sound of water at all in fact, not even a drip. I don’t want to think about an explanation for this, because it has to involve people, other people, and…
Creak. Cre-eeak.
It could be the sound of me, because I’ve started walking again and the bare floorboards are bowed here, so they could be creaking. But they’re not. The creak is in some other part of the house. Or maybe outside. It could well be outside. It’s the sound they put in the movies when someone’s hanging on the gallows and they don’t want to show the body so they just have this creak. Creak. No – that’s just my imagination. It doesn’t sound like that at all. It sounds like feet. Someone moving in the house above me. And… and… I’ve arrived at the hall. A big, spacious entrance hall with a patterned tile floor: red, brown,yellow, terracotta, powder blue. At intervals groups of tiles are broken – not cracked but shattered, as though they’ve been smashed with a sledgehammer.
Creak.
Four doors lead off this hall. Three of them are shut. I have to get to the stairs, so I can put my back against the wall. I’m far too exposed standing here. Anyone could come from any direction. So why aren’t I moving any more, why am I standing here completely still, paralysed? Because I’m afraid, because if I step in the wrong place, I’ll send tile shards skidding, then they’ll know from the noise that I’m here, and they’ll come for me…
Creak.
It’s definitely upstairs. Up the stairs where I’m going. And I am going now. My feet are moving, skirting the smashed tiles, swiftly, almost silently.
Creak.
That was me. First foot on the stair and it creaks. So the other creaking must be the stairs too. Must be a person. I put my back against the wall. It’s hard, bumpy, gritty. All the wallpaper has been ripped off and strewn on the stairs. So much paper it’s difficult to see where the stair treads are. So there can’t bepeople. If there were people going up and down, then the paper would be trodden flat, wouldn’t it?
Dream. This is what I dreamed. Wallpaper. White going red. I dreamed that something murderous had happened in the house next door to ours in Grantley Street, and though it had happened many years ago, the house remembered and bled. And, because the house is part of a terrace, the bleeding came through the wall. The wallpaper in my room was soaked red. A spreading crimson stain which got bigger and bigger until…
Creak.
Half-landing. Something horrible and white and spongy and I’m treading on it. Wallpaper? No. Can’t be. Wallpaper is not this thick. I lift my foot and put it down again – my shoe sinks in. Deep. What is it? Some plastic-coated giant bandage? No, no – stop panicking – it’s just lagging. Just an abandoned old piece of lagging that used to go round a hot-water tank. Don’t ask why it’s here. You don’t need to know. Turn off your thinking button. Just keep going. Keep your back against the wall. And breathe. Remember to breathe.
Creak.
Second floor. Creaks must be outside. Otherwise they’d be getting louder, wouldn’t they? Or different anyway. Besides, if they were really footsteps, someone would appear. You can’t walk round a house indefinitely. Walk, walk, walk, I mean, where would you be going?
Creak.
Fire door. Hardened glass door in the middle of the stairs blocking my way to the Top Floor Flat, Chance House. No-Chance House. No chance of getting through the large, shut fire door. Thank God. It’s shutting me out. Shutting Edith’s secret in. I give the door a gentle push. There’s the suck of an air vacuum and it opens.
A flight of stairs. Twelve small steps, that’s all. And me, with my very small brain, going up them. Thump. Thump. Thump. That’s not my feet on the bare treads, that’s my heart banging in my chest. Bang, bang, bang, all the way up to the top. And at the top another door. The door of the flat itself.
It’s open.
“Hello,” I whisper.
Who am I
Creak. Cre-eeak.
It could be the sound of me, because I’ve started walking again and the bare floorboards are bowed here, so they could be creaking. But they’re not. The creak is in some other part of the house. Or maybe outside. It could well be outside. It’s the sound they put in the movies when someone’s hanging on the gallows and they don’t want to show the body so they just have this creak. Creak. No – that’s just my imagination. It doesn’t sound like that at all. It sounds like feet. Someone moving in the house above me. And… and… I’ve arrived at the hall. A big, spacious entrance hall with a patterned tile floor: red, brown,yellow, terracotta, powder blue. At intervals groups of tiles are broken – not cracked but shattered, as though they’ve been smashed with a sledgehammer.
Creak.
Four doors lead off this hall. Three of them are shut. I have to get to the stairs, so I can put my back against the wall. I’m far too exposed standing here. Anyone could come from any direction. So why aren’t I moving any more, why am I standing here completely still, paralysed? Because I’m afraid, because if I step in the wrong place, I’ll send tile shards skidding, then they’ll know from the noise that I’m here, and they’ll come for me…
Creak.
It’s definitely upstairs. Up the stairs where I’m going. And I am going now. My feet are moving, skirting the smashed tiles, swiftly, almost silently.
Creak.
That was me. First foot on the stair and it creaks. So the other creaking must be the stairs too. Must be a person. I put my back against the wall. It’s hard, bumpy, gritty. All the wallpaper has been ripped off and strewn on the stairs. So much paper it’s difficult to see where the stair treads are. So there can’t bepeople. If there were people going up and down, then the paper would be trodden flat, wouldn’t it?
Dream. This is what I dreamed. Wallpaper. White going red. I dreamed that something murderous had happened in the house next door to ours in Grantley Street, and though it had happened many years ago, the house remembered and bled. And, because the house is part of a terrace, the bleeding came through the wall. The wallpaper in my room was soaked red. A spreading crimson stain which got bigger and bigger until…
Creak.
Half-landing. Something horrible and white and spongy and I’m treading on it. Wallpaper? No. Can’t be. Wallpaper is not this thick. I lift my foot and put it down again – my shoe sinks in. Deep. What is it? Some plastic-coated giant bandage? No, no – stop panicking – it’s just lagging. Just an abandoned old piece of lagging that used to go round a hot-water tank. Don’t ask why it’s here. You don’t need to know. Turn off your thinking button. Just keep going. Keep your back against the wall. And breathe. Remember to breathe.
Creak.
Second floor. Creaks must be outside. Otherwise they’d be getting louder, wouldn’t they? Or different anyway. Besides, if they were really footsteps, someone would appear. You can’t walk round a house indefinitely. Walk, walk, walk, I mean, where would you be going?
Creak.
Fire door. Hardened glass door in the middle of the stairs blocking my way to the Top Floor Flat, Chance House. No-Chance House. No chance of getting through the large, shut fire door. Thank God. It’s shutting me out. Shutting Edith’s secret in. I give the door a gentle push. There’s the suck of an air vacuum and it opens.
A flight of stairs. Twelve small steps, that’s all. And me, with my very small brain, going up them. Thump. Thump. Thump. That’s not my feet on the bare treads, that’s my heart banging in my chest. Bang, bang, bang, all the way up to the top. And at the top another door. The door of the flat itself.
It’s open.
“Hello,” I whisper.
Who am I
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