Shadows of the Lost Child (extract)

Chapter Three

Now – Aleph

I took to the house, in a strange sort of way, it was tall and thin and elegant somehow, with a road at the front, cobbled and quaint and steps leading up to the strong front door. The rooms were vast, with very high ceilings, and although the window panes were small, and barred at the back, light came in and showed up the dust and all the potential. There was plenty of room for an office upstairs.

The third and top floor I kept for myself, including a room with huge sash windows, which gave me a view looking out on the street. Would the street light outside stop me sleeping? It didn’t as it happened. I was often awake.

The street was in a good part of town, although Curdizan High had once been rough. Now it was fresh with refurbished streets and tarted up buildings, apart from mine. There were plenty of tourists wandering around. I lay in my bed that very first evening, looked at the sky through curtainless windows, and heard the shouts of drunken youths. I’d never lived in the centre before, was bemused by the noise, although not that troubled. The things that kept me awake were worse. I mourned the past, and along with the past, I mourned myself, my carefree self, who’d long since died.

I must have drifted off at some point, and was woken up by children’s voices. I looked at my watch, it was half past two. Christ! I thought, those kids should be in bed by now.

I dragged myself up and peered outside, but all I could see was the bright street light, no tourists, nothing, not even an urban fox or a dog. My house was on an old-fashioned road called Old School Lane, a shortcut from the main shopping street, Narrowboat Lane. Just past my house, Old School Lane curved round to the left and joined another road further on. The kids had obviously vanished from view. I swore, loudly, thinking my chance for sleep had gone. I was right, it had.

Later that day, I went to the estate agent’s to return the inventory, wondering if I might see Gemma. I walked through the door and as I did, my heart sank, for there at the desk was the woman I’d met the previous time. I read the badge attached to her shirt – Marianne Parks – it made me pause.

‘The previous tenant was a Mrs Parks.’ She knew what I meant.

‘My mother,’ she said. ‘She died recently. And she was the owner. I’ll take that.’

‘There’s not much on it,’ I told Ms Parks, talking about the inventory. ‘There was too much wrong to put it all down.’ Realising then, how tactless that sounded. Marianne Parks didn’t bother to reply.

‘How are you finding the Old Schoolhouse?’ she said, slowly, for once not looking me straight in the eye.

‘Is that what it was?’ I said, interested. A name like that could be good for business. The woman smiled.

‘Thanks for the form, Mr Jones,’ she said. ‘We’ll send you out a copy shortly.’ She turned away, I was being dismissed. I headed for the door, thinking; I’d decided to pay a visit to the library. As yet no clients had found me in Curdizan.

‘Have you heard them yet, Mr Jones?’ she said. I stopped, short.

‘What did you say?’ I said sharply, turning around.

‘Have you heard the children’s voices in the night?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I heard them last night, about half past two. Parents these days are far too lax.’

‘And were the children crying or laughing?’

‘Neither,’ I said. ‘They were chattering loudly, in high pitched voices. I was half asleep when they woke me up. Tourists, I guess.’

Marianne Parks gave a slow, small smile, a smile that made me feel uneasy. But not as much as the words that followed.

‘No, Mr Jones, they weren’t tourists, or even the kids who live around here. The children you heard were the School Lane ghosts.’

***

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