‘It’s okay, love,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of.’
‘Mum?’ Rachel said. Her voice tiny now.
Mum didn’t look at her, in fact neither of them took an eye from Holly’s door, but at least she answered. ‘Yes?’
‘Do you ever think it might help, if you moved somewhere else?’
When Mum spoke it was strangely melodic. ‘Oh, I’ll never, ever leave this house, Rachel. Not in a million, million, billion years.’ Then she reached out and clasped her hand around her daughter’s wrist. ‘It’s not just you who belongs here … I do too.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rabbit knows it’s 2 a.m. Doesn’t need a fancy watch.
Rabbit senses time as if the ticks are on its heart.
Slides along the pavement and pushes through the fence.
Cracking back the wood, splinters raking through its fur.
House looks dark and sleepy, quiet shadows build a ladder in.
Rabbit slips inside the garden. Very quiet, delicate.
Other creatures hear it coming,
Rabbit has so many friends.
Insect, mammal, branch and soil.
Grease the way with blood and oil cos
Lights are on and look, she’s in there!
Later on she’ll fall asleep.
Rabbit may just kiss her gently,
Just before he starts to leap.
Across her body, round her ankles.
Up and in and roundabout.
Paw and tail and fur becoming.
All that she could do without.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Matt’s home office was in a shed. Not a shovels, wheelbarrows and cobwebs type of deal, but one of those posh jobs. Halfway between a small chalet and a summer house. The estate agent had been positively orgasmic over it, and to be fair, so had Matt. It was dry and insulated with a radiator that ran off the main house gas feed. Wooden floor too. Plus, it had these cool little downlighters, wedged into the ceiling beams. The last guy who lived here was a photographer, so he’d had these lights fitted to show off his arty prints on the wall.
Matt had only put one picture up so far. A huge, framed poster Wren had bought him for his thirtieth. The UK quad poster of one of his favourite vintage movies, The Time Machine.
So it was a proper man cave, only less cavey and more like a brightly lit, Ikea customer service room. Which wasn’t a problem. He’d loved this space in the daylight, but when he first saw it at night, he wanted to marry it. He called it ‘The Cabin’ and insisted everybody in the Hunter family do the same. A name plaque was currently on order, through eBay.
He looked at The Cabin now, as he headed across the garden, VHS player tucked under one arm and The Holly Wasson Season One Box Set under the other. Freshly cut keys dangled from his mouth and he tensed when some of the still sharp metal rattled against the bottom row of his teeth. He stepped up onto the decking and hitched all the gear onto his hip as he fumbled with the patio door.
When it swung open there were no shed sounds. No Mary Celeste creak. No cobwebs springing into his face either, and no dull sniff of mould. Just a smooth swish of the brushed trim and a clean, bright room, smelling of pine. Square boxes packed with books were stacked in the corner, Minecraft-style, next to two new bookcases that were currently empty. Except for one, he’d noticed. Wren must have been in here because she’d put his own book up there, shop-display-style, open at the spine.
It was nicely warm in there and his little Simpsons beer fridge was plugged in. Dutifully chilling some Newcastle Brown.
Holy shit, life was good. Which was saying something, after the horrendous summer they’d had.
He sank at his desk, flipped open his laptop and tapped a Philip Glass album on. Wren always said his music sounded like a car alarm going off, but he found the repetitive, classical strings and rhythms helped him concentrate. Got him in the thinking zone. He wrote most of his book to Koyaanisqatsi. Yeah, Matt was down with the kids.
He wrote another apology email to the publishers. Apologising again for missing most of the fundraiser today. He fired it off and shrugged, not that bothered.
He still had the leads to connect the VHS to his laptop, after he transferred their wedding video a few years back. He rigged it together, slipped the Holly tape in. Then sat back in his captain’s chair and popped a beer.
He didn’t press play just yet.
Instead he started pulling out the other papers that Bob had given him. Each was in its own plastic sleeve, numbered with a sticker saying ‘Barley’ on it.
He leant over and clicked the desk lamp on, spotting his reflection looking back at him from the glass patio doors. His head hovered in the garden. They weren’t really overlooked here, so there was no need to shut the blinds. It felt kind of freeing being able to look up now and again at swaying flowers and bushes, or back at the house and kitchen window. He could see Wren in there now, tinkering with a white cardboard model for a building she was designing. But mostly, tonight, he saw the black void of his garden, with his face staring back.
He shrugged, opened up the file and pulled out an A4 sheet, which said Barley Street #1. It was a meticulous list of each example of paranormal activity in the house.
Matt ran his finger down a few.
Saturday, November 3rd 17:30 (approx.). House key strangely missing (again) – see Thursday, Nov 1st, 12
