Ten Doors Down

By Steve Conoboy

Ari has broken her phone again, and Mum's not replacing it this time. It's Ari's worst nightmare. No phone, no life. Her few friends don't visit, not even Beth, hilarious queen of the bitches. Mum finds her a job. Ten doors down the street: The Mad House. Crazy Crossman lives there, a bristly and reclusive woman. She's violent towards kids, they say. There's strange noises at all hours of the day, they say.

 

It starts as bad as Ari expects - Crossman cannot stand the youth and has just about a million rules - and gets worse. The job is a messy, splattery clean-up in one part of the house - it's a disgusting mix of what looks like thick, multi-coloured paint and plasticine innards. Each day this mess is in another room, and Ari's curiosity skyrockets. It's like the aftermath of a mad fight between strange creatures from some Other Place. But that's crazy. There are no Other Places, and Miss Crossman is just some stiff old lady with odd thoughts about how to live.

 

A confrontation with Mr. Ribbles, the curtain-twitcher from across the street, leads to Crossman defending Ari and bringing her inside. They very nearly start bonding over tea and biscuits, but when Ari is left to let herself out, she hears the noise upstairs. She gets a snapshot-glimpse of Crossman's bedroom before the door slams shut. She sees the impossible. No opposite wall, only a sweeping hill under impossibly blue skies. Another world.

 

Ari vows never to return to the Mad House...

 

This is a story of friendship across generations, of a lone woman's unknown power and sacrifice, and of responsibility without recognition. How far would you go to protect those who don't even care that you exist?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Conoboy
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201332211

Book preview

ALSO AVAILABLE

PIECES OF EIGHT

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02- Canticle Of Oceans Lost

03 - Refrain Of The Fallen

MEPHISTO DRIVE

01 - A Haunting On Mephisto Drive

02 - Cherry Raine

COMING SOON

PIECES OF EIGHT

04 - Melody Of Fools

FORGING THE EIGHT

01- Silus

02- Samira

MEPHISTO DRIVE

Book 03

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE

©(2022) STEVE CONOBOY. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced or copied without the expressed written permission of the Author.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover art under licence from Shutterstock

1.

IT SEEMS LIKE THE END OF THE WORLD WHEN IT HAPPENS, BUT IT’S NOTHING COMPARED TO WHAT COMES LATER. The thing is, objects, particularly those with screens, do not survive long around Ari, so her iPhone’s days were always numbered. Laptops have bounced end over end downstairs - the last such machine was exterminated so thoroughly that the repairman was convinced it had been battered with a high heel. The lifespan of tablets is so limited that they are no longer allowed in the house. Smartphones are a similarly endangered species on these shores. They’re not very good at swimming, don’t cope well with being stomped on, and get lost incredibly easily. They don’t stick around for long (a bit like some people). Mum labels this inability to keep hold of any device a ‘blatant disrespect for anyone and anything’, combining it with the perceived crime of ‘not understanding the worth of any possession’. Ari is adamant that this is not the case, and that in fact she is afflicted with vicious bouts of bad luck. The truth is somewhere in-between.

Ari doesn’t intentionally kill any of her phones (apart from one that met a bedroom wall at high velocity, but that was somebody else’s fault when you take into account cause and effect), she never sets out to drown them in the toilet, and has no wish to abandon them to random parts of the locale like spare puppies in bags.

It just happens.

Here, then, is the start of everything that follows: she’s standing in the kitchen, shoving the last chocolate bar into her mouth. There are no more left in the house. She’s had four this afternoon. Mum enters in time to witness the last bite. This has been a particularly hot topic for two weeks. ‘It doesn’t matter how many times I tell you not to do it, you keep on doing it! That was a full pack of bars! You’re not meant to eat them all in five minutes! And they were mine!’

Ari argues that it wasn’t five minutes (it was thirty), and it’s the first she’s heard of this warning (it’s definitely not), and there’s nothing else to eat (apart from all the other food stuffs in the cupboards and fridge), and it all gets louder and shoutier, even though Ari didn’t really do it on purpose.

It just happened.

The end result: Mum sends fourteen year old daughter to the shop for replacements and milk and cat food. When she comes back she can do the washing. ‘I already hoovered this morning! You said that was all I had to do today.’

‘That was before you tore through a week’s worth of chocolate in half a day. Move it or the wifi password gets changed.’

At this point Ari rolls her eyes (an expression she’ll deny ever making) and walks out. Cuts across the lawn. Her heel skids across a turd. Down she goes. She ends up flat out, a big streak up the left leg of her jeans. She uses a selection of the words that Mum hates the most, really spits them out. It’s likely that the neighbours hear this tirade and will report to Mother again, but whatever.

The smell is obscene.

She goes back inside, sticks her jeans in the wash, pulls on another pair, heads for the shop. It’s not until she’s at the till that Ari realises her back pocket is empty. Panic is a hand closing around her heart. It’s lost. Or stolen.

Not stolen, oh God please, not stolen.

It fell out of her pocket on the way here. That’s the most obvious likelihood, so that has to be what’s happened. If she’s quick she will find it before anyone else. Ari scrambles out of the supermarket, leaving her shopping at the self-service check-out. Retracing her steps is easy; there is only one possible route.

She retraces it three times.

It has to be here somewhere. It’s a bright blue iPhone. It’s the most obvious object imaginable. Unmissable.

A bright fear springs to life. Someone has seen her unmissable bright blue iPhone, has snatched it up and is long gone. She can spend all day and night searching if she wants. It’s already in some other pocket, destination forever unknown. Fear turns to throbbing panic. Mum’s warning was very clear; anything happens to this phone... Tough. No replacements. Not even bottom of the range. Nothing.

Perhaps it took a strange bounce and ended up in this hedge... Or that...

She thinks of how stupid her passcode is, how easy, how obvious.

5555

Any monkey could guess that in three goes. And read all of her messages, read all about everything. Oh God, why did she have to get a bright blue obvious phone? Why

did she not check her jeans before putting them in the wash? It comes to her quick and pure like that. She knows exactly where it is: rattling round and round in the drum of the washing machine.

See how she runs.

The cycle is not even halfway complete when she finally gets back home. Round and found flop her jeans, clang and clang goes her precious iPhone, the very centre of her social life, the six inch embodiment of her whole existence and sense of self-worth. Clang, clang. So much soapy water. Ari yanks on the round door. The lock is in place, not due to release for over an hour, when the wash is finally complete. Ari kicks the handle, then pulls on it again, much harder. A little plastic something snaps. Out pours soapy water, a goosh of it across the linoleum. She delves inside, tosses her jeans out of the way as she fishes for the phone. Praying to whichever greater beings might be out there and listening, Ari holds in the power button. Holds it. Holds it. Tries to remember what it is you’re meant to do when rescuing an unresponsive, unconscious mobile phone. Rice. You stick it in a bowlful of rice overnight. Except this thing’s been in the washer so long it’s going to need a sackful.

A high-pitched squeal signifies Mum’s presence in the doorway. It’s not the highest pitch she’s capable of (this is reserved for anything cute or sad relating to animals), but it’s pretty far up there. ‘What did you do to my kitchen, you stupid girl?’

Ari’s immediately on the defensive. This is incredibly, and typically, unfair. The mess has literally only just happened. She hasn’t had a chance to try and put it right (or find a way to cover up any evidence of her involvement). ‘I was going to tidy up...’ is the last reasonable thing said by either of them for a long time.

The iPhone turned out to be the least of Mum’s worries. ‘If that’s broken it’s tough,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you that already. I meant it.’ The problems were the soaking wet floor (Mum lives in horror of rotten floorboards, which Ari knows all too well after leaving the bath running on three separate occasions), and the now-broken washing machine. Ari makes the mistake of telling Mum she’s overreacting as usual.

Tears, screaming, stomping, slammed doors. These activities take up the next fifteen minutes.

Ari’s situation ends far worse than she’d dared to fear. First she has to mop up all the water off the kitchen floor, which takes ages. There’s also a weird smell to put up with: the overpowering flowery scent of washing powder with an undertone (very faint but absolutely still there) of dog plop. It’s a stupidly long job, and it gives her time to contemplate her unfortunate future. Not only is Mum sticking to her guns about no replacements when it comes to the phone (that’s if it doesn’t revive in the rice (and please gods bring it back to life)), but she’s insisting Ari pay for the washing machine repair bill too. Mum usually eases off, moans to herself about being too soft on her daughter, then they end up having a giggle about the whole situation. No easing off, no giggling. Mum is soft no more.

As miserable as Ari feels, she remains hopeful that the miracle rice will resurrect her phone and everything held in its guts - contacts, photos, videos, social media logins, her whole life in sixty-four gigs.

She spends that night and all of the next day going to that bowl and trying to turn on her phone. Not one splutter of life, not one flicker of light. It’s not often that Ari cries. She does it in the private shell of her bedroom. It’s a childish weakness, crying. Not something to be shared.

All the dismay, the anger, the wishing, brings her nothing but disappointment. The iPhone’s time on this Earth is over. Ari feels like her own life has ended.

Perhaps Mum will have a change of heart. Perhaps a bargain can be struck. If Ari pays (somehow!) for the washing machine repair, then Mum might get her a replacement phone.

She tries to be meek and remorseful. It does not work. ‘Ari, these things cost money, and money doesn’t appear out of nowhere. It has to be earned. If you want a new phone you are going to have to earn the money to get one. And you owe me for the washing machine repair first.’

Ari is at a loss. There is nothing to be said, no appeal she can make.

Her huff lasts a week.

The need to pick up and stare at a phone pulls at her. She feels cut off from all of existence. She’s not connected to anyone any more. Kicked out of her own life, with no-one willing to guide her back in.

She does not want a part-time job.

She will explain to anyone who asks her that she can’t be expected to hold down a job when maintaining such a high standard on her homework. Truthfully she is doing quite well in all subjects, but isn’t exactly putting in maximum effort. Ari will also say that she wants to dedicate herself to her art. But she hasn’t painted in weeks.

Seven days after her great loss, it’s clear that Mum will not ever budge.

It is, of course, Mum who finds her the job.

2.

TEN DOORS DOWN. That’s where the old lady lives. ‘Opposite the house where that weirdo lives, you know, the stalker-y one,’ is how Mum describes it. Impatient, Ari says yes, yes, she knows. Mum always over-explains things. All she had to say was ‘You know the crazy old bat?’ and Ari would know exactly who she meant. Usually any piece of information relating to the crazy old bat tends to be of a very repetitive nature - strange noises at specific times of the day, or hurling eggs at the local kids (initially an amusing tale, but boring after the first ten tellings). Sometimes Mum’s bumped into the old bat at the shops and they’ve had a brief chat, but little is revealed other than Mum thinks she’s actually quite nice. ‘Murderous witch’ would be interesting. ‘Demented old bat’ would be too. ‘Quite nice’ does not make for a riveting story. Ari’s ears are about to turn themselves off when Mum says three bad words: ‘...job for you...’

It’s not a phrase Ari wishes to hear.

‘Don’t say anything to anyone, but she’s starting to feel her age a bit.’ Ari can’t imagine who Mum thinks she’d want to tell, or who would be interested. ‘It’s a pretty big house and she’s finding it difficult to keep on top of things, what with all the work to do in the garden...’

‘I’m not mowing her lawn every week for a couple of quid. It’s not worth it.’ She barely looks away from the TV. She’s gone through every genre on Netflix three times already.

‘She doesn’t want a gardener. She wants a cleaner.’

Ari puts the remote down, faces Mum. ‘No way. Go in that house? No. Way.’

‘I’ve promised her that you’ll be there at two this afternoon.’ At this point Mum has to speak loudly over the top of her daughter chanting ‘No way’ repeatedly and melodramatically. ‘She wants to meet with you before you start, go over the times she needs you, what she wants you to do and how much you will be paid. You can stomp about like a four year old if you so wish, Ari, but you are going over there, otherwise say goodbye to Netflix and any other subscriptions I’m stupid enough to pay for. You will do this, because you owe me for that washing machine. You want to stay on and earn money towards your phone after that? Up to you. But this time you will pay me back.’

As Mum walks away, Ari mutters quiet and low, ‘Why are you being a bitch?’ and is certain that Mum couldn’t have heard.

She did, though.

She almost always does.

Two o’clock rolls around a lot faster than it has any right to. Mum walks into the living room, pulls the plug on the TV and the router, then stands over Ari, arms crossed, lips thin. Mum isn’t budging on anything these days.

‘Fine. Whatever,’ huffs Ari, stomping out into the hallway to get her trainers. ‘I’ll go to my appointment with the maniac down the street. If you hear the sounds of chopping and screaming, don’t come running, will you? It’s probably just the maniac preparing me for a pan of intestine soup. She makes it for the freak she keeps in the basement. They say he’s a lot bigger than when she first caught him one hundred and twenty years ago. Thank you so much for sending me to my doom.’

A hard slam of the door is Ari’s full stop to her expression of dissatisfaction.

She could choose not to go. She could walk right on past the Mad House, hang out at Beth’s for a while (even though that little mare hasn’t bothered to come and see her in days), then take a monstrous amount of flak when she works up the courage to go home. Or she could just get this stupid, pointless meeting out of the way, tell Mum that she got the fears while being gibbered at by Grandma Death, and never return again.

The local kids (and a lot of the adults) tell a lot of stories about the old lady who lives in the Mad House, but it can’t possibly be that bad. She’ll be in and out within five minutes. She’ll get this nonsense out of the way, then be back on the sofa binging her favourite show in no time.

Whatever’s going on inside, the Mad House has the best-tended garden in the street. Double the size of any other too. It’s a three-storey building after all (and wouldn’t it send anyone crazy to rattle around inside all of those walls alone?) on a large plot of land. An eight-foot hedge, trimmed so neatly that set squares must have been used to perfect the angles. A gate that is repainted every six months. Crazy-paved pathway made of sandstone chunks. Potted plants. Bloody big pots, the kind that once you put them down you never move them again. Rose bushes. A multitude of other flowers, grouped and layered according to colour and shape.

It’s nice, if you like that sort of thing.

Ari pushes the doorbell.

BING. BONG.

As she waits, she wonders why her pulse is misbehaving. It’s not like she believes any of the stupid stories. Years ago maybe, but not now. Old women aren’t murderers and they don’t keep half-human creatures locked up in their homes. They go batty and keep lots of cats. Although apparently this one doesn’t like cats. Or kids. Or teenagers.

Where is she? ‘Probably deaf as well as mad.’ She reaches for the bell again.

The door springs open. An old grey eye peers around. Strands of hair escaping a ponytail. This is all Ari has the time to take in. ‘You’re late,’ snaps a brittle voice. ‘Not remotely good enough.’

The door slams shut. She lasted three seconds, not five minutes, not anywhere near five minutes. Ari is about to rattle on the door for an explanation, then thinks twice. This is perfect. She didn’t want to go in anyway. Mum will simply have to accept that the woman is loopy and had no intention of letting her in at all.

Except Mum’s having none of it. ‘You couldn’t have been more than two minutes late! It was only a bloody meeting.’ And off Mum goes, striding the way she does when she’s about to Sort Things Out.

That’s how, fifteen minutes later, Ari finds herself sitting in Mrs. Crossman’s reception room (not living room - there’s no TV). She’s perched on the end of an incredibly firm sofa, surrounded by all kinds of furniture in dark wood shades. Small lacey discs on the coffee table between them. Ari thinks they’re called doilies. She’s never been in a house that has doilies.

‘It’s Miss Crossman,’ says the slender, liver-spotted woman opposite. She’s on the edge of her chair too, packed-tight with energy, ready to bounce up at whatever sign. ‘You shouldn’t make presumptions.’

‘Right,’ breathes Ari, nodding. She’s only asked one question, and she’s already got her prospective employer bristling. There’s a funny smell in here. Not exactly unpleasant. It took her a little while to notice it, hidden under the layers of polish and antibacterial sprays. It makes Ari think of... what? Iron sparks come to mind. And electricity. Being outside as a thunderstorm approaches.

The Mad House is working on her already.

‘Your mother is very persuasive. She claims that you are a hard worker, that you will apply yourself to the task at hand with due diligence.’ That doesn’t sound much like anything Mum would say, but Ari has the sense to keep her trap shut for now. She suspects that Miss Crossman could lash the skin off her face with words. ‘You don’t look particularly diligent to me. You don’t look like you’d know hard work if it slapped you across the back of the neck.’

Ari’s hackles are suddenly up. ‘Harsh words for someone who doesn’t know a damn thing about me.’

‘Is that so? Well, let me tell you a few things about me. I don’t stand for that sort of language in my house. I pay very well. Very, very well. I only pay hard workers who turn up on time and leave on time.’ The old woman’s lips are paper-thin-and-sharp. Her eyes are steel ball bearings. ‘I also demand complete confidentiality. I assume you know what that means.’

An urge to snap. Ari fights to keep her voice level. ‘I’ve been to school a few times.’

‘That doesn’t mean much these days. If it ever did. Turn up on time. Do exactly as I say. Don’t talk about me or my business with anyone. Stick to these imperatives and the only time you’ll see me is when I pay up. What do you think of that?’

Ari’s thinking about that under-scent of metallic storm clouds. She’s thinking about how Crossman hasn’t blinked once. She’s thinking about what she saw seeping through the gap at the bottom of that door when she was led down the hall, a grey fattening goo. She’s thinking that she has no idea what could make such a mess. She’s thinking about all the stupid kids’ stories again. She’s thinking about one Halloween in particular.

The old bat’s tapping an impatient toe. She’s wearing beige flats, clunky functional shoes. The way she stares at Ari: an unwilling teacher awaiting a simple answer from a simple child. ‘Sounds good,’ says Ari, her smile attempt failing. That grey goop. What the hell would she do with that grey goop?

‘You will be here at three fifty five PM. That’s in the afternoon. You will be prepared to start work immediately, no dawdling, no refreshments before you begin. You will work through to six fifty five. These times are not negotiable. You must arrive at five to four on the dot. Failure to do so means instant dismissal. No more chances, no more interference from Mummy.’ Oh, that snarky attitude rubs the inside of Ari’s ribs. This job’s going to be worse than bad. ‘I will supervise the session. You will be paid sixty percent of the standard rate, as I expect you will require a great deal of supervision and direction. There will be a lot to take in and I will expect your complete attention. If you make it to the second session without talking to anyone about anything you see or hear in my house, and if you actually bother to return, you shall receive seventy percent. Perhaps you can work out what happens after that.’

Ari feels like wasps are loose in her ribcage. Her insides are sore and swollen. She hates Mum for landing her here.

‘Do you understand all of that?’

Ari has a dozen possible answers hit her all at once. They range from ‘Duh, me no understand anyting,’ through ‘Sorry, could you start again, I was thinking about murder,’ right the way to ‘Stick your job, just stick it all the way up. Stick it so far you’ll never reach it again.’ Each is deflected by a reason why she shouldn’t say it: Mum. Money. iPhone. There is no option but to say, ‘Yes, I get it.’

The old bat manages to stiffen up even more rigidly. ‘No, you don’t ‘get it’. You ‘understand’. Understand?’

‘Yeah, I get it,’ said Ari, matching Crossman’s dark gaze. It’s the way the woman’s head tilts forward slightly that kills off a smirk before it’s fully formed. There’s the feeling that, somewhere, a cross has been put in a box. ‘When do you want me?’

‘I just told you, Little Miss I-Get-It. Three fifty five.’

‘What day?’

Crossman throws her hands up in the air and slaps them down on her knees like this is the most ludicrous question she’s ever heard. ‘Today! Three fifty five today! You really don’t ‘get it’, do you? If basic notions such as time-keeping are going to be too far out of your reach, then perhaps I need to look elsewhere for a youth who actually wants the money...’

‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it!’

Crossman tilts her chin, raises her eyebrows. Whole schools would cower before these looks. ‘I see no need for such increased volume and outrage. You will need to control your emotions more effectively if you’re going to work in this house. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few matters to attend to before your return.’

The old lady stands, sweeps a hand indicating for Ari to follow. Crossman is delicate layers of beige and she moves with grace over busy carpets and rugs.

Then Ari’s outside in stark sunlight and the door clicks shut behind her. ‘Yeah,’ she says to herself, ‘see you later, nice meeting you, whatever.’ It didn’t occur to her to wonder what the old lady might be thinking.

To be fair, Ari wasn’t sure what to think herself.

3.

THE CRAZY OLD BAT’S PLAYING GAMES. That’s the only answer Ari can come up with as she sits on the kitchen bench, making her way through a pack of triple choc cookies (and the chocolate