Peter James - The House on Cold Hill

‘There were so many annoying people yesterday. They all kept coming up to me wanting to be friends with me. Except one gang of four boys, I don’t think they’re very nice.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with people wanting to be friends with you, lovely. That’s a nice thing, isn’t it?’

‘Just so embarrassing. I want my friends.’

‘You still have your friends. But it would be nice to make some new ones at the school. Was there anyone you particularly liked?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Well, there’s a possible one called Niamh. I don’t know yet.’ She was silent again for some moments, then suddenly, looking worried, she asked, ‘I know I’m going to have to wait till the Saturday for my party, but I will still get my presents on the Thursday, won’t I?’

‘Of course! From all the family, anyway. You might get some more from your friends on Saturday — so that’ll be like having two birthdays.’

‘Brilliant! Hey, maybe next year we could have a pool party for my birthday? That would be epic!’

He smiled. ‘Maybe!’

Then his thoughts returned to his strange and disturbing dream last night.

Ask someone to tell you about the digger.

No one leaves your house. They all stay.

Cholmondley rang Ollie as he drove back from the school to say he was happy with everything, and could he now get the website live as soon as possible. Ollie told him he would upload the site to his server and it would be live within the next hour.

Then his thoughts returned yet again to the weird dream, and the words of the old man, and the photograph that had appeared on his phone overnight. Then his daughter’s question in the car a short while ago. Coincidence?

He wished it was as simple as dismissing it that way. But he couldn’t. There was one burning question in his mind right now: was he going crazy?

People said that moving house was the most stressful thing a human being could do. Was the stress of this, the stress of his financial worries and the stress of trying to build his new business getting to him? Had he forgotten he’d taken a photograph of the strange old man when he’d met him last week? Or was it some weird thing that had happened through the Cloud? Ever since synching his iPhone, iPad and laptop to the Cloud there had been the occasional oddity. Was this just one of them?

It had to be.

There was one possible way, he realized, of finding out.

Arriving back home shortly after 9.00 a.m., Ollie was disappointed by the absence of any vans outside the house. Not one of the small army of workmen had turned up so far. Ollie hurried up to his office and spent the next hour getting the Cholmondley website up and running. He checked it carefully and by 11.00 a.m., after a few emails back and forth with his client, he had sorted a couple of minor glitches and Cholmondley was a happy bunny.

Then he phoned his computer engineer, Chris Webb, who knew everything there was to know about Apple Macs, and more, to discuss the photograph of the old man that had appeared on his iPhone overnight. While they were talking, he emailed it to Webb.

‘Maybe you went sleepwalking?’ Webb said.

‘But this photo was taken in daylight!’

‘It’s odd,’ he said after a while. ‘I’m looking at your albums stored on the Cloud — everything’s dated, except for this one photograph. There’s no date and no geo tag. It’s sort of appeared out of nowhere, mate!’

‘Yep, it has.’

‘You know what I think may have happened?’ Webb said.

‘What?’

‘One possibility is you took a phone call while you were talking to this old boy, and you accidently took a photo?’

‘Possible — but I’m sure I didn’t take my phone out while I was talking to him,’ Ollie said. Except in my dream , he thought.

‘I find Photo does odd things sometimes. I’ve not heard of it happening — but I suppose it could.’ Ollie heard a slurp — it sounded as though Webb was having a drink of something. Then he continued. ‘Remember in the old days when you took actual film into a shop to get it developed?’

‘That does seem a long while back!’

‘Yeah. Well, in those days — it happened to me a couple of times — when I got my photos back sometimes there’d be a rogue one slipped in among them somehow — totally random — another couple’s baby, or holiday snap.’

‘And that might have happened here? Chris, the coincidence would be — insane! I saw this old boy last week, chatted to him, then I wake up this morning and there’s his photograph on the phone. Come on, what are the chances of that happening — that somehow the Cloud has delivered someone else’s photograph of him to me? How many gazillion to one?’

‘Coincidences happen.’

‘I know, but this. I just...’ He fell silent.

After some moments Webb said, sounding bemused, ‘I’m sorry, Ollie, it’s the best explanation I can give you. Otherwise I’m stumped. I’ll have a word with someone I know at Apple and see if I can find out how often something like this does happen.’

‘I’d be very grateful, Chris.’

Ollie ended the call and stayed at his desk, staring down at the old man. He couldn’t place the background, which was indistinct. He enlarged his face, as he had done several times earlier, to make absolutely sure he wasn’t mistaken. But it wasn’t just the face, it was his briar pipe, that gnarled walking stick, that strange quiff-like hairstyle, the rheumy eyes. Chris Webb was usually right, and what he had said, however far-fetched, was the only possible explanation.

He went downstairs, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and pulled on the new wellington boots Caro had given him as an early birthday present last month. He had already told Caro his birthday was to be a quiet affair — just dinner with a few friends. The wild party would have to wait until their finances had recovered from buying and renovating this place. Just then, the builders arrived full of excuses — they’d been held up at a supplier waiting for some damp-proofing material they’d been promised. But, frustratingly, there was still no sign of the electrician or plumber.

He tugged on a baseball cap then set off in the drizzle down the drive, walking at a faster stride than normal, on a mission. He was deep in thought and ignored the comic-looking alpacas in the field to his right, trotting inquisitively over towards him.

He looked up at the sinister wyverns on the gate pillars, as he walked through into the lane, then stopped as the red post van roared up the hill, its right-turn indicator winking. It pulled up beside him and the driver greeted him.

‘Mr Harcourt?’ He held up several envelopes, held together with a rubber band. ‘Want these or shall I pop them through the letter box?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind taking them up to the house?’

‘Not at all! Moved in all right?’

‘Just about! Tell me — what time do you collect the post from there?’ Ollie pointed at the small red Royal Mail postbox, half-hidden by the hedgerow on the other side of the lane.

‘One collection a day — around half past four weekday afternoons, about midday on Saturdays. If you need later your best bet would be the post office in Hassocks.’

Ollie thanked him, and the mail van roared off up the drive. Then he glanced up and down the lane, and was disappointed to see it was deserted. The wet weather had intensified the smells of the leaves and grasses and he breathed the air in, savouring it as he set off down the hill.

A few minutes later he pushed open the gate of Garden Cottage and walked up the path. The decrepit front door was, as before, ajar. He called out, ‘Hello!’