CHAPTER 1

‘You’ll see,’ says the young man probably an estate agent coming through the front door of the house.

‘After you,’ he says, and across the threshold step a woman and then a man, early-to-mid thirties, she is pregnant, he keeps close.

The man is about thirty-five years-old, tall and slim, a little gangly, with sandy hair and grey-green eyes.

The woman, much shorter than the man, has long straight black hair, olive skin, bright brown eyes, and is dressed entirely in black.

‘This is the hall,’ says the young man, ‘as you can see.’ There is a short pause before the couple laugh. ‘Original black and white floor tiles,’ the estate agent says.

‘Very nice,’ says the pregnant woman.

‘Mmm,’ says the man.

‘Shall we go through here?’ asks the estate agent, and they turn left off the hall into the front room. ‘As you can see, the vacating tenants did their best to take everything that wasn’t nailed down - and quite a few things that were.’

The room is quite small. The floor is bare wooden boards, rough and dusty – a carpet has been removed. Wires branch out of the holes where light sockets and power points are meant to be.

‘Been looking long?’ the estate agent asks.

The woman is now walking over to the fireplace and the man is going to inspect the bay windows.

‘Yes,’ says the man, turning.

‘Months,’ says the woman, not turning.

‘But in London,’ says the man, ‘not down here.’

‘Really?’ says the young man.

‘Who were the vacating tenants?’ asks the woman, then grimaces.

‘Ah, well, there’s a bit of a story there,’ says the estate agent. The couple wait for it. ‘You see, for a long time this place was unoccupied. Quite frankly, the owner couldn’t be bothered with it – he lived in India, I think. Indonesia. And because it was empty, someone spotted this fact and moved swiftly in – started to squat it, if I’m perfectly honest with you. The area’s come up a lot since then, but at one time it was pretty druggy. Anyway, that lot were in here about two years in total. They weren’t too bad, I’ve heard, as far as druggies go – they had a little daughter, and she went to school and everything, was kept clean. But then the owner died; food poisoning, I wouldn’t be surprised – and his son took over the property. He had the squatters out within what? a month, then started to do the place up. He’s the vendor, by the way. And he as you’ll see got as far as the kitchen and a bit of the attic before, well, let’s say he ran into some financial difficulties of his own – and now he’s looking for a swift sale. You’re not in a chain, are you?’

‘We’re moving out of a flat,’ says the man. ‘We’ve got a buyer already – and they haven’t got anywhere to sell.’

‘Lovely-jubbly,’ says the estate agent. ‘Like I say, the kitchen’s been done up very nice.’

‘Is that blood, do you think?’ the woman says, pointing with the toe of her shoe to some dark red stains on the floorboard.

The estate agent comes across. ‘Looks more like varnish to me,’ he says. ‘But I suppose you could be right. As far as I’ve been informed, they were crackheads not smackheads.’

As the estate agent goes into the hall, the woman whispers to the man, ‘Looks like blood to me.’ She smiles, and he smiles broadly back.

They follow the young man into the next room off the hall, also to the left. It has two narrow windows that look down the side of the house towards the green of the lawn.

‘It’s a good shape,’ says the man.

‘Not too small, either,’ the woman says. ‘I could fit a piano in here.’

They go back into the hall. A little further along, beneath the stairs on the right, is another door.

‘Cellar,’ says the estate agent, sliding back the small brass bolt. ‘Quite a decent size one, too.’

‘Spooky,’ says the woman, which makes the estate agent laugh quietly.

The man opens the door and starts to descend.

‘Paddy,’ says the woman. ‘It’s dark.’

‘I think there’s a,’ says the young man, and reaches round to try the switch. There is a dry click, but no light.

‘I’m just going to see what I can see,’ says Paddy.

‘Bulb must be gone,’ says the estate agent. ‘You’ve got your fusebox down there. Electrics are all fine.’

‘I wouldn’t go down there,’ says the woman.

‘Why not?’ asks the young man.

‘It doesn’t smell damp,’ Paddy calls up.

‘Why do you think?’ the woman says.

‘You don’t like the dark?’ the young man asks.

‘Rats,’ she says.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to worry about those round here. It’s very clean, like I said.’

Paddy reemerges. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Sure you don’t want a look?’

‘The kitchen is just through here,’ says the young man, walking along the passage and opening the door. ‘All very contemporary.’ They follow him in. The kitchen cabinets are of pale Maplewood. ‘Do you know the area, at all?’ he asks.

‘No,’ says Paddy, ‘but we’ve got some friends who live just.’ He is interrupted by the jingling of a mobile phone and kept from continuing by the estate agent answering it.

‘Vince,’ says the agent, then mouths the word sorry and holds up his palm. ‘Yes, this is Vince,’ he says.

The couple watch as the estate agent points towards the kitchen door and then goes through it. He goes out the front door, too. They are on their own in the house.

She looks at him and he looks at her, and they both smile, and then laugh.

‘Why didn’t you ask if we could look round by ourselves?’ she says.

‘I don’t know,’ says the man. Their voices are louder. ‘We always have to go through this kind of thing, don’t we? They won’t let you alone.’

‘Paddy,’ she says.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks.

‘I’m fine,’ she says.

They look out through the French doors. The flowerbeds are overgrown: an appletree in the middle of the lawn has shed its fruit, which lies rotten on the long brown grass. It is a day with a white and dull sky.

‘Plenty of work here,’ she says, coming to stand beside him.

‘Agatha,’ he says, his voice lowered. ‘Not for a while.’

‘We’ll have to make it safe,’ says Agatha.

‘It looks fine to me,’ Paddy replies. They turn and look back through the house, towards the front door – where the frosty silhouette of the estate agent moves behind glass.

‘Quick,’ Agatha says, ‘Let’s see as much of the rest as we can before he comes back.’

‘I like it so far,’ says Paddy.

In a few moments they are up the stairs and onto the first floor landing. Above the kitchen is a small bedroom, which they enter. It is painted pink. Glow-in-the-dark stars are stuck to the ceiling, lots of them, a whole glow-in-the-dark universe. There are stickers on the doors of the built-in cupboard, glossy pink. The bottom two panes of the window are crammed with transfers – of pastel ponies with flowing manes and tails, long-haired trolls with very dark eyes.

‘This will have to be completely redone,’ she says. ‘The Monster wouldn’t like it.’

‘He might,’ says Paddy.

The next bedroom along is slightly smaller, boxier. ‘Yes,’ says Agatha, her hands on the dome of her belly, ‘it feels good in here.’
There is a large radiator beneath the window which has the same view, but elevated, as the rear living room downstairs. Paddy comes up behind Agatha and puts his hands around the top of hers; their fingers interlaced. They sway from side to side. ‘You like it, don’t you?’ he says.

‘So far,’ she replies. ‘Let’s see the rest before we get carried away.’ She walks out the door.

‘Who’s getting carried away?’ says Paddy. He follows her into the main bedroom. ‘You were standing there deciding where the cot would go – I could tell.’

‘So what if I was,’ she says, looking round at the coving of the ceiling, ‘it’s only practical.’

Taking a few strides around the room, Paddy says, ‘I like this.’

‘It’s big, isn’t it?’ says Agatha.

‘We can get a wardrobe in,’ says Paddy.

‘Or two wardrobes.’

‘Where are we meeting them?’ Paddy asks.

‘At their house,’ she says, ‘at twelve o’clock – or whenever we’re finished at the next one.’ They walk around the edge of the room.

‘And we’re going out for lunch?’

‘You’re not hungry already, are you?’ she says.

‘Well,’ he says.

Downstairs, the front door opens. ‘Hello?’ calls the estate agent.

‘Quick,’ says Agatha, and grabs Paddy’s hands. ‘Before he finds us.’ She pulls Paddy out into the upstairs landing and then up a narrow flight of stairs just to the left. Her feet make very little noise on the thick carpet.

‘Ah,’ she says, looking into the narrow attic with the ceiling sloped to either side. ‘Our office,’ she says, stepping forwards. ‘The desk can go here.’

‘Stop it,’ says Paddy.

‘Do you think I’ll jinx it?’

‘It’s not that,’ he says.

‘Hello?’ calls the estate agent, louder, from the upstairs landing.

‘Agatha,’ says Paddy, pulling open the velux window in the roof. ‘Come here.’

Agatha goes to him. Paddy tips it up, and they step into the space created – heads and shoulders out the front of the house. ‘I thought so,’ he says, and points.

‘Oh yes look the sea,’ says Agatha, happily.

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