motorway. Smiling to himself, he went through to the kitchen to turn the electricity on.
Muriel was at home. She was at home at last; Buckingham Avenue. Holding her box, she wandered through the empty rooms. The Sidneys had gone, and the house was returning to itself; their occupation had been a temporary thing, the blink of an eye, a memory erased as soon as the door closed on them. The dimness was gathering, hanging in clots from the ceiling; the air itself was thickening, and the floors exuded the cold and secret smell of earth. She would take a few minutes; enjoy herself. Then she would go upstairs to the spare room, sit down; arrange the bones, and wait.
Mr. Kowalski went upstairs. He heard them; chattering, their voices on the edge of hysteria. Telephone Voice was one of them; the other was Ghoul.
It seemed that hours had passed. The women heard the key turn in the lock. They stood together, arms intertwined. He faced them, a squat bristling bully, yelling in Rumanian and waving a gun. He motioned them apart. They obeyed, their eyes staring, licking their dry lips in fear. Mr. K. pointed the gun at Sylvia. She lifted her head and glared at him as she dropped back against the wall. He swung round to Isabel. Her fists were clenched at her sides, tensed for the explosion. “I know an expression,” he said. “Eeny, meemy, miny, mo—” Both together, the ladies screamed.
The furniture was all in place. Well, you say in place; as Sylvia said, it would be all changed by this time next week. If he could find the kettle, he might be able to make some coffee. They had brought quite a lot of stuff over last night. He looked at his watch again. Where the devil had she got to? She couldn’t have taken the motorway after all.
He surveyed the pile of boxes and tea-chests stacked up in the living room. Where to start? He wished she would come. Had the Mini broken down again? It often gave trouble in wet weather. Francis said it was the condenser; but what would a bloody vicar know? “You can’t trust these Specials like an old-time copper—” he sang. The telephone rang.
Warily—because he was not expecting a call, and yet he was always expecting one—Colin raised his head and listened. Just where was the telephone? He followed the sound. “When you can’t find your way home,” he sang. Kitchen; wall phone, very modish. “Hello?” He had to read the number off the dial. “Five-one-two-eight-six?”
There was no answer, just the sound of breathing; quiet and steady.
“Sylvia, is that you?” No answer. He sighed impatiently. “If you want the Broadbents, they’ve moved. They went yesterday. I’ve got their address somewhere, I can give it to you if you ring back later tonight.” Imbecile vendors; why hadn’t they left their new number to hand, as he had done? He paused. “Who is that?”
He felt the hairs rise, prickling, at the nape of his neck. Funny, he’d always imagined that was a figure of speech. The line was open: a meaningless hum, a static crackle. “Mr. Sidney?”
That was not a voice he knew. It seemed to come from very far away. It pricked at his memory with an evil familiarity, like an old habit, an old crime. Again he heard the sound of breathing: heavier, almost laboured, hoarse. At first it seemed that the caller was choking back laughter, gloating laughter long suppressed; but then the note changed, as if a term had been set to the merriment, by a hand around the throat. What could he do, alone in the cold and empty house? He turned his head, hunched his shoulders, as if he felt that the walls had moved in on him; the matt emulsion, the cork notice-board, making their approach. There was something else on the line: the chant of dubiously human voices, a subdued and gathering roar. Was someone throwing a party? He could hear the clink of crystal, the popping of corks; the discreet firm contact of flesh upon flesh. Was someone mourning? Had somebody died? Colin listened, his mouth gaping a little, his hand tight on the receiver: the chuckling, the gasping, the sniggering, the struggle for air. He could not be sure what he heard any more, terminal jubilee, bodily harm; the act of laughter, the art of dying. Rain spattered against the uncurtained windows; the wind got up, and already, by mid-afternoon, it was quite dark.
VACANT POSSESSION. Copyright © 1986 by Hilary Mantel. All rights reserved. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the Henry Holt edition as follows:
Mantel, Hilary, 1952–
Vacant possession / Hilary Mantel.—1st Owl Books ed.
p. cm.
“An Owl book.”
ISBN: 978-0-8050-6271-7
1. Mentally ill offenders—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6063.A438V33 2000
823'.914—dc21
99033536
Originally published in the United Kingdom by Chatto & Windus
First published in the United States by Henry Holt and Company
