The House on Cold Hill

Then he drove off, heading home.

Hoping some of the workmen would be there today.

Just what the hell had really happened during the night?

He was nervous, he realized. Nervous right now about being in the house alone.

30

Thursday, 17 September

The events of the morning made Caro late arriving in the office. One client was already waiting in reception, and a problem had presented itself for another, the Benson family, a couple with two young children, who were meant to be moving house today. The solicitor for the other side – the purchaser of their bungalow in Peacehaven – had just left a message that his client was having issues with his bank and the money wouldn’t come through today. Which meant no completion.

Shit, she thought. That meant she was going to have to call the Bensons, who were in a property chain, and break the bad news. Mrs Benson was placid but her husband, Ron, was a thoroughly neurotic and bad-tempered man and she was certain to get grief from him.

She went up to her office and told her secretary to give her five minutes before sending up the client who was downstairs, and to hold all calls. Then she sat at her desk, looked up the phone number of her strange new client, the medium Kingsley Parkin, and dialled it. To her dismay, after six rings it went to voicemail and she heard his precious-sounding voice.

‘You’ve reached Kingsley Parkin. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone at the moment, due to unforeseen circumstances. Ha, just my little joke! Please leave a message, and your number if I don’t know you, and my people will call your people back!’

Caro looked at her diary and saw that the morning was rammed with clients. There were over a hundred emails in her inbox, and she knew on top of this she had the day’s physical mountain of post yet to arrive. She called through to her secretary and instructed her that if Kingsley Parkin returned her call while she was tied up with a client, to tell him she needed to see him extremely urgently, and to ask him if by any chance he’d have time for a quick bite of lunch, locally, today. Otherwise, was there a time she could call him? She also told her secretary that if Parkin could make lunch, to cancel the one she had booked in with her best friend, Helen Hodge.

Her luck was in. Shortly after 10.30 a.m., as her third client of the morning – a sweet elderly widow in the process of buying a bungalow–was settling into the chair opposite her, her secretary buzzed her to say that Kingsley Parkin was suggesting meeting in LoveFit cafe, where it was quiet enough to talk.

Perfect, Caro told her. She knew where LoveFit was, although she’d not been there – it was just a five-minute walk away.

Caro arrived, full of apologies, at almost a quarter past one.

Kingsley Parkin, in bright red trousers, a cerise shirt with a collar so high it enveloped his ears, a white jacket and Cuban-heeled Chelsea boots, jumped to his feet from a brown leather sofa, close to the entrance. He was even shorter than she remembered.

‘Never worry about punctuality, love. As an Irish mate of mine says, when God made time he made plenty of the stuff.’

She gri

‘Nice place,’ she said approvingly, looking at a wall of surfing pictures and another plain orange wall on which four stripy surfboards hung on display like a piece of modern art, with a palm tree in the middle. ‘Do you surf?’

‘Only the internet, love! Not much of a one for all that exercise stuff.’

‘I really appreciate you seeing me at such short notice,’ she said.

‘I’m glad you called. I’ve been really worried about you.’

‘You have?’

‘I’ve got us that far table,’ he said. And then added, lowering his voice, ‘I’ve asked them to make sure they don’t put no one next to us so we can’t be overheard – as I think I know what this is about!’

They sat down, tucked away in the far corner, and ordered. While they waited for their food Caro kept to business, updating him on the searches on the property he was considering bidding for. Then they made small talk for a few minutes.

Her chicken salad and coffee arrived. A protein shake, a glass of iced water and a large plate of pitta bread stuffed with falafel were placed in front of the old rocker.

When their bearded waiter had retreated, Parkin said, ‘I did try to warn you on Monday, love.’ He picked up the pitta with his hands but chunks of falafel tumbled out. So he put it back on the plate and attacked it instead with his knife and fork.

Caro stared down at her mountainous salad. She had no appetite. ‘I’ve not – I – I’ve never believed in the occult – paranormal – spirits. My mother always has, but she’s a little bit – sort of – eccentric.’

‘And now something’s happened to change your mind, hasn’t it, which is why you wanted to see me so urgently?’ As he chewed, a tiny sprig of salad bobbed between his gleaming teeth. Just like his jet-black hair, the whiteness of his teeth only served to accentuate the tired, aged skin of his face.

For an instant, Kingsley Parkin reminded her of one of the Mexican Day of the Dead skulls she’d seen on sale at Cancún airport, a few years ago when they’d holidayed there. Some of those skulls wore wigs and had great teeth, too.

She hesitated, as if still reluctant to open up to this man. Then she said, ‘We’ve only just moved into this house – less than two weeks ago. But there’s a lot of strange things been happening.’

He watched her face and nodded. ‘I know.’

‘How?’

‘Like I said – your aunt Marjie told me. You’ve smelled her perfume in your bedroom, haven’t you?’

Caro felt her face redden. ‘Yes – how . . . ?’ Her voice tailed away.

‘And you found a silk scarf she’d given you, years ago, on your bed, didn’t you?’

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

‘She’s trying to let you know that she’s around and wants to help you.’ He closed his eyes. ‘She says you, your husband and your daughter are in terrible danger. Your aunt is really very agitated. She wants you to leave. All of you. She’s telling me you must leave the house. You must. Just as soon as you can.’

He closed his eyes and balled his knuckles against his forehead in concentration. After some moments he murmured, ‘What is it, dear? What is it? I can’t hear you very clearly, there’s a lot of interference, what is it, what is it?’

Caro stared at him. He nodded several times, then opened his eyes, looked warily at her and placed his bony hands on the table. ‘She says that if you don’t want to stay there for ever, now is your only chance to leave.’

‘We can’t just leave,’ Caro said, then shrugged. ‘We’ve sunk everything we have into that house. It’s – it’s our future.’

Closing his eyes again, he began to pound his ears with his knuckles. ‘There’s something in the house, someone, something, it’s very indistinct, there’s someone, she’s saying, someone who doesn’t like to let people leave.’

There was a sharp crack that made them both jump. Caro froze for an instant, in shock and confusion. Then she heard gurgling water.

Parkin leaped to his feet, yelping, looking highly agitated and flapping his napkin. Other diners were looking at them. The bearded waiter was hurrying over with a cloth in his hand.

The medium’s glass had shattered. Water, ice cubes and jagged shards of glass poured over the edge of the shiny wooden tabletop.