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Something felt totally surreal.
He heard ru
He grabbed the torch on the edge of the draining board, switched it on and shone the powerful beam out into the garden. Something in the distance – too far away to tell whether a fox or a badger, perhaps – hurried away. Then he saw the source of the water. It was an outside tap, pelting out water.
He turned it off and yet, as he went back into the house, he could again hear ru
He locked the door, hurried through the kitchen and atrium and into the downstairs toilet, where both taps were gushing.
I’ll kill that sodding plumber! he thought, turning them off. But he could still hear water coming from somewhere.
He ran back upstairs and into one of the spare rooms, which had a washbasin. Again, the taps were ru
As he screwed them tight shut he was trying to think rationally through his tiredness. The idiot plumber must have turned on every tap in the house to test the water system, then left without turning them off.
It was the only explanation he could come up with.
He went around the entire house again, to check that every tap was tightly off. Then, before returning to bed, he remembered there was one more bathroom, up in the attic, next to a tiny spare room with an old, very ornate wrought-iron bedstead in it, which was in much better condition than the rest of the house. It looked as if the property development company, which had started renovating the house before going bust, had begun at the top. There was a modern bathroom up here, an electric shower and a marine electric flush toilet.
The sink was bone dry, as was the shower tray, which relieved him. Because of the height of these attic rooms, they were on a different water system to the rest of the house, he seemed to remember being told.
He went back downstairs and crept into bed. This time, Caro did not even stir; she seemed to have slept through the whole thing. He switched off the torch and laid it, gently, onto the floor beside him.
As he did so he heard the sound of ru
22
Wednesday, 16 September
Plock.
A droplet of water landed on Ollie’s forehead. He woke up with a start and looked at the clock.
3.03 a.m.
Plock.
Another droplet struck him in the same place.
He raised his hand and touched his forehead. It was wet.
Plock.
‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Fuck!’ As another droplet struck his cheek, he reached down beside the bed, fumbling for the torch.
‘What is it?’ Caro murmured.
‘I think we’ve got a leak.’
He grabbed the torch, but before he could switch it on, there was a crack as loud as a gunshot above them, then a deluge of cold water, plaster and choking dust descended on them.
‘Jesus!’ Ollie shouted, leaping out of bed. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ He switched on the torch.
‘What the hell’s—?’ Caro sat up, sharply. In the beam of his torch, covered in white dust, she looked like a ghost.
‘What the – what the—?’ Caro said, scrambling out of bed.
Ollie swung the beam upwards. A large chunk of the centre of the ceiling had caved in, leaving a hole several feet in diameter, through which water was cascading.
He grabbed his phone from the bedside table, found the plumber’s number and dialled it. After several rings, when he thought it was going to go to voicemail, he suddenly heard a click, followed by a surprisingly breezy Irish voice.
‘Squire Harcourt, good morning, sir! Is everything all right?’
23
Wednesday, 16 September
By midday, it seemed almost every room in the house had workmen in it, plumbers, builders and electricians. The water had seeped through their bedroom floor, which was directly above the kitchen, and shorted out the lights there and in the atrium. Caro had had to go into work for a meeting she couldn’t cancel, but said she would try to come home as soon as she could, to help out.
Meanwhile Ollie had done his best in the bedroom, with a mop and bucket, then helped the workmen cover everything there with dust sheets. Bryan Barker explained it would be difficult to repair one individual section of the very old ceiling, which was lath and plaster – a lime mortar mixed with horsehair – without risking more damage. It would be better and faster to take the lot down and then plasterboard it. Ollie made the decision and told him to go ahead. With luck the work could be completed by the end of the week, but until then the bedroom would not be habitable.
The only spare room that was in a fit state to sleep in was the tiny room up in the attic, with the wrought-iron bedstead; he and Caro could camp there, he decided. His tiredness was starting to make him feel irritable. The house was a cacophony of radios blaring out pop music, hammering, the whine of power tools and the rasp of sawing. He needed, badly, to lock himself away in his office and focus on work for a few hours. Cholmondley had already left two messages for him this morning, sounding increasingly impatient, wanting to know when the latest amendment he had texted him about yesterday would be up on the website, and Anup Bhattacharya of The Chattri House had sent him an idea for his website that he wanted, urgently, to discuss today.
Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, he was desperate for more coffee, but the two strong ones he’d made himself earlier this morning had drained the small water reservoir of the Nespresso machine, and at present the water supply to the house had been isolated and capped off by the plumber. There was some mineral water in the fridge, he remembered, going downstairs and entering the kitchen. An extravagance, he thought wryly, removing the bottle of Evian and filling enough for a large espresso. As he did so a shadow fell across him.
He spun round.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, squire!’ It was Michael Maguire, in his boiler suit, looking grimy and exhausted. He’d been here since 4 a.m.
Ollie smiled at him, a quotation he’d come across suddenly echoing in his mind. To the man who is afraid, everything rustles. That was how he was feeling right now. ‘Want a coffee? I can make it from this,’ he said, holding up the bottle.
‘We’re just rigging up a standpipe now – we’ll have your mains water back on by late afternoon. Thanks, I’d appreciate one. So, do you want the good news or the bad news first?’
‘I think coffee first,’ Ollie said.
A few minutes later they sat down at the kitchen table, and while Maguire was finishing a phone call to a supplier, ordering materials, Ollie took the opportunity to quickly check his emails on his own phone. When the plumber finished his call, he looked back at Ollie.
‘There is good news?’ Ollie quizzed. ‘In all of this? Want to tell me?’
Maguire sat hunched over the table and eyed Ollie warily for a moment. ‘Well, the good news is I can get hold of all the materials I’m going to need right away. I’ll have some here this afternoon and the rest tomorrow morning.’ Then he stared gloomily down at his coffee.
‘And the bad?’
‘I’ll try and work out the cost, but it’s going to be expensive. You might be able to get some of it back on insurance, but I don’t know how much.’