The Room Beyond (15 page)

We both glanced over at Sasha. He brushed the sides of his hair back
with sweaty palms, readjusted his jacket and released a sober little laugh.

‘Then I will leave you to it ladies,’ he said under his breath,
marching briskly between us and away.

Relief seemed to flood into Eva’s face as soon as he was gone. She
wiped her eyes with the back of her hand but when she opened the picture of
Sasha she only smiled thinly.

‘This isn’t your business,’ she murmured.

‘What is that man doing in this house?’

She gulped back. ‘Look, you have no place here. Leave us... please. Before
something awful happens.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Just go. Go!’ she groaned, pressing her head back against the door,
fresh tears streaming down her face.

I turned away, but before I’d reached the end of the corridor she
called out to me again.

‘Serena!’ My drawing was raised up in her hand. ‘May I keep this?’

‘Of course.’

And she smiled back at me through her tears.

I climbed up to my room, the vague memory of having promised to get
a pen somewhere at the back of my brain. Pushing my bedroom door open with my
shoulder I closed my eyes and ran my hands down over my face. And then a
movement, from somewhere in the room, rippled over me. It was no more than the
merest flutter of air, but enough for me to know that Seb was there without
even having to look.

He was by the window, an untidy bunch of small white flowers clasped
in one hand. I could already taste their pungent scent.

‘Jasmine from the garden,’ he said. ‘I hope you like them.’

‘I’m sorry about earlier. I’ve always been terrified...’

‘You don’t need to explain.’

‘Oh God, oh God!’ I murmured.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong? I don’t know where to begin!’ I tried to steady my
voice, swallow back the tears.

‘Well I do. Why did you ignore me downstairs earlier?’

‘Are you quite serious? You and Eva, curled up together like a
loving couple!’

He tossed the flowers on my bed, clenching his fists. ‘I don’t
understand why you keep going on about her. There’s nothing between us; she’s
my friend.’

‘But you looked so... in tune with each other.’

‘She’s my friend,’ he repeated, his voice trailing slightly.

He gazed trustingly into my face and every hurtful word I wanted to
hurl at him just seemed to fall away.

‘I saw Eva... just now,’ I whispered. ‘She told me to leave this
house in case something awful happens. Robert said I should leave too, on the
night of the party. I’m beginning to think I should take the hint.’

He pulled me towards him and I clasped myself tightly against his
chest. And when I closed my eyes I heard voices from my childhood in my head,
gentle voices I hadn’t heard for such a long time.

‘When I’m close to you,’ I whispered. ‘I feel as if I’ve returned to
a part of myself I thought I’d lost. It’s like coming home I suppose.’

‘Then stay here, this is your home now. Don’t listen to them. I’ll
look after you. I’ll make sure that nothing ever hurts you again. No more
broken glass to run away from. OK?’

‘OK.’

At some point that night I woke up quite suddenly with the sensation
that I was being watched. Somewhere, in the corner of my consciousness, I saw a
figure slip away, so slight and subtle that it almost must have been a dream. I
looked over at the balcony window but there wasn’t a flicker of movement, only
baking, lifeless air.

Seb was breathing rhythmically beside me but it was too close in the
room for me to fall back to sleep. I stumbled downstairs to the bathroom and
washed my face and neck with water. It was no good though, even the water felt
warm. It ran down my face in clammy trickles and seemed to turn to vapour
before even reaching the neck of my thin nightdress.

Further down the house it got cooler and more comfortable and I felt
as if I could breathe again. I caught my pale reflection in a mirror and found
myself smiling back at me.

Down at the bottom an enticing wave of fresh air caressed my face
and arms. It was coming from the conservatory at the back of the drawing room –
its door leading out into the garden had been left wide open.

Outside the air was almost drinkable, full of dew and damp leaves
and the scent of jasmine. It was more than tempting to curl up on a bench and
spend the rest of the night outside. I reached out, inspecting the petals of
flowers here and there. There weren’t a great many plants: a few shrubs down
the sides in terracotta pots and some shady trees at the end. But no jasmine.

‘What are you doing out here?’

I peered into the darkness for the voice but saw only shadows. But
then came a sharp scraping sound, the strike of a match, followed by a flame
which metamorphosed into a round orange spot suspended in the night air. I
moved towards it and the spot became the end of a cigarette. Closer still and
Raphael appeared. He was smoking on the bench in the garden’s far corner.

‘I could ask the same of you.’

‘Well I am having a smoke.’

‘And I’m looking for jasmine.’

‘Here, join me.’

I perched next to him.

‘How’s the motorbike?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t even know where it is now.’

I pictured the vast black machine dumped in a wasteland somewhere,
waiting to be vandalized or stolen. Clearly its job had been done, as far as
Raphael was concerned.

I took a deep breath of the luxurious night and peered up at the
back of the house. It seemed to be gleaming down at both of us in reply.

‘What do you think of this place, my home?’ he murmured softly.

‘I think it’s beautiful.’

He chuckled. ‘Why?’

‘Because it is a home I think, a real home. It’s hard to be lonely
in a place like this.’

‘And is loneliness something you do well?’

I swallowed hard but didn’t answer.

‘Well I’m buggering off in a few minutes. Going back to Europe.’

‘Beth will miss you. Does she know you’re leaving?’

‘Oh she’s used to it.’

‘When will you come back?’

‘Probably at Christmas. I hear my mother’s invited you to Druid
Manor, will you still be with us by then?’

‘Oh you’re not going to tell me to leave too are you?’

He gazed at me unblinkingly and a chill ran up my arms. His long
intelligent face seemed to ripple with tension and his eyes had turned jet
black, like deep bruises. They made me want to back away but somehow I found
myself drawing closer to them instead.

‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I very much think that you should stay.’

He turned away and suddenly without his gaze I felt as if I’d lost
something I didn’t even know I was looking for.

‘Before you do go, I want you to tell me about something,’ I said.

‘And that is...?’

‘I want to know about the missing house.’

He paused. ‘What do you mean by missing?’

‘Oh you know what I mean. The fact that this is number 36 but the
one over there next to us is 32. When I tried to ask your parents about the
missing number in between they gave me different stories, which makes me think
that neither of them are true. And, the strangest thing of all is that Beth
seems to think that there is a 34. She pointed it out once.’

His eyes found me again; tunnel black. I peered through the shadows
and they stretched around me, so tender and consuming that everything on the
periphery of my vision began to diminish. Our faces were so close now that I
could feel his breath.

‘Look over there,’ he said. ‘What do you see?’

I tore my eyes away from him to look over. ‘A fence, separating your
garden from number 32. A few pots. The wall sticking out from the extension
next door.’

‘And that’s exactly what you should see. There is no missing house. Listen
to me,’ he said in a low hushed voice. ‘When something scares you, when you see
the ugliness of life, just pretend it’s not there. It’s for the best; it’s what
we do. We lock up sickness and disease in institutions; we keep it off the
streets. We chop up slaughtered animals into segments and wrap it up until it becomes
nothing more than
meat
. We cover up our own imperfections, give
ourselves new faces. Because who wants to see the other side? Not me, not you.’

‘Seb told me something similar. But the way you say it scares me.’

‘And so it should.’

‘You’re all watching me, aren’t you? I don’t understand why.’

‘Look, go back in.’

‘Do you think I should leave, really?’

‘I’m not sure whether you can.’

I felt his hands gently circling my waist. He was raising me up onto
my feet and my legs felt shaky, as if I was half asleep. I raised my hands and
felt his warm face against my palms. His mouth moved towards mine.

‘What have you done to me?’

My voice sounded far away.

He stopped and moved his lips away so that they brushed against my
hair.

‘Go back to bed,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll see you at Christmas.’

I found myself walking back across the garden and a vision, so
beautiful, appeared before me that I heard myself cry out with surprise. Butterflies.
They were glowing white, stark and fluttering against the night air. I rushed
forwards, my hand outstretched, but just as I got to them a sharp spear of pain
tore through my left side.

I’d collided with something: an old crumbling wall that couldn’t
possibly have been there before, rising up nearly to my shoulder. I reached up
to touch the fluttering wings above it and as my fingers fell upon them they
turned into petals; white jasmine petals tumbling over from the next garden and
intoxicating enough to make my mind swim.

I snapped off a small cluster of buds, but the world was becoming
blurry. My feet danced sideways, sleep was drowning me, and the flowers had
turned back into quivering butterfly wings. It took every last shred of energy
to drag myself back up to bed, my eyes sore and throbbing and the jasmine buds
crushed in my hand.

1892

The plant had quite taken over. If she let it grow anymore it would
be eating up the windows in another season. Miranda grappled the thick foliage
away with her left hand and plunged in with the shears. A volley of dead leaves
shot out at her, straight at her eyes and mouth.

‘Ah, fighting back are you?’

Above her the sky was already gun-metal grey with evening gloom. Soon
it would be time.

The pruning caused an awful mess. She raked the twigs and branches
onto the pile in the middle of the lawn. It would make a good bonfire.

‘I wish you’d get a gardener to do that.’

Mrs Hubbard was standing on the doorstep wearing the thick blue
shawl she’d made for her.

‘Oh I love it. It gets my blood pumping, makes me feel alive.’

‘I suppose you miss the country.’

‘Yes... I suppose I do in a way.’

‘Now are you sure you want me to go home so early?’

‘Yes yes of course.’

‘I’ve left some cold ham and bread out.’

‘That’s marvellous, thank you. Now go home to those sons of yours!’

Mrs Hubbard returned to the glow of the drawing room and the forced
smile fell from Miranda’s face like a lead weight. When it got too dark and
cold to go on anymore she finally edged inside. In the mirror a smudged and
dirty face stared back at her; there were even a few bits of broken twig in her
hair. And yet her skin was glowing. Just over an hour to go. She hurried
upstairs.

In the warm bath she rubbed her body as thoroughly as possible with
a new bar of soap. When at last she was properly clean she dried herself
briskly and peered into her wardrobe. Her navy dress would do. She liked the
snake of buttons which ran all the way up the middle and the rather pretty V-shaped
neckline. She scraped her hair back, adorned it with a black silk hairband and
examined herself in the long bedroom mirror.

‘Gosh, I look like I’m going to a funeral.’

But for once it felt rather pleasing to look at herself. Dark
colours suited her, they seemed to give her chin more of a chance.

She paused motionless as the sound of gentle footsteps moved past
her room. They faded away and disappeared behind a closing door, the key
murmuring in its lock.

Downstairs she brought the food into the dining room. There were
three place settings, just as she’d requested. Only the wine was left to
prepare. She took a long, deep breath. Her heart should have been pounding, her
body should have been shaking, but she’d never felt so calm and still in her
life. What would Jane think of her dull little sister now?

‘Look, I’ve tidied up your room Jane! You see, all your pretty
ribbons set in a pattern, just like a rainbow.’

She must have been twelve or thirteen at the time. Jane had glanced
about her, eyes alert and her face all pinched and suspicious looking, as if
she could hear a strange sound but wasn’t quite sure where it was coming from.

‘I’m here. Here!’ Miranda had cried. ‘Look I tidied up your room
whilst you were out.’

‘Oh it’s you! What are you doing here? Get out of my room at once!’

A clatter of footsteps came down the stairs. Miranda positioned the
wine carefully at Tristan’s place setting and took her seat. The clatter
crossed the corridor; the door swung open.

‘Where is he then? Not arrived yet?’

Tristan looked better tonight. He’d shaved and was wearing some clean
clothes for once. But his skin wasn’t good and the whites of his eyes were a
sort of carnation pink.

‘Oh good. I’m glad you remembered to come,’ she said quietly.

He raised his lip in a churlish sneer. ‘Of course.’

‘Your father must be running a little late. Won’t it be pleasant to
see him again after all this time?’

‘I very much doubt that.’

He knocked the wine back in one mouthful as if he needed the courage.
She filled his glass again.

‘What a funny thing to say dear.’

‘Look, I’ll tell you now before he does. Things aren’t going too
well with the company.’

‘I had read in the papers that the business was suffering a little.’

‘More than that. We’re probably going to have to sell this house. I’ll
stay on in London to sort things out and you can move to the country if you
like.’

His eyelids suddenly drooped down and he threw his head back as if
to wake himself up, taking another large gulp of wine.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes... Fine. Tired that’s all.’

‘Oh that’s a shame. You must be working awfully hard up there.’

‘There’s a lot to do.’

His cheeks were drooping now; he hiccupped loudly.

‘Is there anything I can do to help perhaps?’

‘No. You wouldn’t understand. This is an awful messsss...’

His eyelids drooped again and this time he collapsed forwards,
knocking into the table and landing with his head face down on his plate. She
gave him a small prod and his arm fell limply to his side.

‘Yes it is a mess. You’re quite right about that.’

She dashed to the door, locking him inside the room and then ran
quickly, quickly up the stairs, past her bedroom door to the small spare room
at the end of the corridor.

‘It’s Mrs Whitestone. We’re safe now,’ she whispered, tapping
gently.

The door edged open. Mr Eden’s face was so pale that it almost
glowed up against the gloomy interior.

‘Is he sleeping?’

‘Yes, that powder you gave me worked quickly. I just hope it lasts.’

‘I know, although I was assured it would take hours to wear off. Here,
let me give you back your key.’

‘Have you got the lamps?’

‘Yes they’re in here.’

‘Let’s light them then. No time to waste.’

Miranda brushed past him but Mr Eden continued to hover by the door.

‘I don’t know how to thank you for this,’ he murmured.

‘Then don’t.’

She lit the first lamp and the room glowed up into life, revealing
fat beads of perspiration on Mr Eden’s forehead. His heavy jowls seemed to be
quivering and he must have sensed her look of pity because he lowered his head
and glared at the floor. She lit the other lamp.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ she said, urging his arm forward towards the
stairs.

‘How did you get him to come down in the end?’

‘I forged a letter from his father saying that he would be visiting
from Switzerland to talk about the state of the business. It was easy, I just
reused the envelope from a real one. I’m glad I opened that; Tristan’s father
isn’t happy. The company’s falling to pieces because of him.’

‘I’m so sorry for you then.’

‘Oh I don’t really care about the money.’

They were nearing the top of the house. Mr Eden was breathing
heavily behind her although his footsteps were almost soundless. The stairs
grew narrower and narrower and the light from their lamps glowed around them in
a golden sphere. At last they reached the small closed door at the top.

‘Locked,’ she whispered, gripping at the handle.

‘It’s alright. If I may...’

She squeezed herself against the wall as he inserted two slim metal
prongs into the lock. With a bit of jolting and shifting the door suddenly
swung open.

‘Well I am impressed.’

‘I’ve lead a colourful life.’

‘Yes I can quite believe that.’

The balcony door was also locked but Mr Eden opened it in even less
time. He followed her outside, cramming his hefty body into the small space
next to her on the balcony.

‘Here, let me help you,’ he said, offering her his hand and politely
looking away as she hitched up her skirts to climb over.

She landed on the other side without a sound but he cast a worried
eye over the railings.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked.

‘Yes, just feeling my age.’

‘Look, there isn’t a keyhole on the outside of her door, just these sacks
leaning against it. Hopefully it’s unlocked. Let me go in first. You follow
when you’re ready. Just remember to be prepared for this.’

‘I only hope it’s not too late,’ he whispered.

She could feel her heart pounding. ‘Oh God, so do I!’

She heaved the heavy sacks to one side and the door opened easily. At
once the stench hit her: putrid sweat and vomit and vermin.

Mrs Eden was lying on the bed. Her eyes were closed and she was
quite motionless. Clutching her handkerchief over her nose Miranda touched the
woman’s arm with the back of her hand. It was hot. She gazed at her protruding
stomach. There was the sound of a step behind her.

‘She’s alive, at least.’

Mr Eden was shaking and retching violently.

‘Come now, Mr Eden.’

‘I never thought. Or imagined! My Lucy!’

His wide body heaved back and forth with sobs, his grief filling the
room.

‘I know.’

‘I’ve never seen squalor like it,’ he went on.

Miranda held the lamp up to the walls. There was thick yellow mould
in places and brown stains. Beneath her feet the floor was covered in droppings.
Rats. Lucinda was also filthy, her hair matted into one solid lump and her
nightdress wet and stained and stuck to her skin in places. She was so thin
that she looked like an emaciated child, barely recognizable.

‘Yes. It’s quite appalling. I don’t want to spend a moment longer
than I have to here. Let’s go downstairs and see if we can find a way out.’

She caught hold of his hand and he followed her limply down the
stairs like a sorry old dog.

The rest of the house smelt better than the room at the top, but
however hard she forced her handkerchief into her nostrils the smell of
effluence seemed inescapable. On the first floor they passed a company of rats
and she cringed against the wall. They slunk sulkily away, barely bothering to
break into a run. And then the sight of the front door crept slowly into view.

For a moment she could go no further, as if her heart had stopped
beating altogether. Mr Eden groaned next to her.

‘This is the work of a madman.’

‘Yes,’ she murmured.

It had an almost mythical quality, like some sort of outrageous
device from a Greek tragedy. She tried to count but quickly gave up. How many
padlocks could possibly be attached to one single door frame? And there wasn’t
even any order or reason to them; they clung to the wood in the most haphazard
way and some of them even hung from the centre of the door and in the walls
like limp afterthoughts with no purpose to them at all. For the first time she
felt her knees buckle under her. She took a step backwards and breathed hard.

Mr Eden disappeared into the drawing room.

‘It’s the same in here! We could always smash through the windows I
suppose.’

‘No, it will cause too great a disturbance. Is the carriage there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we’ll lift her over the balcony and carry her down through my
house.’

He took her elbow with a firm but comforting hand. His company at
least felt reassuring; there was no need for words or excuses, just a beating
urgency to leave and be done with it all.

Mrs Eden was still lying motionless in her bed when they returned. There
were no blankets or clothes to wrap her in, even though it was so cold. Empty
bottles were strewn everywhere and there was one rather odd looking little
bottle on the bedside table, made from bluish glass and half filled with
something medicinal looking. She sniffed the contents and hot tears immediately
pricked up into her eyes, tickling her nose until she sneezed. Aniseed, mixed
with a potent smoky flavour of some sort. She slipped it into her pocket.

‘If you carry her, I’ll climb over to the other side and you can
then hand her to me.

Mr Eden nodded and leant down tenderly.

‘She’s as light as a feather,’ he murmured. Her swollen belly
stretched tightly under her nightdress and she let out a faint whimper.

Miranda was back over in a second and he lifted his wife into her
arms like a baby. He was right, she was terrifyingly light; she could quite
easily have carried her by herself.

‘Now put the sacks back please,’ she told him. ‘And we must try to
lock the other doors again. He mustn’t know we came through here.’

‘It shouldn’t be a problem.’

But locking the balcony doors again was no easy matter; he was
shaking so much that the metal prongs slipped hotly in his hands.

‘Keep calm now Mr Eden, it’s nearly over.’

The minutes groaned by with the length of hours. What if Tristan
were to wake up now, beat the door down, discover them stealing his lover away
from him? She gulped until her throat hurt.