door. Unable to shake the feeling that Lilith wasn’t quite what she seemed, it had made her unsettled and at a loss for what to do. Maybe a trip into the village – if the roads were clear – to speak with Father Patrick or Constable Crosby would help her decide what to do. If not, first thing in the morning, she would telephone them both and ask them to pay her a visit.
Five weeks of nonstop hard work and the house was much cleaner, lighter and smelt better. Oliver and his two labourers had been in every day, working until six or sometimes later. As they opened up each room the house felt a lot better. Kate spent every hour working alongside them. By the time they went home she would make herself something to eat then sometimes carry on until ten or eleven.
When she was on her own she would open a bottle of wine, drinking it as she cleaned, sanded or painted – whatever needed doing first. She hadn’t been drinking as much because she was so tired, but if she didn’t have a drink at all, sleep wouldn’t come until the early hours.
Tonight, she’d managed to not have one, even though her hands were beginning to shake like some old drunk’s and she felt like crap. She wanted to see how bad it would feel to go without. By nine o’clock she knew she had to go to bed because the craving was so bad. Her mouth was so dry that she kept whispering ‘just one sip’, but she knew if she could make it through until the morning she might just be ready to go to the doctor’s and get some help.
She lay there on her bed, waiting for the usual tiredness to kick in. It didn’t. She’d never been so awake as she listened to the clock on the mantelpiece ticking away. Each tick sounded louder than the last and as she stared at the wall, she heard a door bang from somewhere up on the second or third floor.
Her heart was in her mouth and then she realised that Ollie – she’d shortened Oliver to Ollie because it was much easier to yell – had probably left a window open to get rid of some paint or plaster fumes. It was just a draught, nothing else. Looking at her phone because it was too dark to see the clock face, she saw it was 3 a.m. She turned on her side, closing her eyes when she heard the scratching again.
Her mouth felt even drier as she lay still, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It didn’t sound like the scrabbling sound she imagined a rat would make. Did she know what a rat actually sounded like? No, she couldn’t say that she did. What she did think it reminded her of was sharp fingernails. Scared to move, she waited for it to happen again.
It sounded as if it was coming from inside the wall opposite her bed, which was ridiculous as outside her room was the hallway. She sat up, leaning over to turn her bedside lamp on, and felt better as the warm glow filled the room. She got out of her bed and crossed to the wall by the door. Her heart racing, she pressed her ear against the wall and waited for it to happen again. Five minutes passed. She couldn’t hear anything.
Her imagination was running wild and she imagined someone on the other side of the wall in the same position as she was, ear pressed against it listening for sounds of movement from inside her room. Her neck started to feel stiff and she stood straight, telling herself she would have to get some mouse traps tomorrow. There was no more scratching, so she got back in the bed and knew that first thing tomorrow she would ask Ollie to check for rats or squirrels.
As she lay there thinking about how much she liked having the cowboy around, she felt a warm sensation spread over her, and then she reminded herself he was married and that it was an absolute no to even think about him as anything more than a friend. She knew how much it had hurt her deep inside to see Martin openly flirting with women who were half of her age. Every time he had done it had been like a kick in the stomach – a reminder from him that she was never quite good enough for him.
Her eyes finally getting heavy, she was drifting off when a loud thud on the floor above her made her eyes fly open. It had come from the room that was almost finished. She jumped and sat up, pulling the covers over her. She was probably extra jumpy because of the lack of alcohol flowing through her veins. She waited, holding her breath, but there was nothing more until she finally lay back down. Squeezing her eyes shut she willed her brain to shut down and let her sleep. But then, from the same room, came the sound of footsteps on the wooden floorboards – not heavy or loud, but light.
Kate reached out and turned on the small bedside lamp once more, her heart racing. Someone was upstairs. She listened, not daring to breathe out, and they came again. They were definitely footsteps – walking faster this time. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know what to do. She picked up the phone to dial the police, but her finger hovered over the button. This was her house. She should really go and take a look. It didn’t sound as if it was some six-foot rugby player stomping around, more like a ballet dancer moving gracefully.
She threw back her covers and stepped onto the cold, tiled floor. Shit, it’s freezing. She didn’t dare to put her too big slippers on because of the noise they made, so she picked up the torch from under her pillow and then crossed the room and grabbed the small, wooden baseball bat that she’d got on a holiday years ago. She wasn’t a violent person, but if someone had broken into her house they would get a quick whack on the head for their troubles.
Creeping from her room, she left the door ajar because it creaked loudly as it closed. She made her way to the staircase. She stood at the bottom, listening for any sign of where her intruder could be. Her mobile phone felt heavy yet comforting in her pocket. There was no sound from upstairs so she made her way up, taking each stair one at a time then pausing when she reached the top.
The room above hers was seven doorways down the wide corridor. She shone the torch around and every one – except for that one – was shut. She was tempted to run outside and phone the police, but her pride wouldn’t let her. She’d feel like an idiot when the nice young officer they sent did a check of the gardens and stumbled across her recycling bin. They would think she was running some kind of private drinking club with the number of empties inside it, then they would ask who lived here and she would have to say ‘just me’. She could feel the look of pity they would give her, burning her soul to the core.
No, it was better for her to have a look around. If she still wasn’t happy, she could phone Ollie. No doubt he would come and make sure she was okay. Although she had no idea what his wife would think about her disturbing him at such a late hour. She waited, but couldn’t hear anything. Her heart pounding, she began to walk towards the open door.
Had she shut all the other doors today or had he? They had agreed to keep them all shut to cut down on the draught until the entire house had heating in. She would ask him tomorrow when he came. Tomorrow seemed so far away at this moment in time. The torch felt heavy in her hands and the beam was moving everywhere because she was shaking so much.
Before she knew it, she was standing right in front of the door she thought the footsteps had come from. The darkness inside was all-consuming. Come on, Kate, you know the score. There could be some mad axeman waiting in there for you. How many times have you watched the film and screamed at the television for the stupid woman to phone the police or to run? But she couldn’t. She had to check inside that room and prove to herself she wasn’t hallucinating. After all she’d been living here for five weeks now and had never heard anything up until tonight, and then the voice inside her head whispered: You’ve never been sober before tonight. You’re normally comatose by now, oblivious to the world in your wine- or vodka-induced sleep.
Lifting the torch, she shone it directly through the door as if to prove herself wrong. She wasn’t imagining this. Her heart was pumping the blood around her body so loud she could hear the fast thump, thump of it in her ears. The beam shone into the darkness. Her mouth was dry as she moved the torch around and couldn’t see anything. A little braver now, she stepped forward and reached her hand around the door frame, feeling along the wall for the light switch. As her fingers found it, she pressed it and held her breath.
Light flooded the room – the empty room in which a window was still open and the piece of net curtain across it fluttered with the breeze.