Chapter 48
Plaster dust settled around me in the gloom.
I looked over my shoulder, half expecting Not-Fergus to still be chasing me with his stapler.
Instead, I saw a me-shaped hole in a plaster wall.
And through the plaster wall was the bedroom from before, only now it was dark.
The beautiful drapes around the bed were grey, moth-eaten dust sheets; the sumptuous bed, a stained mattress, flattened in the middle and nibbled at the edges.
Where I’d fallen through the wall, the plaster was crumbling and degraded.
The bedroom was dilapidated and rotten, as if decades had passed since that luxurious vision I’d seen just moments before.
Even the perfume was now a dank, musty odour of decay.
As my heart rate settled, the realisation surfaced that I must have done something right. I’d passed the first challenge. I ran my thumb over the knotted thread in my hand. I smiled, with relief, with surprise. Maybe Callie-Ann was right. Maybe I could do this.
Okay, I thought. Next.
I looked around the landing and then down. A flight of stairs led to an open floor below.
Oh good. More descending.
A warm light was cast against the wall and the gentle sound of music drifted up. I pulled myself to my feet, bracing my side as I picked up the axe. I hoped she didn’t have any other industrial-use stationery down there. Then I descended the stairs.
Down, down, down, further into the earth.
At the bottom of the staircase was an opulent living room, bathed in pools of golden light.
My head swum briefly as I orientated myself.
I’d come in through the basement, but there was the front door.
I had to be deep underground. Through the windows was that same packed earth encompassing the house.
I tried not to think about the crushing weight of all that soil against the walls, and turned my attention to the room.
Two emerald velvet couches sat either side of a chic marble and brass coffee table laden with fruit and canapes.
Candles fluttered in more little coloured glass tealight holders, and a thick embroidered curtain hid the kitchen from view.
Somewhere close by, music was playing. The place was done up for an intimate celebration, a party for two, which I guess this was.
I thought about how the bedroom had looked upstairs.
I wondered if there was more rot and decay hiding beneath this shining mirage, too.
On the coffee table, a wreath of redcurrants shone like a crown of luscious jewels round a small pile of pomegranates in a golden bowl, all garnished with a scattering of mint leaves.
A bottle of champagne, as green and inviting as the sofas, stood casually off-centre, wrapped in a crisp white napkin as if it were an attending waiter.
By its side, two sparkling coupes were filled to the brim with dancing, golden fizz reflecting the light from the open fireplace.
Well, that’s a trap if ever I saw one.
I didn’t need much knowledge of folklore to know you never eat or drink anything in… wherever this was. My neighbour clearly thought I was stupid. I eyed the corners and behind the furniture.
Where was that music coming from?
The soft gentle strains of an earnest female singer gave way to a pulsing beat and a short, repeating melody.
Of all the furniture and decoration in the room, I couldn’t see any radios, or record players or speakers or anything that could be playing music.
Despite this, the music was getting louder.
Unce-unce-unce-unce
The baseline crept up my spine, rattling my bones and fuzzing in my ears.
The repetition was just short enough to annoy.
Like a story that never really starts. I grimaced as it got louder and louder.
I searched with more urgency, to make it stop.
There was a muffle to the sound, as if it were coming from another room, or next door in my house, or perhaps in the curtained-off kitchen.
I held up my arms and pushed my elbows in around my ears, holding the axe above my head.
I frowned. I was wary about what I would find in the kitchen.
But this was the journey and I was committed now. The only way out was through.
I took a deep breath and pulled back the curtain.
The music hit me first. And then the cold.
I stood in a pool of orange streetlight in front of a painted door with an intercom.
A low insistent buzz told me my finger was pressing the trades button.
I jumped back and snatched my hand away from the buzzer.
I was outside one of the red brick tenements opposite my old flatshare.
I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to see my old home, but nothing was there but the darkness all around me.
That and the loud dance music coming from the window next to the main door.
Oh God. I know what this is.
Sure enough, the axe in my hand had been replaced with the clean, barely used hammer from the DIY set I’d left behind during my exodus from Edinburgh. It still had that new blue tinge to the metal along the claw end.
The door clicked open. I hid the hammer behind my back.
A wiry young man with a shaved head and hollow cheeks slouched over me in the doorway.
“What do you want?”
His breath stank of old cigarettes. My throat went dry. My palms felt slick with sweat.
He frowned at me, then eyed my shoulder, my elbow.
“What’ve you got?”
I wanted to run. I didn’t. He leant round me, quick, flitting movements like a hummingbird or a fox. He caught sight of the hammer and stopped.