The Stranger in Our Home

I reached for the handle, relief making me bold. It was real, not some imagined bogeyman. The handle was ice cold, grasping at my skin, burning it, unwilling to release me as I struggled to close it. Looking at the frame, it seemed to me to have been forced. Perhaps a crowbar, or some other tool, bashed or levered against the fitment from the inside till it had twisted and no longer fit. How had that happened?

The window wouldn’t shut completely. Even when I got it to hold firm, the outside air blew through the gap, sucking at my hand. It must have been like that for days, even weeks: everything near the window was wet, or frozen, white as if Jack Frost himself had cast his spell. My fingers trailed along the roof struts, leaving a wet line in the ice.

Day had almost gone. More snow was already smothering the window frame, blotches of white slapping against the glass, too fast for it to melt, too thick for it to slide down. The electric bulb fizzed overhead, blinking on and off like an angry fly attacking a lamp, useless but persistent. I surveyed the space.

I moved forward, avoiding the beams as I edged along the narrow height of the room. Dust flew up from under my feet, sparkling in the bleary light. I coughed, then stopped. What was that? A scratching noise?

I scanned the lumps and bumps on the floor. A few items, too big to be covered, rose from the ground. A tailor’s dummy, a spindle-back chair, newspapers tied up with string. Ice clung to the print and I rubbed it clear, the paper damp beneath my touch. I could make out the headlines. February, 1953: East coast floods cause devastation. Lives lost in bleak winter disaster. The blades of a broken fan moved slowly round, clicking as they did. Had I nudged it by accident? I didn’t think so. What had scared the cat so much it had shot out of the attic like that?

I slid my eyes back across the room. There was a definite movement, a small lump beneath one of the sheets. It twitched and jumped, stopped and jumped again, wriggling towards me.

I reached for a cricket bat propped up against a chair. My fingers tightened around the handle. The lump disappeared, the fabric sinking to a loose fold on the ground. It was quiet, the single bulb flickered on then off, on then off … I was plunged into a fusty gloom.

Something scuttled over my foot.

I yelped.

It stopped, mid-run, right in front of me. A rat, black and greasy, beady eyes glinting in the twilight. It was huge, its fat body bulging over in the middle as it sat back on its haunches, fixing me with its glare. I felt fear sweep over me. I absolutely loathed rats. It was so close, so revolting, so big … I lashed out with the cricket bat, screaming at the thing. It fled across the dust towards the stairs.

‘No! Don’t you go into the house!’ It was a useless cry.

Both hands gripping the bat, I swung it wildly. Thunk! It hit the stairwell, wood splintering beneath. The rat darted out through the doorway, onto the landing. It streaked across the carpet towards my old bedroom. I leapt forward, pulling the bedroom door shut just in time, holding the handle as if the little bugger could have reached up and opened the door. It stared at me, surprised at my audacity. My heart was racing, my breath came in short, staggered puffs and I stood there watching, the skin on my back, my neck, my arms crawling, cricket bat still in hand.

Then the rat moved, turning tail to scamper down the stairs. One floor, two floors, just like the cat, only this time it bounded into the kitchen. I ran after it. The rat skittered alongside the cupboard kickboards, searching for an opening. I slung my bat onto the table and threw open the back door as the rat approached. It sniffed the cold air, gave me one last beady glance and bounced through the gap. I slammed the door shut and stood there, catching my breath.

That was what had scared the cat. A rat, a lone rat trying to live its life, seeking the warmth of the house – all farms had rats. That was why they had cats too. What was wrong with me?

I had a fleeting image of another rat, its yellow teeth chattering in my face. A nightmare from when I was little? I felt my fingers itching for the cricket bat.

I resolved to let the cat stay.

CHAPTER 9

‘Hi, Steph.’

I was in the kitchen, the cool blue light of my laptop shining out across the table. Even a few hours later, I was still shaken after dealing with the rat. I’d lit a candle to cheer myself. The tiny flame danced in the corner of my eye as Steph’s face wobbled and blinked and came into focus.

‘You okay? You sound a bit down.’ Steph’s voice was a surprising beacon of familiarity.

‘Oh. I’m fine, but it’s horrible going through all her stuff.’

Steph nodded. ‘I can imagine. Rather you than me. How’s the weather? We’ve had a great blizzard here in New York. All flights are cancelled. I didn’t get to Miami. The whole place is under wraps, state of emergency and all that. We’re not supposed to leave our homes even to go to the shops whilst it’s like this.’

I nodded. I’d watched the news whilst eating my tea, seeing the reports of a sequence of east coast blizzards in America and how they’d reached us from across the Atlantic.

‘Yeah, it’s a whiteout here too, I won’t be able to drive anywhere for a few days in this, but I’m well stocked up. Craig, my neighbour, has been round with a load of logs.’

‘Has he?’ Steph was smiling, reaching out for a mug of coffee. ‘And?’

‘Oh, he didn’t stay long.’

There was a pause. Maybe Steph was hoping I might fill the silence with more details.

‘I’ve got a cat in the sitting room,’ I said.

It was still there, supplied with a plate of cat food and a bowl of water. I’d have to let it out in a bit.

‘Really?’ Steph sounded distracted, disappointed perhaps that I wasn’t giving up more information about my kind neighbour.

‘Yeah, the cat turned up in the attic. God knows how it got up there.’

I decided not to say anything about the rat.

‘And how are things with your work, are you managing to do some painting too?’

‘Oh, it’s good. My agent’s sent me a new commission for fairy tales and some of the stories are …’ I brought my hand up to cough. I wasn’t sure exactly what word to use, but I didn’t want to admit the effect they were having on me. ‘I’ve got loads of ideas.’

I didn’t mention the book included the story of The Pear Drum.

‘That’s nice.’

My sister sipped at her mug, hands curled around it, clothed in a casually elegant mohair sloppy jumper. There was an awkward silence.

‘Which one are you working on at the moment?’ she asked.

‘The Juniper Tree.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s about a young boy and his stepsister. His father has remarried and the stepmother hates him, wanting his inheritance for her daughter.’

‘Oh right, that sounds familiar. Why are there so many evil stepmothers in those stories?’ Steph leaned back in her seat.

I laughed. ‘This one’s particularly gruesome. The stepmother kills the boy and feeds him to his father.’

‘Yuk! Murder and cannibalism, what happened to happy ever after?’

‘Fairy tales aren’t always what Disney would have us believe. It’s not like my usual commissions, this one’s not really for children.’ I grinned.

Steph laughed. ‘I should think not, from what you’re telling me!’

Later, after the call ended, I started to paint.

The house was quiet, the cat asleep on the sofa, apparently no longer distressed. I glanced outside. The night was arctic clear, the snow sparkling. As I stood in front of the kitchen table, brush in hand, I felt calmer, happier, I was in control with a paintbrush. Time didn’t matter, here on my own, surrounded by nature’s very own blank canvas.

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