Ten

By Terry Kerr

Spring, the year 2000. A new season, a new Millennium, and for Chris and Nicola Allsop, hopefully a new start. Their marriage has hit a rough spot, but Chris has a new job, they've moved into a new home in a new town, and as Tony Blair's New Labour government has it, "Things Can Only Get Better."

Such a shame that the town they've moved into, Muncaster, is rotten to the core, corrupted by the poison of a dead man, and that their home is the very epicentre of evil and depravity.

They've just muved in. Will they survive long enough to move out?

A TERRIFYING paranormal thriller, Ten deals with the survival of corruption and the power of confrontation. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Kerr
• Release date: Apr 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215700983

Terry Kerr

Terry Kerr was born in Liverpool, England, in 1965. He fell in love with the horror genre as a child and has never grown out of it. In addition to writing, he also works as an actor, which means he spends a lot of time waiting for the phone to ring.

Book preview

For Linda B, who helped more than she knows.

The following is a work of fiction. No reference to any persons living or dead is intended or should be inferred. Though real locations are used, I have taken many geographical liberties. The town of Muncaster, however, exists entirely in the author’s imagination.

This work is copyright and may not be reproduced in any way without the author’s permission.

Chapter One

When Chris Allsop thought back – as much as he allowed himself to think back – he’d identify the night of that bastard party as the tipping point. Until the party, he and his wife Nikki had been teetering on the precipice’s edge, arms pinwheeling madly for balance like some character in an old silent movie, but after that night they’d lost their footing completely.

Yes, there’d been signs long before the party; voices in the dark, the smell of smoke, the alarms. In fact, the ground had never really been solid at all; their journey together had always felt like three steps forward, two steps back. But they kept going. They kept going because they loved each other. Then came the party, and the shit flew.

The party was on a Friday, in May, of 2000.

Before that, however, there was the moving, and before that, Chris’s changing of job. He’d previously worked for an advertising agency in Preston, Lancashire. It paid slightly more than enough, and with Nikki’s wages from Lancashire Social Services in nearby Muncaster, they lived reasonably. There was only the two of them after all. They had a flat in Windermere, Cumbria – the next county over, commonly known as The Lake District, mostly because of the large numbers of lakes which were conveniently arraigned into a district. It was handy for their jobs and their families – Nikki’s largish Catholic brood and Chris’s smaller C of E clan. Those, however, wasn’t the real reasons they lived there – they lived there because they were Cumbrians.

Cumbrians lived between Lancashire to the south and Scotland to the north; close to but apart from both of these places. Cumbria was a sandwich, a place of its own, a place   of   bracing   air,  lakes,  trees,  hills,  small winding

villages and long, sometimes dangerous walks. Cumbria filled the lungs in the way no other county could – or so its natives believed. Cumbria was its own place, and nobody who came from there was ignorant of that.

But still, though Chris and Nikki were Cumbrians, they worked in Lancashire, and though they had a nice flat, it was rented. More and more they’d begun to talk about buying their own place, and they’d come to the reluctant conclusion that they’d have to leave their own home county – Cumbria was expensive, living in beauty always was. And they did, after all, both work in Lancashire ...

Then Chris did The Bad Thing, and as a consequence he had to leave his job. Thankfully, there were other opportunities available, and after only a few weeks he’d found work as a design assistant at a company called System Four. System Four were just based in Muncaster, which meant Chris was working in Muncaster, Nikki was working in Muncaster, and property was cheap in Muncaster, so ...

So they made the biggest mistake of their lives. Even bigger than The Bad Thing.

The flat was a new conversion in a large, old building called Costigan House. There were nine quite spacious flats – separate kitchen, living room, bedroom and bathroom – and all but one were sold. Not that I want to hurry you, the estate agent had said – she was a small, thin woman who had the neurotic look of an inveterate chain smoker, which would, Chris thought, explain the waft of Extra Strong Mints that rolled over him every time she spoke – but these are being snapped up. Property market’s booming, thank God. Upward mobility’s the thing these days. This place will double its value in a year.

If we don’t get a recession, said Nikki, who had wandered to the bedroom.

The estate agent flapped a nicotine stained hand. Those days are over, she said, raising her voice, but fixing her jittery eyes on Chris, who was, after all, the man, and who would make the decisions. "If the economy continues to grow the way it has been growing ... I mean, I’m no great fan of Mr Blair, but he’s done a lot of good for the country."

Chris shrugged, smiled, and pottered into the kitchen. You may not be a great fan of his, he thought, as he inspected the cupboard and the oven, but I bet you love him a damn sight more than my wife. She’s a socialist, you see. And from what I can gather they’re an endangered species these days. Not that Chris cared one way or the other. Nikki called him a political illiterate. He preferred to think of himself as not fucking arsed.

Well. We’ll see, shan’t we, he heard Nikki say from the living room, and though Chris couldn’t see her, he knew she had her false smile on, the one that made her green eyes sparkle.

The estate agent, no fool despite her fag dependency, decided to change the subject. So, as you can see, the rooms are all good-sized, and the conversion was only completed five months back so there’s full warranty on everything for at least three years.

And there’s a service contractor, Nikki said.

Yes, that’s over and above the mortgage. A nominal sum, two hundred a year. Paid monthly, if you like. Or quarterly. Any issues with the building maintenance, give then a call and they’ll be over right away.

What do you think, Chris?

He turned, saw them both standing in the kitchen doorway – his wife, five foot nine, flame red hair and bright green eyes; the estate agent, five foot three, dirty blonde hair, yellowed fingers. In Nikki’s eyes he read, I’ve decided this will do, and you owe me.

Yes, that he did. Seems fine to me.

Nikki led the chat about offers and some kind of tentative agreement was reached – but of course, said the agent, they’d appreciate there were plenty of other people interested, and prime property like this wouldn’t stay on the market for long, so hurray, hurray, hurray, buy now while stocks last.

As they were making their way outside to the parking bays, Nikki asked about the neighbours. The agent gave a coughing, almost embarrassed laugh. Actually, that’s most interesting, she said. We expected to sell to people like yourselves – first time buyers. But just about everyone else is a little older. People downsizing, I think.

You’re right, said Nikki. "That is most interesting."

The agent either didn’t hear or ignored the sarcasm. These flats are the right size for those either starting out or looking for somewhere smaller. You couldn’t really raise a family here. If you were thinking of starting one, you’d have to move up.

We’re not, said Nikki. There’s been no pause, and no perceptible change in tone, but Chris could see the way her shoulders squared; they always did when children were mentioned.

Oh. Well then, the agent said, nonplussed. You’ll be fine then, won’t you?

They made their way to their respective cars then and drove off in different directions. Of course, they weren’t fine. Nobody in that building was fine.

Patronising cow, said Nikki that night, after they’d run their figures backwards and forwards three times and decided that, should the building society play ball, the money was manageable.

Chris rubbed his tired, achy eyes. Yeah, he agreed, despite only having half-heard what she’d said. I’ll call the Nationwide tomorrow, get at appointment. You want to come with?

"All that bloody Tony sodding Blair and wonderful economy and isn’t the world peachy? Stupid cow. Speaking of which, what can we smell in the bloody wind? Burning cows. Cows and pigs and sheep! Thanks for that, Tony!"

Chris, who couldn’t see how Tony Blair was supposed to be responsible to the foot and mouth outbreak that was, indeed, turning Cumbria’s air into a barbeque, nodded, then asked again whether she wanted to come with him to the building society.

No, you handle that. You’re better at that than me. An almost-smile, but then she remembered The Bad Thing, and the smile went away. But still ... when she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost wistful. "You’ve a new job ... we might have a new home ... it could work, couldn’t it, Chris? If we try. If we keep trying."

Chris, who loved Nikki with all his heart and soul, despite everything, nodded. He was unsurprised to find a sting of tears in his eyes. He’d cried a lot just recently. Both of them had. Maybe ... maybe it could work. Maybe they could put what he’d done behind them. Maybe the thing that was inside Nikki could work loose. Maybe we have a future ... no, that’s unfair. Maybe we can have a different future, a different future which is the same as everyone else’s future. Can that happen? Am I asking too much? Let’s hope.

The building society played ball. Nikki and Chris made an offer on the flat, it was accepted, and on the 2nd of April, 2000, they signed the contract. A week later, they moved in. Of course, by then Chris’s new job had gone to shit, but aside from that there was still a lot of optimism as the removal men lugged possessions up the stairs into Flat 5, Costigan House, 10 Hobb’s Street, Muncaster. Please God, let us get better, he thought. Let the things that weigh us down be taken from us.

Something funny mate, one of the removal men asked as he and his pal lugged a washing machine up the landing. From his tone of voice he didn’t seem to find it fitting that Chris should be smiling bemusedly to himself, whilst he and his mate did the heavy job they were being paid for.

No, not really, Chris said, making his way to the van. Except there was something slightly funny. He’d just prayed for the first time since he was ten, when he’d asked God for a bike for his birthday but received a Spectrum computer instead. Not that the Spectrum wasn’t cool, but you couldn’t ride the bastard, could you?

A bit like Nikki, he thought. But that wasn’t a nice thought, so he stopped thinking it. 

So they moved in on a Friday, and were kept so busy with unpacking things that they forewent their usual weekend family trip. There was far too much to do, such as Nikki arraigning the ornaments and pictures and Chis assembling the bookcases and stacking his Elmore Leonard, Zane Grey and Bobbi Anderson novels to even think about driving up to Bowness and fitting the folks in, even if they did live within a convenient mile of each other. By Sunday afternoon, however, there was enough space in the living room to declare the job done for now, and enough space in the kitchen and the fridge to declare a shopping trip necessary.

Well, you know the town, said Chris, who wasn’t in the mood for a long drive anywhere, I suppose there’s someplace we can get stuff.

There’s a Tesco at the Costigan Centre, right out where the old prison used to be, replied an equally shattered Nikki. "

Chris looked blankly at her, largely through tiredness. Costigan Centre? Prison?

Nikki flopped back on the sofa and gave him The Nikki Eye.   Something   tightened inside him when she did this,

then loosened again. The Nikki Eye – usually from under the lock of an unruly strand of hair – was the unspoken what am I married to look. It held exasperation, bemusement and love all in equal measure. It’d been some while since he’d seen that, and if it hadn’t been ... well, unwelcome he’d have ran to her and held her.

Costigan Centre, built in the 1980’s and opened by the eponymous MP, she said, in her lecturing-mixed-with-amusement tone, the one she often used during the BBC News or Panorama when Chris needed a political issue explaining to him. It promised ‘local shops for local people.’ It’s on the site of HMP Daventry, closed and demolished in the late 70’s after it was found unfit for purpose" by a cross-party commission. Which meant it was full of rats and had no plumbing and prisoner self-harm rates where two hundred per cent over that national average and Chris, why don’t you pay attention to anything that actually matters?" This latter came out as a laugh, and once more Chris felt that strange tightening-loosening thing, slightly below his belt line.

First The Nikki Eye, then the exasperated laugh. Can I hope? Dare I? Or is she just too tired to keep the wall up? Out of curiosity, he tried joining in. "Who wrote Riders of the Purple Sage, he asked, and as she leaned to his left to squint at the bookshelf he added, and no cheating!"

That smile – not much of one, but Nikki was never much of a smiler, and a belly laugh from her was as rare as a solar eclipse and just as awesome – stayed on. "Chris, I cannot begin to innumerate the gulf between who wrote a bloody Western and the actual social history of the town we happen to be living in."

As a socialist, he answered, hoping like hell this mood would last, would grow and fill their days and nights, you must be aware that all points of view are equal, valid and entitled for ratification at national executive level.

"As a socialist I can tell you  this;  there’s a Tesco up the

road, and your Westerns are bloody stupid." She smiled a bit more at that, but then it was as if she remembered, and the smile dropped. The Nikki Eye had gone. But it had been there, he told himself. Is it a car job?

Yeah, said the dull voiced Nikki, all barriers now in place. It’s only a ten-minute walk, but this town has the weirdest pedestrianisation known to man. You’ve virtually got to get onto the motorway to get to the shops. And since we’re getting a week’s worth ...

At that, she stood and made her way to the bathroom. We’ve got a long road to walk, he thought, and that was nothing to do with a trip to Tesco. But still ... as she walked away from him, he couldn’t help the way his eyes scanned her body. Tall but not broad, curvy but not curvaceous, and yet, even here in her own home, she was dressed in clothes that were shapeless and baggy. Her hair – always clean, always washed – was simply pulled back and worn in a loose horsetail.  Her face, which Chis considered to be beautiful and intelligent, was nude of makeup, the ghost of freckles around her nose unconcealed, her lips unreddened by Max Factor. When had he last seen her in clothes that actually held her body, with makeup and her hair styled? Was it really at their wedding? Yes, it was. Two – nearly three years back. And before that? Never. Once more, that terrible wave of sympathy that was so much a part of his love for Nikki rode over him. Once more, that terrible feeling of unresolved lust followed it.

It could be very difficult at times, loving his wife.

The Costigan Centre was laid out like a squared-off U. On their left, as they pulled into the carpark (and Nikki hadn’t lied, Muncaster town centre appeared to be a No Car Zone which meant a simply ludicrous approach had to be taken) was a Tesco roughly the size of Wales. In front of them and to the right were a long string of tired shops, almost huddled together for comfort against the shiny, bright and

glorious supermarket. Newsagents, Off-Licences, greengrocers, butchers, a Halfords that might have been built when bikes were a novelty, a Poundshop. All of them slightly tatty, all of them looking somehow nervous, as if waiting for the axe to fall.

Give it three years and they’ll all be gone, said Nikki, reading his mind as they disembarked from her Accord. There’s not one of them that doesn’t sell anything that Tesco doesn’t. And Tesco’s cheaper. By the time next election’s over, they’ll have been bulldozed for houses. She looked over to him, and her cynical, glittery look was back. It wasn’t Chris’s favourite expression, but it was better than that awful blankness she had most of the time these days. Cheap houses. That’s progress for you. That’s Blair’s Britain.

Maybe we should shop in them, then, he said. Screw Tesco. Give our money to the little man trying to make a living.

Oh, sod that, said Nikki, laughing. This surprised him into a laugh too. Support the little capitalists? Besides, I’ve just told you, Tesco’s cheaper.

Bathroom’s free, Nikki called a few hours later, after he’d made their tea and she’d washed up, after some TV and some reading. Bedtime. Their bedtime. Their bedtime ritual.

Nikki had first shower rights. When finished she would encase herself head to toe in a toweling dressing gown and scuttle to the bedroom. And while Chris was cleaning himself, she would dry off, put on pyjamas (whatever the weather) and scoot under the duvet. By the time he would arrive in the bedroom she would be asleep or reading a book and resolutely not looking as he changed into a T shirt and shorts. Whatever the weather.

Did I think it would change, just because we were somewhere new? No, of course not. Well ...maybe  a  little,  but only in

the way he hoped one day to visit a ghost town in Nevada or hold up the Deadwood mail train. The hope that it might one day change was one of the things that kept him with her; the fact that it hadn’t thus far had been one of the things that had ... well, that and his weakness ...

On top of everything, though, was his love for her. And as he made his way to the bathroom and stepped into the shower he thought back on the day, on their two laughs, on his hope for the future, and his deep, honest and at times almost painful love for his wife.

If nothing else, it took his mind off what tomorrow would almost certainly bring, if nothing else.

Chapter Two

"H ere he comes," called Rick Abbot as Chris entered the room, the Laughing Cavalier! Don’t get talking, you’ll never get away!

Chris sighed, made no acknowledgement, walked to his workstation, and logged in. Another day, another dollar at System Four. Rick was a man best described as chunky, and also as a twat. He sat at the front of the room, where six operators were hunched over Macs like kids in a Victorian school, some of them designers (like Rick), some of them assistants, like Chris – people who put together what the designers merely designed, and were paid two-thirds of the designer salary. From his seat, which was mostly swiveled away from his monitor as far as Chris could tell, Rick saw everything. And Rick commented on everything. And Chris’s acolytes in the office – Ian Parr, Dave Miles and Martin Roberns – laughed at everything he commented on. That just left Chris and the other assistant who sat alongside him, Sharon Eversleigh on the opposing team.

She, of course, was at a massive disadvantage – she was the only woman in the room. She was also astonishingly pretty. Short, with dark hair and eyes, and generous of figure, she put up with quite a bit of commenting from Rick. Everything from Shift your tits, girl, I want to see what time it is, to the positively Wildean, Nice legs, what time do they open? And at these Bloomsburyesque witticisms, Rick would roar, as would Ian and Dave and Martin.

But for some reason, in the very short time that Chris had worked there, he’d replaced Sharon as the Number One Target. And why? Because he didn’t talk much, that’s why. Because he hadn’t joined in with the crude remarks about his co-worker. Because he pretty much kept to himself and did his job and went home. Because he was polite   and   well-mannered.   And   that  was apparently

enough for him to be System Four’s Most Wanted Man.

Chris pulled a job from the stack, opened it, and whilst sorting out what needed to go where, he felt the weight of the world crash in on him. That morning had followed a well-established pattern. Separate showers, separate changing, and then a walk down the stairs together to their separate cars, and Nikki’s questioning about what time he’d be home, and whether he was planning to go anywhere else after work, then telling him what time she’d be home, and all the time he was thinking, Nikki, it’s over, remember? A done deal. I’ve stopped that. Are you ever going to trust me again?

But of course, while he may have thought that, he said nothing. He’d brought it on himself, after all, hadn’t he? Now he had to live with the consequences.

Some life, thought Chris, pulling the first file from the job stack, and wondering how the hell he was going to make it through the day, isn’t this just some life.

He worked till half five: cutting, pasting, copying and occasionally adjusting like hell (one thing designers could do was design, one thing they couldn’t do was, apparently, read the fucking job spec) span his last job into the computer’s pending folder, and trudged out to the car park. At least it was mild, at least the sun was still up, and when you got to thanking the elements for being in place you knew you weren’t exactly in an MGM musical. He was hardly aware of someone walking behind him. Don’t let him get to you, a woman said.

Chris turned, and there stood Sharon, keys in her hand, ready to unlock the door of her Yaris. Totally nonplussed, Chris could do little more than raise his eyebrows. Rick, she explained, then giggled, Rick the prick.

Oh him, he said, and began to wonder what this strange thing on his face was. I don’t.

"He seems to think that this place is his stage and we’re his audience. Or that it’s his Empire and we’re his subjects.

He doesn’t get that most of us are like you, just trying to get through the day and pay the mortgage."

Realising that the strange thing on his face was a smile, Chris stopped looking at Sharon and glanced at the floor instead. But then again, he couldn’t cut her dead, could he? She was, after all, just being polite. He was allowed to, at least, participate in a conversation with a woman, wasn’t he, even if he couldn’t actually initiate one? Surely Nikki spoke to men all day ...

Well, that’s different isn’t it, old chum?

Yes, yes it was. But still ... he couldn’t be rude, could he?

Chris looked up from the floor, caught Sharon’s gaze for a second (long enough to think what lovely brown eyes you have), then looked at her right ear. Safer. I’m not one of the world’s great talkers, he said. Or jokers. Which was bollocks, he was a funny bastard who could have made the British Olympic Talking Team. But not at work. Not after The Bad Thing.  I know it doesn’t make me the most dynamic person to have in the office, but ... He shrugged, not knowing how to end that sentence.

I couldn’t give a shit if you had your mouth taped and communicated by note, Sharon said. He looked at her left hand. No rings. Bollocks. "The point is Rick the Prick. He’s a colossal arsehole, which I’m sure isn’t a newsflash, but he is ... At this, she clamped her mouth shut. Chris was baffled when saw her do that – she looked like somebody who’d just avoided backing over a cliff. Well, a bully, she continued, almost apologetically. Likes to get a rise out of people. Sharon pointed the key at her car and the lock thudded open. Don’t give him the satisfaction." With a smile and a wave, she settled into the car.

Chris raised his hand in return, then turned and looked for his Civic. Not before thinking I’d give you some satisfaction, Sharon, and hating himself for it.

He was back at Costigan House by six fifteen, and upon opening the door to Flat 5 he thought that Nikki must have somehow got home before him, even though her car wasn’t in the garage, and that she’d gone back on the fags. She’d given up years ago, before the wedding - not long after they’d started going out, in fact. It’d been a struggle but she’d managed it. Of course she had – Nikki and her self-control. In the battle between Nikki’s self-control and  Berkley Menthol there would only be one winner. What often amazed Chris was that she’d started in the first place.

But still ... smoker’s often backslid, didn’t they? He didn’t know for sure that Nikki had – he’d never caught her out – but that habit, he was told, was a bastard to quit. Often they’d sneak the odd one, especially when they were under stress. And they’d been under quite a bit of stress recently, hadn’t they? So maybe ...

So maybe what? She came home early, lit up, then left again so as you wouldn’t catch her? What’s she doing now, driving around with the window open getting that reek out of her hair, pitching the butt down a gutter? Is that likely?

Nope, not remotely. But still ... the place smelled of smoke. Frowning slightly, Chris opened the flat door and stood on the landing. He inhaled deeply. Nothing but the smell of something cooking from the ground floor. He went back into the flat, inhaled again. Yep, that was smoke all right. So ...

So maybe you’re trying to take your mind off your working day, maybe someone, somewhere is burning shit in their garden, maybe you’re fixating on this because you don’t want to think about the lovely Sharon and that twat – what did she call him? Rick the Prick? Oh, and by the way, isn’t she pretty? Isn’t she friendly? Doesn’t she have a lovely voice? And two great big –

"You had the air freshener out, Nikki asked as she let herself in half an hour later. She looked beat. Place stinks of pine."

Well, it’s not Hi honey, I’m home, but at least it’s not a hostile silence, Chris thought. Place seemed really smoky when I got in. He didn’t think he’d used an accusatory tone, but he saw Nikki’s stooped shoulders rise. He supposed it was the way he you reacted when you were accused of something, even though you were innocent. This time. Well, you should know. She swung round to him, nearly face on, and for a second Chris was deeply shocked at what he saw. Always thin, she was now starting to look like a Belsen internee. How much has she lost? And why haven’t you noticed before? He’d no answer to any of those questions. He just wanted to take that look from her far too thin face, the one that said, want a fight? I’m stick thin and dog tired, but I’ll still take you on. Take you on and win. He bolted on a grin and said, I even thought you were sneaking back during the day for a sly one.

As soon as it left his mouth, he realised what he’d said. Christ, why don’t I just take a knife form the kitchen and hand it to her. Sure enough, her shoulders drooped again, she looked away, and said, No Chris. It’s not me who does that, is it?

Then she trudged to the bedroom, and Chris heard her clumping about, changing her clothes, and for a second he imagined her naked. Imagined, because he’d never seen it, and he didn’t think he ever would.

Some life.

Later there was food, some television, some things taken out of boxes and placed on shelves, shrugged at, moved, and even a painting hung on a wall. The conversation didn’t progress much beyond This lasagna’s nice or up a bit more on the left, but it was, at least, civil. Better than the screaming, better than the silences. We are getting better, Chris lectured himself. We’re still together, and every day we are is a day further on, a day more, a day away from the past. It’ll work out.

Regardless, half-twelve the following morning saw him

still awake, listening to the breathing of his sleeping wife, feeling the warmth from the sleeping body he was not allowed to touch, and growing angry. He had no right to grow angry, the blame had been entirely his, but that didn’t help how he felt. Sometimes people couldn’t help how they felt – even Nikki agreed with that  - even if they could help what they did about it.

Which was, of course, the problem. Except it wasn’t, of course, the problem. Well, not all of the problem. Maybe not the root cause of the problem. But then, he’d known what he was getting into when he’d married her, hadn’t he? She’d been perfectly open and honest (unlike me) about everything, and they could have worked round it – no, they had been working round it, it’d been fine, and then ...

But I wouldn’t have had to, if ...

Except that was bollocks. Except it wasn’t. Except it was. And so on and so on, lather, rinse and repeat.

Chris slid from under the duvet, padded to the bathroom, voided his bladder for what seemed like a decade, then tip-toed into the living room and sat on the sofa, taking in the room via the streetlight that dribbled through the curtains. Nearly everything unpacked, ornaments out, picture hung. Home. Nearly, anyway. New start. It was possible. Everything was possible, He had to believe that. They say time’s the great healer, whoever they are. And she’s still here, still with me ... an awful thought crashed after that one, another one he was unable to choke off  in time, like thinking of how he could satisfy Sharon from work. Like anyone else would have her.

Hello?

Chris jumped. Goosebumps ran from his head to his ankles; he felt his testicles shrivel to raisins. What the holy fuck ...

Hello?

There it was again, a child’s voice – too young and too brief to be identified as a boy or a girl – saying hello, saying

hello with an upward infection, making it a question.

A child, in a room with no children in it. A child in a room in which, unless certain problems were resolved, no child would ever sit.

A child’s voice, speaking out of nowhere.

Is ... hello? Who’s that?

Chris had absolutely no idea what to do. And was the room hotter now? Was he imagining it? Dreaming it? The voice maybe, but not the heat – whoever dreamed weather? Was it maybe ...

Yes, of course – what else could it be? Next door, Flat 6, whoever was in there. Maybe they had a kid – never mind all that bollocks the estate agent gave them about the flats being too small. Yeah, maybe they had a kid, and the kid was up in the night – or maybe, this was more likely, they had a kid staying over, some niece or nephew, kipping on the sofa, and somebody had woken him or her up, and the kid was in an unfamiliar place so they were asking questions and that all made perfect sense, yes, okay, they’d not actually heard anyone in Flat 6, but it was the middle of the night, you’d hear any sound there was, and that’s the whole story.

Suddenly aware that he was no longer hot, that the night had dropped back to its former spring temperature and feeling pleased with himself for having solved a mystery that had frankly scared him silly for a few minutes, Chris decided to head back to bed. I’ll say one thing for unexpected voices in the dark, he thought as he slipped back next to Nikki, they put your problems into perspective.

Just before he closed his eyes, he heard his wife mutter, Hello? Is ... who’s there? He paid it no mind. She’d heard the kid too, obviously, and was incorporating it into whatever dream she was having.

As they let themselves out of the flat the next morning, Nikki   and   Chris   came face to face with their next door

neighbour for the first time, a chubby middle-aged man. Next to him was a boy of maybe eight years old, and the resemblance was such that Chris exhibited no surprise when the man – Jeffrey Atkinson – said, And this is my son, William. Here for a visit, to see his dad’s new place. 

There was a small awkward silence as the subtext of divorce popped up and died, but then the four of them were making their way downstairs, passing small talk about the weather, jobs, football and the like.

I should have been a detective,