Читать книгу The Guesthouse - Abbie Frost - Страница 9

A blur of grey flew towards her and she choked on a yell, tripped and landed heavily in the mud.

The animal stopped to look at her.

It was a cat. Just a cat. She picked herself up and tried to brush the mud off her jeans, glaring at the cat as it ran in front of her, a strip of muscle and fur heading the way she was going: along the rutted track and up the hill.

‘Great – my own guide.’ Her voice sounded thin in the silence.

She picked up her bag and started walking again, following a rutted track through the hills. A few minutes later, the mist cleared enough for her to make out a distant shape in the gloom, a dark shadow hemmed in by trees. Thank God, this had to be the place.

The first thing she was going to do when she arrived was log into the wifi and give the host a piece of her mind. What sort of website doesn’t mention that the house is miles from anywhere? Inaccessible by road? And surely it was supposed to be near the village.

Perhaps it wasn’t all bad, though. It would be peaceful, which was what she needed, and Henry Laughton’s message had mentioned a kitchen fully stocked with food and drink. So there was likely to be wine. And tomorrow she’d walk to the village, start to build a picture of the area, try to find someone who might be able to help her. Might have answers to the burning questions that had drawn her to this godforsaken area in the first place.

As she drew nearer, the building rose up from the middle of a cluster of trees, just as beautiful as its photographs online, even shrouded in fog and drizzle. She knew about architecture, used to love it, and this was a perfect example of classical Georgian, with massive wrought iron gates and a wide gravel path leading up to the huge door. She guessed this path had once carried on all the way back to the road.

She knew one thing for sure: Henry Laughton would have to improve access if he wanted to get any decent five-star reviews. He certainly wasn’t going to get one from her, no matter how good the house was inside.

Standing at the gate, she stared up at the perfectly symmetrical building, its front door flanked by tall windows set into pale walls. Lights glowed inside and she could just make out a figure looking down from one of the top windows. Someone there to greet her.

But as she walked up the drive, still clutching her broken case, she noticed that the front door was pitted with dents and marred by patches of flaking black paint. The window frames were peeling, too, and a slimy green stain ran down the wall.

The figure still loomed in the window, as if it had been standing there forever.

Hannah shivered, suddenly aware of the silence and space all around her. She squinted back along the muddy track that wound its way down the slope, overlooked by nothing but bare peaks, and felt suddenly tiny and insignificant, lost in a sea of hills. For a moment she thought about turning around, calling a taxi and driving back to the comfort of a city, crawling into her mother’s arms, but she was too cold and it would be dark soon.

She remembered her entry code and spotted the keypad on the wall beside the door. Dragged out her phone and tapped in the number. A buzz and a click. The keypad lit up, a greeting flashing in green across the screen:

Welcome to The Guesthouse. You have checked in. Enjoy your stay.

The great black door opened onto a spacious hall full of warmth and light. A marble floor stretched away towards a sweeping staircase in the middle of the room, with landings branching off to either side. A row of paintings hung along one wall. Strange dark pictures that seemed to be of shadowy figures that might have been animals or people, she couldn’t tell. Underneath sat a small leather sofa that looked fairly new.

The website had mentioned that Preserve the Past was still renovating a number of their properties, but she’d assumed work on the interior of The Guesthouse was finished. The slightly rundown exterior wouldn’t matter if the rest of the place was like this. And if the picture of her guest room wasn’t fake, then she would have no complaints about that. Just about the horrible trek from the road.

The second key code would get her into her room. And she was tempted to head straight there, but she should first meet the host, the caretaker, or whoever it was she’d seen waiting for her at the window.

‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded hollow in the cavernous hallway. She walked to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Hello, anybody there?’

The sound echoed. Silence seemed to settle into every dark corner of the house, and a cold bead of sweat trickled down her spine. The building was empty. That shape at the window must have been a curtain or just a shadow.

With another quick glance around she kicked off her white New Balance trainers. At least they had been white. Now they were covered in slimy mud, bits of grass, and soaked through with water. Ben would probably have suggested she buy hiking boots, but Ben wasn’t here any more.

She hurried upstairs, her trainers in one hand, not wanting to ruin the soft new carpet. Here were the bedroom doors, each with a brass number plate and a neat keypad, all freshly painted in gleaming white. The two rooms at the top of the stairs were numbers five and six. The website had only offered five rooms to rent, but it looked as if there were at least ten.

Her room was number one, right at the far end of what should probably be called the west wing. There was another door next to it, but it was narrow and unnumbered. A storeroom or something similar perhaps. And right at the end of the corridor a tall window. She peered out of it and saw that it faced the gates. This could be the window she imagined she’d seen the figure standing at, but there was no one here now.

Looking through the glass she could see that muddy track snaking away through the rough green grass, a pale sun low in the sky, peeking through the clouds. She had got here just in time. Wouldn’t like to navigate that in the dark.

Outside her own room she tapped in the second code, the floorboards creaking under her feet. With a final glance back along the corridor, she told herself to ignore the feeling that she was being watched. Even if there were no other guests, a week alone would do her good. Make her less jumpy. She could exercise, stay off the booze. She’d soon get used to the isolation, to the high ceilings and the long, silent corridors.

But as soon as she was inside, she locked the door behind her, trying to calm the heavy beat of her heart.

The room was spacious and light. A bed stood against one wall with the bathroom next to it. Opposite, a wardrobe and an enlarged photograph of a bay with a stormy sea. Close to the door stood a chest of drawers with a kettle and drinks on top.

Through the huge window she could look down on what once must have been a pretty rose garden at the side of the house. Now it was just a mass of bare stems and tangled undergrowth. The ground rose then dipped away into the distance towards grey-blue hills on the horizon and, beyond them, a strip of the Atlantic Ocean.

It would all have been so different if Ben was with her. She swallowed and dumped her case by the window. Threw her rucksack onto the floor, then remembered the vodka and pulled out the bottle, staring at the label. She deserved all of this: the mud, the loneliness, the miserable walk through the fog and rain. The shittier the better. Keep it coming. The thing to remember was: stop thinking about Ben. He was gone and she had to carry on with her life.

The en-suite bathroom was spacious with a row of expensive-looking toiletries and a pile of soft white towels on a shelf behind the door. She took a glass from beside the sink and poured in a slug of vodka. Topped it up with Coke, swallowed a long gulp and sighed.

Once she had changed out of her muddy clothes and spread out on the comfortable double bed, she began to relax. This wasn’t too bad. A few more gulps. She checked her phone, watched the buffering circle slowly rotate on her screen. Still no signal. Then she spotted a white card on the bedside table with the wifi code.

When WhatsApp loaded up, she sent a message to her mum and Lori.

I made it! The place is perfect. No phone reception, but that suits me. Looking forward to lots of long walks and feeling better already.

Obviously neither of them wanted to speak to her anyway, but at least they couldn’t complain that she’d left them worrying.

Her phone dinged with a message. Henry Laughton.

I hope you have arrived safely at The Guesthouse and had a good journey. A hearty welcome from all of us at Preserve the Past.

Do contact me with any problems or queries and I’ll arrange for someone to deal with them.

You should find toiletries and tea/coffee etc in your room, but there are further supplies in the kitchen. Take whatever you need.

Enjoy your stay.

She swallowed the rest of her vodka and tapped out a reply. Aimed for the right passive-aggressive tone. She had been very surprised about the lack of road access to the property and felt this should have been made clearer on the website. Her clothes and shoes were ruined. There was nothing to be done about it, of course, but she thought it might help to have some feedback for future guests. She hit send.

For the first time in ages she was hungry, so she pulled on thick socks and looked out into the corridor. Hesitated for a minute or two, listening. Not a sound, except her own breathing and the gentle ticking of a clock somewhere. Then she forced herself along to the top of the stairs and leaned over the balustrade to peer into the hall below. Next to the main door someone had left some wellies and a pair of walking boots. Other guests must have arrived, because she could hear the comforting hum of voices downstairs.

She padded down. Put a smile on her face, pulled out a stick of gum from her pocket to mask the smell of booze. She had chewed a lot of the stuff recently, whenever she was at home. The voices were coming from a big door at the back and to the right of the stairs. A dark tapestry, showing some kind of hunting scene, hung on the wall beside it. Pushing it open she found herself in a huge country kitchen.

Seated at the massive oak table, fiddling with a phone, was a guy who looked about her own age. Behind his black-rimmed glasses, his eyes gleamed as he flashed a white smile.

‘Hello. Good to see you. Come in, come in.’ He stood and held out his hand. ‘I’m Mohammad – Mo – and that’s my dad, Sandeep.’

He nodded to an elderly man standing in the corner. Hannah took Mo’s hand and tried not to think about the awkward handshake at the end of her most recent disaster of an interview.

When Sandeep also stretched out his hand she could see the likeness. But while Mo was smiling, his father looked unhappy, angry even. He was holding a cloth and seemed to be cleaning the warm Aga.

‘So, you’re not the hosts?’ Hannah asked.

Mo laughed. ‘I wish. No, my dad’s just a cleaning fanatic.’ He turned to Sandeep. ‘Come on, Dad, give it a rest. This is meant to be a holiday.’ But his father ignored him.

‘How long have you been here?’ Hannah thought of the shadow at the window when she first arrived.

‘About half an hour. And you?’

‘An hour or so I think.’ So it couldn’t have been them. ‘Had a proper nightmare walking all the way from the road.’

Hannah went to the fridge. Milk, cheese, butter. Some cold meats, lots of vegetables, orange and apple juice. But no wine. She sighed. ‘I’m surprised the host didn’t warn us about the trek across that bog. My new trainers are ruined.’

Mo looked down at her socks. ‘Me and Dad like to walk, but yeah, it was a long way.’

An old-fashioned coffee maker started to steam on the Aga. Sandeep filled two mugs with coffee and pushed them towards her without a word. His eyes were clouded. With annoyance, anger, or something else, she couldn’t guess. She sat beside Mo and passed him a coffee, all the time aware of Sandeep stooped in the corner, wiping the worktops, fussing with the Aga again.

Mo blew on the mug and took a sip. ‘For a while we thought we might be the only guests, stuck out here on our own. It’s nice to have company.’

He smiled at her across the table. It was a shy smile, but very warm. ‘So what brings you all the way out here?’

It was too direct, although he couldn’t possibly know that. She paused, not wanting to mention Ben, but struggling to think of a plausible lie. In the end the truth just seemed to come out.

‘My father …’ She swallowed. ‘He used to live in this part of Ireland. He died five years ago.’ Hannah could feel her jaw tightening. She never talked about him. What was she doing telling a complete stranger?

‘So you’ve been here before?’ Sandeep had turned to face her, his voice loud in the silence.

‘Dad?’ Mo glanced at Sandeep then leaned across the table. ‘Don’t mind him, he doesn’t want to be here.’ Mo had a strange accent that Hannah couldn’t place. London certainly, but something else too.

She glanced at Sandeep and sipped her coffee. ‘No, my parents separated when I was young and then my dad died. I never had a chance to get to know him properly.’ She turned the mug around in her hands. ‘When I saw this place on Cloud BNB, I thought it would be nice to see where he lived. I guess I wanted to find out a bit more about him.’ It was the truth as far as it went.

Sandeep turned towards her. ‘You came on your own?’ Once more that disapproving tone. And Hannah saw a flash of Ben laughing, shaking back his fair hair and leaning in to kiss her. Come on, you know you want to go. Can’t keep putting it off. We’ll have a great time.

She heard Mo mutter something under his breath. It could have been, ‘Sorry,’ but she was damned if she was going to let a moody old man get to her.

She looked at Sandeep. ‘I’m interested in the house. I studied architecture and used to work at an architectural practice.’ That was all he was going to get. ‘What about you guys? Why did you decide to come here?’

‘I didn’t. It was his idea.’ Sandeep turned away and continued to scrub the kitchen surfaces. ‘This place is filthy. It’s going to take me all evening to get it clean. And my clothes are still soaking wet from the walk.’

Hannah looked away and wondered why someone would be so unhappy about their holiday. Mo moved around the table to sit beside her and put his phone between them, pushing his glasses further up his nose with one finger. ‘I’m interested in the house too, but the history. I’ve just finished my master’s in history. Have you read about this place? There’s some cool stuff on Preserve the Past website.’

Without waiting for an answer, he tapped his phone and held it up for her to read.

This property was originally called Fallon House after the local village of Fallon. Built in 1763 for the Anglo-Irish Lord Fallon, it remained in the family until the death of the most recent Lady Fallon. Preserve the Past then acquired it and changed the name from Fallon House to The Guesthouse. Preserve the Past is a registered charity and all the proceeds from guest rentals go towards continued renovations.

Mo frowned. He flicked back and forth between pages. ‘Weird. I swear there was more here when I looked before, some fascinating background about the area.’ After a few seconds, he gave up and put down his phone. ‘Apparently some bits of the house are closed off to visitors, because they’re still being renovated. When there’s enough money, I guess. These things cost a fortune.’

Sandeep scrubbed harder at the Aga.

‘Well the outside’s a bit rundown, but it looks pretty good in here. The entrance hall is beautiful.’ Hannah smiled at Mo.

‘It’s incredible. Have you seen—’

One of the cupboard doors slammed shut with a bang. They both jumped and turned to look at Sandeep.

He flung down his cloth and stared at them, his eyes bright. ‘Stop it. Stop it.’ He coughed and put a hand to his mouth. ‘This place … it’s not right. There’s something about it … It isn’t safe.’ There was a stunned silence. ‘I know you think I’m an idiot, Mo, but you need to listen to me.’ He stabbed a finger at his son. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow, and you should too.’

Hannah blinked. She tried to think of something to say, as Sandeep paced back and forth across the kitchen. After a moment he pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. There was a pause before he began to speak, softly but with an intensity that kept Hannah rooted to her seat.

‘I’m not joking.’ He glanced between them. ‘There’s just … It’s a horrible building. It just feels all wrong somehow, dark and cold … I don’t know, like something bad happened here.’ His knuckles were white on the edge of the table.

‘Come on, Dad,’ Mo tried to smile. ‘It’s fine. No one has lived here for years. It’s been completely done up and—’

‘I don’t care! I don’t care what renovations have been done. I don’t care about its architecture. We should never have come.’