‘We’ll decide #2
‘Sophie,’ I say. ‘My next-door neighbour. Do you know her? She owns—’
‘Sips, yeah. Awful coffee.’
‘She said she viewed the house.’
‘Lots of people viewed the house.’
‘Did you tell her about me?’
Deirdre looks affronted. ‘What kind of an outfit do you think I’m running here? There is such a thing as GDPR, you know.’
I don’t know what that means.
‘General Data Protection Regulation,’ she explains, seeing my expression. ‘I have to protect your privacy under EU law. I can’t even add your email address to my mailing list, let alone tell random house-hunters about your …’ She searches for a word. ‘Situation.’
But I don’t know whether or not I believe her.
After all, Alex said that Sophie knows.
‘Darling, look.’ Deirdre leans forward, resting on her elbows, her bracelets clinking and jangling on the desk.
‘As I often have to remind the two haircuts sitting out there, I’m an estate agent, not a life coach.
You’ll have to sort out your personal problems on your own.
But I will say this: Sophie comes in here at least once a month and has done for, I don’t know, two or three years.
She’s a Goldilocks. A buyer who thinks that if you just look long enough, you’ll eventually walk into your perfect home.
The one that’s just right. The one that’s already exactly what you were looking for, no compromise required, within your budget.
Which is delusional, especially in this market – but shock horror, your house fit that bill.
Probably because it’s basically the house she already lives in.
She called to make an offer and I had to tell her what I had to tell everyone else who did the same thing: sorry, but the property is no longer for sale.
It’s been withdrawn from the market. That’s all I said. ’
‘You didn’t mention any names?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So she couldn’t actually know who the owner is?’
‘Of course she could. That’s publicly available information.’
In an instant, all the air in the room seems to evaporate.
‘She could search the Land Registry,’ Deirdre says. ‘All property sales in Ireland must be registered with it. The solicitor does it. For five euro, you can get the title to any property or land parcel. The name of the owner will be on there.’
My palms are suddenly slick with sweat.
‘And there’s the Property Price Register,’ she continues. ‘That doesn’t include any personal details, but it does tell you when the house last changed hands and how much for. And that one is free to search.’
I’d thought my concerns were as simple as avoiding WhatsApp groups and not talking to Sophie and Alex any more than I had to, but anyone with internet access, a fiver and five minutes could find out nearly everything I’m hiding.
Or trying to.
‘I didn’t know that,’ I say weakly.
‘Every day’s a school day.’ Deirdre pushes back her chair again. ‘Anyway, I really do have to be going, so …’
‘What about the woman in number three? Do you know her?’
‘Darling, I’m an estate agent, not a census taker.’ She sighs. ‘No. Why? What has she said to you in the, what, one day since you’ve moved in?’
‘“I pray the house is happy now, at long last.” In a text message.’
Deirdre frowns. Then, almost to herself, she says, ‘Oh – so you’re thinking it could be one of them?’
‘One of who? What could?’
Her mouth opens, then reactions flick across her face like changing TV channels.
Feigned ignorance. Regret. Apologetic embarrassment.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘What is it?’
The look on Deirdre’s face flips to resignation.
‘Just so you know,’ she says, ‘there was no legal obligation to disclose. Some people don’t even want to know if they’ve bought a stigmatized property.
Most people, in my experience. Either because they don’t care or they don’t want to think about it.
They want to start fresh. And you weren’t even a buyer, so technically I didn’t have to tell you anything at all. ’
A cold horror is crawling all over my skin.
‘And it’s probably not even true,’ she continues, waving a hand.
‘Some houses just have bad luck. It doesn’t mean they are bad luck.
But this is the kind of thing they do. I’ve had trouble with them before – coming to viewings, taking pictures …
And actually there was a guy at the viewing that I thought might be one of them. ’
‘One of who?’ I demand, my voice rising.
‘What’s this they call themselves again …
?’ Deirdre picks up her phone and taps the screen.
‘Dead Houses? Murder Homes? Murder Inc.? No, wait – that’s the Mafia.
’ She’s scrolling now. ‘They’re like trainspotters or plane-spotters or bird-watchers, only with houses where terrible things have happened.
Ah – here they are. The Murder House Club.
I mean, seriously.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Surely they could’ve come up with something better than that. ’
She hands me her phone.
On screen is a Facebook group. With two thousand followers and a black-and-white photo of a house in the header. The photo has a bright yellow strip of clip-art crime-scene tape overlaid across it. The pinned post says they meet on the third Tuesday of every month in a pub in town.
All welcome! 7 p.m. Look for Lizzie.
I scroll down, my insides heavy with dread.
Photos, of all kinds of properties. Unremarkable houses in suburbia. Fading mansions with overgrown gardens. Derelict cement monstrosities hollowed out, graffitied and boarded up.
Some of the pictures are in full colour and high res; others are pixelated reproductions of black-and-white originals.
I stop to read one of the captions.
Heatherside, Streamhill near Buttevant, Co.
Cork. Former tuberculosis sanatorium and later a psychiatric hospital until it was closed after the suspicious death of a patient in 2006.
Site includes unusual timber chapel and various outbuildings, over 50,000 sq.
ft on 20 acres. Currently for sale at €300,000, down €50,000 from last attempt.
At its height, the so-called ‘White Plague’ claimed up to 10,000 Irish lives annually.
So much to explore and so eerie. Will be real shame if it sells and gets razed.
Fencing and padlocks, but no security. Surrounding forestry popular with walkers.
Deirdre is saying something now about rumours, but I’m not listening any more. I can’t hear it over the blood thundering in my ears.
Because the next post features a place I recognize.
The house in the photo is mine.