he’d left. The windows either side of the front door, filthy as they were, gave me a good view of the front driveway and I could see it was empty. The Fiesta was gone. I tried the front door, but, predictably, it was locked. I checked my phone again and this time there was a signal, just two bars but it was probably enough. I dialled Sam’s number. It rang and rang and then he answered.
‘Hello?’ I said, my voice an urgent whisper.
There was no answer though, just a crackle and hiss. ‘Sam, can you hear me?’
The phone beeped and the call disconnected. I sent another text.
Am in big house on Grayswood Lane. Yew hedge.
He has gone but is coming back. Hurry. A
Downstairs, the smell was much worse. I didn’t want to explore, but at the same time I needed to find a way out. He would be back soon, and I didn’t want to be here when that happened.
Behind me there was a noise, the same as before – a moan, rising into a wail. It sounded nearer, but still a long way off. All the doors were closed, but I tried the nearest one and found myself in a large kitchen, a wooden farmhouse table at the far end and beyond them patio doors on to the large back garden. The kitchen was tidy but not clean, and the smell had ramped up a notch. I was getting closer.
‘Audrey?’ I said, and then a little louder, ‘Audrey! Can you hear me?’
I waited, listened. Nothing. My shoes crunched on the bodies of the dead flies – so many more of them, in here. The kitchen widened at the far end into a conservatory that went in an L shape around the corner, opening out on to the main living area. It had its own door on to the hallway, I noticed, thinking that someone must have knocked a wall down and at the same moment wondering what on earth I was doing creeping around this house thinking about home improvement.
Then I saw the body.
Lying on the sofa this time rather than sitting in a chair, as Shelley Burton had been: what remained of the person was black, hollow-looking, still wearing clothes that were stained and slack against what remained. Patches of greying hair clung to what was left of the head, skull-like but still with shreds of skin clinging to the bone. Around the sofa, apart from the flies, everything was normal – but, on the sofa, what had once been a human being, with emotions and intelligence and a sense of humour, had effectively liquefied and melted into a reeking mess of decay.
I looked at the body for a long moment, without moving closer, my hand over my nose and mouth as though that would stop the smell, as though it would keep my scream and my sobs of fear and horror tight inside me. I didn’t want to do this any more. I didn’t want to be here, in this mad place, where people were dead and nobody noticed.
Enough. Stop it, Annabel. Get a grip.
I walked carefully, my back to the bright windows which gave out on to the tangled foliage beyond, to another door at the far side of the room. Some kind of utility room by the look of it, and another smell in here – not death this time, but something even worse. There were Wellington boots lined up under a coat rack, a long work surface with Tupperware on it, a tennis racket, cleaning materials in a bucket, a tray containing small pots for cuttings, twine, a watering can, wasp spray, a pair of gardening gloves, a broken drawer, a pile of old net curtains. I could see the back door, bolted at the top and bottom. I undid the bolts, easing them jerkily back and forth until they gave. The key wasn’t in the lock and I already knew the door would be locked. But, when I pushed it, it moved a little. I looked around for the key, thinking that they would leave it somewhere close by, whoever it was who had lived here, and there it was – on a hook, hanging on a rusty nail amidst cobwebs on the window frame.
I seized it and tried it in the lock. It was stiff, but this time the door opened and I pushed against the wood, warped from the rain and lack of use. Outside, the weeds were monstrous and once