  Eventually I get my breath back and calm down enough to be able to speak properly.

  “I had the most horrible, horrible dream.”

  “Jesus, Fen. A dream? I thought you were having some sort of fit.”

  “It was awful.” I plunge my hands into my hair, pulling at the roots. “It was so real. I thought I was...” I hesitate. It’s the resolve I made last time, not to tell James I had dreamed I was buried alive, that stops me saying it now. I’m still too shocked to think it through logically. “It was like being dead,” I say. “I wanted to move but I couldn’t, and I kept trying to scream but I couldn’t do that either.”

  “You definitely managed to scream,” says James. “I can vouch for that. My ears are still ringing.” He tries a grin, somewhat unconvincingly.

  “It’s not funny,” I snap. Then I stop, dismayed. I don’t want to be snapping at James. Not now.

  “Hey,” he says, unperturbed. “I know it’s not funny. Look, since we’re both wide awake now, why don’t we go downstairs for a bit, make some tea or something? Don’t try to go to sleep again until you feel better.”

  “Okay,” I say. In truth, I don’t think I could go to sleep again right now, even if I wanted to.

  James comes round to my side of the bed, a dishevelled vision in hastily-donned boxers and t-shirt, his feet bare. He puts his arms around me.

  “Come on, Fen,” he says into my hair. “What’s up? You’ve been funny all day, since Belle left. Did something happen?”

  Put on the spot, I have to say something. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “We unpacked a lot of stuff... you know. Their stuff. Belle wanted to do something useful.”

  James is silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I can see that that would feel weird. You know, Fen, maybe that’s why–”

  I reach up and put a finger to his lips. I don’t want to hear him say that that’s why I dreamed about being dead.

  “Don’t let’s talk about it,” I say.

  So we don’t.

  Chapter Eleven

  The second time I ever met James it was winter, the end of winter too, when the parties were all behind us and the grim weather felt unending. Towards the end of the working day the offices, which were in an Edwardian building, became so dark that we all existed under strip lighting, like items in a supermarket freezer. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen, making myself comforting cups of tea.

  Things weren’t going well outside work. As well as the parties on the ground floor, there were various shady characters hanging around at all hours. It was uncomfortable to come home after dark and have to go up to my flat past sullen-looking men who leaned against the scuffed walls and stared at me as I passed. Mrs. Khan confided in me that she and her family were planning to move, which meant I would be deprived of my one ally. I had begun to look for another place myself, but everything was so expensive. Sometimes on Sundays I would walk through the park, muffled up in a winter coat and scarf, past bare brown flower beds and disreputable pigeons pecking at cigarette ends. I thought of moving right out of the city, somewhere wild and green, but the idea felt like a mirage. It would mean a new job as well as a new place to live, and I had so few free hours to spend investigating those things, so little energy left over after work. More than that, though, I had no idea where to go. I was like a compass at magnetic north, the needle swinging wildly and never coming to rest anywhere.

  I suppose I should have guessed that James might be at the offices that day. I’d seen emails circulating about a lunchtime event involving several authors, but it hadn’t really registered with me; it was something that editors and publicists would attend, not staff like me. The hubbub when they all went out to it was simply an annoyance. I wanted to work flat out that day, and leave on time, and the fewer interruptions the better.

  It was shortly before five o’clock when they all trooped back in again. I kept my head down. Some people would be picking up their things and leaving, but others would be staying late to catch up and I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t get dragged into anything just as I was about to get away myself. There was a buzz of voices in the corridor, which I mostly ignored, until I heard my name.

  “We should invite Fen,” said a male voice.

  I recognised James’s voice at once, even though we’d only ever had one conversation before. I stopped what I was doing and waited, my hand still on the computer mouse.

  “Fen Munro?” said someone else. I was pretty sure that was James’s publicist, Delia. She made it sound as though there were half a dozen Fens it might have been. “I don’t think she’d want to come.”

  “Why don’t we ask her?” said James. A moment later he was in my office, with Delia at his shoulder.

  “We’re all going out to dinner,” announced James, before Delia could cut in. “And I think you should come too.”

  “The booking’s for eight people,” said Delia.

  “I’m sure the place has an extra chair,” said James. He looked at me. “Coming?”

  I glanced at Delia, who was giving me the sort of look that would make house plants wither and birds drop dead from the sky. That was what made up my mind, really.

  “Alright,” I said. “Yes.”

  I grabbed my coat and bag. On the way out of the office, Delia came up beside me.

  “You realise we don’t have the budget for this?” she hissed in my ear.

  “That’s okay,” I told her. “I won’t eat much.”

  When we got to the restaurant, I noticed that Delia managed to get the seat next to James’s. I ended up diagonally opposite him, where I could see him perfectly well but couldn’t exchange a word with him without leaning across the table and raising my voice, effectively copying in everyone else on every exchange. Someone ordered wine while we were looking at the menus. I took a glass, and over the rim of it I watched Delia snuggling as close to James as she decently could. I decided that Delia was a cow, and also that I liked James, but that I wasn’t going to get anywhere near him while Delia was all over him like wisteria. When the waiter came back, I ordered the most expensive thing I could find, venison with chestnuts, just to see whether Delia would notice. Of course, she didn’t. By the way she was looking at James, I suspected she would have eaten him all up, if she could have.

  Eventually, I became tired of the whole thing, and increasingly nervous about getting home. The
later it got, the greater the likelihood of having to run the gauntlet of dodgy characters on the communal stairs. I shot another look at James. He looked as though he was settled for the rest of the evening; his jacket was hanging over the back of his chair and he had a full glass of wine in front of him. I doubted he would notice when I left and I wondered why he had bothered to ask me to come along. At last I pushed back my chair, said my goodbyes in a tone of faux regret, and left the restaurant, slipping my arms into the sleeves of my coat as I pushed my way out through the door.

  Outside, the sky was dark, though tinged with the yellow of the city lights. The air was cold. I stopped to button my coat, and then I set off towards the tube station. The street was well illuminated and there were plenty of people out and about, so when I heard footsteps behind me, I wasn’t particularly alarmed. All the same, I glanced around. To my amazement, it was James.

  “Slow down, Fen,” he said.

  I stopped and stared at him. He was jacketless, his sleeves rolled up – far too lightly dressed for the chill air – and he was very slightly short of breath.

  “Did I forget something?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he said, smiling at me. “Did you?”

  “Where’s your jacket?”

  “In the restaurant, hanging over the back of my chair, I should think,” he said.

  “But why is it – I mean, why did–?” I couldn’t work out exactly what I was trying to ask, so in the end I just shut up.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “Do you want to go for a drink?”

  I was looking at him when he said this, and for a moment he looked different – more serious, less confident.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Do you mean... now?”