Читать книгу New Blood - Sarah Evans - Страница 4

'My boss wants that house.'

The man thrust out a podgy finger that was tipped with a bitten, nicotine-stained nail, and rammed it at the photo lying on my desk. There were blue tatts on his knuckles that read HATE. The other fat mitt was probably inked with LOVE.

Did I care? No. I'd glanced at the picture and had other, more pressing things to think about. Like, how was I going to get out of this one in a hurry?

The yellowed, dog-eared photo was of the old house on the cliff. And I wondered how he'd got hold of it because, to my knowledge, it was off the radar for the general public. My knee-jerk reaction was to stonewall his request. Say: absolutely NOT. The house was off-limits, out of bounds, beyond the pale. Whatever.

But the gorilla in the flash suit looked as though he'd jump at a challenge, so I opted for the softly, softly approach.

'I have other properties which may prove more to your boss' liking.' Who'd have thought I'd ever say that? Me - sales woman extraordinaire - saying no to a punter. And someone who wanted that particular house too.

You see, every real estate agent has one: a house that doesn't sell. It stays on the books and moulders away for years, regardless of what you do. Of course, it doesn't help that I'd taken it off all my books and website and pretended it didn't exist. In fact, the whole town tried to ignore it.

When my business partner, Jenny, and I had bought Coastal Realty, we were confident the quirky, turreted house, with its high, whimsical gables and wide, inviting verandas, would shift in a twinkling. It reeked of romance, sat on prime land, had great views of the bay, and was blessed with its own private beach. The price was good too. An absolute bargain.

Hah, what did we know?

The gorilla shifted back in his chair and crossed his arms, the simple action causing his pinstripe jacket and lilac shirt to strain against his bulk.

'You didn't hear me, little lady. I said he wants that one.'

Little lady! Who was he fooling? I might have been a stick-thin jogging freak in another life but even if I fasted a month, I'd be giving Dawn French a run for her money - with a few extra pounds to spare. I ate for comfort and drank to forget, every single day.

Since Jenny had gone.

But Ms French beat me hands down with the hair. Hers is glossy and thick, like a lush mink coat. Mine is prematurely grey. In fact, it was long overdue for my hairdresser to give it a shed-load of colour and provide me with a life-affirming confidence boost.

'The house isn't for sale,' I lied. My voice quavered like a virgin on a first date.

Technically the house was always for sale. In reality, it was dead in the water.

'Every person has their price. They'll sell.'

'But it isn't a good proposition.' More terrible quavering.

Spiv Suit leaned forward again and said with emphatic menace, 'Listen, my boss won't take no for an answer. What he wants, he gets. Got it, little lady?'

I flapped my hands around. 'There's a problem. The house has tenants. Well, squatters, actually.'

'Evict them.'

'It's been tried.' I thought of the tatty, faded eviction notice stuck on the door, by the hole. That wretched gaping hole. And I thought of Jenny being dragged through it…

No wonder I drank to blot out the horrific memories. I could do with a slug now and my fingers twitched towards my desk drawer. I cleared my throat instead, swallowing the sudden surge of bile.

'But it's not so easy. The squatters have lived there… a while.'

'No sweat, girlie. Leave them to me. I've got my methods.' He cracked his knuckles loudly. It sounded like gun shots in the O.K. Corral.

I winced. I didn't doubt Spiv Suit's talents for intimidation. He smacked of the wide boys from the rougher end of town. But I didn't think his methods would have much impact on the squatters.

He smiled. It wasn't pleasant and involved a lot of gold glinting. I'm an amalgam girl myself. Less flashy and, in theory, the mercury helps me to forget.

'We can have the deal sewn up in no time. I'll contact the boss.' said Spiv Suit.

And my heart sank quicker than a sugar lump dumped in hot tea.

'If you want to view the property, I'll have to contact the trustees,' I said with no enthusiasm whatsoever. 'Access is difficult.'

That was a gross understatement. Heavy-duty fencing surrounded the place. A rash of padlocks secured the gate. Once there'd been dogs too, until they'd got done.

'No need. The boss has already scoped out the land. It's the location he likes,' said Spiv Suit. 'The old house will be demolished to make way for a luxury hotel.'

I tried to picture it. I suppose bulldozers could be the answer to the problem. Maybe.

'It'll be tasteful.' Spiv added

I shivered at his choice of words. Tasteful. The man had no idea.

'Your boss is making a huge mistake,' I said, trying one more time to stop the deal before someone got hurt.

'Can it, kid. My boss doesn't make mistakes.'

I admired his faith, but didn't share it.

Over the next few weeks I tried to forget about the house, but it wasn't easy. It sat on the cliff like a malignant gargoyle, throbbing with ravenous anticipation. Or was that just my imagination? Still, I upped my Prozac, downed the grog and tried to block out the guilt.

Because I should have stopped the sale.

The market was depressed. No one was buying except Spiv's boss. His deposit was my only income.

During a weak moment, I bowed to my hairdresser's nagging and treated myself to a marginal makeover. We went for black henna. Not quite Goth, but very close. I was happy to get rid of the tidemark of grey roots and my hairdresser was pleased with her a fat fee.

Spiv Suit turned up unexpectedly one day and told me his boss had changed his mind. Relief made me light-headed.

'Thank goodness for that,' I said. 'I told you the house wasn't worth it.'

'Nah, you got it wrong,' said Spiv. 'He still wants the house. His missus wants to keep it.'

'But why?' I wailed, feeling a tonne of blackness bearing down on me.

'She reckons it'll scrub up well as the family home,' said Spiv.

'No, it won't,' I said. 'It's rotten to the core.'

'I don't believe you.'

'You should,' I said bitterly.

'Anyway, we gotta go and get rid of the squatters. Pronto, like.'

I hyperventilated when I computed what he'd said. 'We?' Sweat prickled an instant rash across my skin.

'Yep, you and me, girlie. And the eviction papers.' He waved them in front of my face. Ice-cold perspiration sluiced between my shoulder blades, between my breasts, and down my legs.

'I don't think so.' My voice squeaked in protest. I did not want to go to that house. 'No way!'

Spiv Suit slid the documents into his loud jacket, cracked his knuckles on the HATE hand and favoured me with a black stare guaranteed to scare tiny tots, grannies and real estate agents.

'But I haven't got the keys,' I said, playing for time. I didn't plan on getting them, ever.

'Trustees sent them through to the boss,' said Spiv, patting his pocket. They said it was good the place was gonna get a new lease of life. Injection of new blood and all that stuff.'

Revulsion juddered through me. I bet they did.

'This is a bad idea,' I said, wobbling my way to the door.

We drove to the cliff house in pressing silence, broken only by the odd crack of knuckle. Hey, he intimidated me enough without doing the walnut percussion, okay.

I dealt with the padlocks, fingers shaking as if I had the DTs, and then we drove along the overgrown, weedy driveway. I parked the car facing homeward, ready for a quick getaway, then reluctantly joined Spiv. The brisk sea breeze ruffled the bushes around the house and rattled the few remaining windowpanes. I wrapped my arms around myself in a pathetic attempt at self-protection and eyed the dilapidated ruins of what had once been a beautiful home.

Spiv Suit sniffed the air. 'What's that dreadful pong?' he said.

I shrugged and shuffled my feet. 'Maybe decaying fish.'

I knew it wasn't that. More like a dead tramp or lost hiker. A stray picnicker, even.

The rusted wrought-iron garden gate did a good imitation of a haunted-house squeak and we picked our way to the front door along the crazy-paving path. No one answered Spiv's tattoo of knocking.

'Let's go home,' I said.

'Let's not,' he said. 'We'll try around the back.'

'This is not a good idea.' I lagged behind him, aware we were being watched.

Wind had ripped the previous eviction notice so it fluttered in the breeze like bonnet ribbons, made brittle by sea-spray and sun.

'Pworr. It smells worse around here,' said Spiv and then yelled out, 'Hey! Anyone home?'

He pounded the paint-peeling on the old green door, ignoring the huge, yawning hole. 'I've got something for you losers.'

Scuffles sounded from within. I muttered a hasty prayer and wished I'd worn my crucifix. Yesterday's garlic bread still lingered on my breath but it simply wouldn't be enough.

'We'll soon see whose boss,' Spiv said to me. 'They won't know what's hit them.' And he smiled his gold-flecked grin.

I didn't share his optimism. Instead, I took a step backwards. I was ready to run. Fast. I prayed some more.

'Open up!' he shouted.

Inside, through the split panelling of the door, shadowy shapes moved and merged. One broke away and glided nearer to the door. In the half-light I saw it was a young woman. She held a cat in her arms, stroking it rhythmically. Cat and woman stared at us, faces expressionless. No recognition glimmered.

'Hey, little lady, I've got something for you.' Spiv held out the eviction notice.

The woman took a step forward and I shuffled backwards.

'It's time for you and your mates to quit,' said Spiv. 'What d'ya reckon? Go quietly or do it the less civilised way?'

The woman remained mute.

'What's the matter? Cat got your tongue, lady?' Spiv Suit laughed at his own corny joke.

Suddenly the woman's hand thrust through the door's jagged hole and grabbed his throat. Her long, brown fingers squeezed hard. Spiv's mouth fell wide open in shock, his protest gurgling futilely under her iron grip.

And then the cat did…

You know…

Get his tongue.

Then Jenny bit his throat.

I screamed, turned-tail and fled.

When, gibbering like a lunatic, I'd first reported Jenny's attack to the local cops, a young police officer went to investigate the old house. He never came back. I don't know how many others followed him but soon all officers refused to go there. Later, the council erected the security fence. A shroud of secrecy descended.

My doctor didn't believe me. He put my ravings down to hallucinations, said I'd suffered a nervous breakdown and was too susceptible to the old stories knocking around town. He'd said that I'd get better in time; that the nightmares and midnight sweats would stop. He'd been wrong. They hadn't.

This time I didn't bother telling the police or the doctors, but hit the bottle as soon as I got back to the office.

At least my hairdresser would be happy. My hair was whiter than the bleached bones washing up on the beach. It needed a shed-load of colour.