Peter James - The House on Cold Hill

‘What the hell’s happening, Ollie?’

He stood behind her, put his arms round her, bent over and kissed her on the forehead, smelling the fragrant scent of her shampoo. ‘Just a horrible coincidence. Horrible.’

He kissed her again, went over to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and opened it. Then he took two clean glasses out of the dishwasher, poured wine into them and carried one over to Caro. ‘Want me to bring my stuff down here and be with you?’

She shook her head and sniffed. ‘I’ll be OK.’

‘Did you find any curry menus?’

‘No — if I give you their names, could you have a look and order for me? I’ve got to get this document done and off.’

‘Sure.’

She scrawled the names down on the corner of a sheet of paper, tore it off and handed it to Ollie.

He climbed the stairs up to the first floor, heavy-hearted, carrying his glass of wine. It was just a coincidence, as he’d said. Just a bloody awful coincidence and shit timing. And those bloody detectives, did they need to be so officious?

He heard music pounding from Jade’s room at the far end of the landing. Wasn’t she supposed to be getting on with her homework? He shrugged. It was Friday night, she had the weekend ahead, but she wasn’t likely to get much done with Phoebe staying over. Let it be. He carried on up to his office.

As he went in, he stared at all the boxes he had still to unpack. He would make that his weekend project, he decided. To get the whole sodding room straight, ready for the week ahead. A week of working on The Chattri House and of hard-selling. He stared out of the windows, at the pelting rain and rapidly failing light — 7.30 p.m. and it would soon be dark. Winter was approaching. He looked forward to clear frosty days, and perhaps some snow. To blazing logs in the huge inglenook fireplace in the drawing room. They would put all this shit behind them, they really would.

He sat down at his desk, put the glass down beside him, tapped his keyboard to bring his computer screen to life and entered his password. Moments later all his files appeared, against the plain sky-blue background he had chosen years ago.

Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped.

He sensed someone standing behind him.

The temperature seemed to drop even further.

He spun round in his chair. But there was no one behind him; no one in the room. The door was closed.

He turned back to the screen, and as he looked at it, all the files once again suddenly disappeared. They were replaced by a message in large black letters.

An instant later the words vanished. Then his normal icons came back into view.

His skin crawled. It felt as if someone was very definitely in this room with him.

Someone.

Or some thing.

He could feel he was being stared at. By unseen eyes.

He leaped out of his chair, looking wildly all around him. Up at the ceiling. At the closed door. Around at the walls.

Shivering, he stared back at the screen.

All the file names were there. At the top right was the Macintosh HD icon. Below it, Charles Cholmondley Classics. Below that, Chattri House.

Normality.

He had not imagined it.

‘WHO ARE YOU?’ he called out. ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT?’

Shiver after shiver ripped through him. Then he felt perspiration running down his face. From being freezing, he was suddenly too hot. He went over to a window and opened it. Felt the cool, damp air on his face. Breathed in the sweet smell of wet grass. His heart was pounding.

There was something in here.

He stared up again at the ceiling. At the two bare light bulbs hanging from their cords. He broke out in goose pimples.

He shook his head. Get a fucking grip! he said, silently, to himself, thinking back on his conversation with Bruce Kaplan. Energy. Was there some energy thing going on?

Go with it and accept it , the professor had said.

Yeah, right, easier said than done.

There was a click. The room darkened and the computer screen went blank. He stared up. Both bulbs had gone out.

Another sodding fuse, he thought.

Hoped.

The goose pimples were spreading and hardening.

He grabbed his wine glass and left the room, slamming the door behind him, and hurried down the stairs to the first-floor landing. When he reached it, he looked back up. The lights elsewhere in the house were on, fine.

He was letting it get to him, and he mustn’t, he knew. He had to be strong. The last thing Caro needed was for him to start freaking out.

His mind playing tricks on him. That’s all it was.

That’s all it was.

He carried on downstairs. Totally unconvinced.

Graham Norton was strutting around on the television screen, in an outrageous checked jacket of the kind a 1930s racetrack bookie might have worn. He cracked a joke about one of his guests, Nicole Kidman, who they could see in the green room, waiting to come on, and Caro laughed. Seated next to the actress was a young hunk Ollie did not recognize.

He was just pleased to hear Caro laugh. Neither of them seemed to have done much laughing recently.

Their bedroom, reeking of fresh paint and new plaster, was dark, the curtains drawn, the overhead light off. He felt desperately tired, drained. Caro was tired, too. Just a few minutes ago she had dozed off, but now she was awake again, watching the show. He had always loved their Friday nights in, with the whole weekend stretching out ahead of them. A time to unwind with frivolous television. Past favourites had been Have I Got News For You and Peep Show and now this.

After a few more minutes he found himself drifting off, then woke up with a start, some while later. Graham Norton was teasing an American actor whom Ollie recognized, but could not remember his name.

‘Who’s that guy?’ he asked Caro.

He turned towards her and saw she was asleep again.

‘Guy?’ she murmured.

‘It’s OK, doesn’t matter. Go back to sleep, babes.’

She blinked, staring at the screen. ‘ Nightcrawler. We liked that film.’

‘Jake Gyllenhaal,’ he said.

‘Yes. Shlake Shillenhaal.’ Her eyes closed again.

He picked up the remote and turned the television off. Then he reached out and pressed the switch on his bedside light.

As the room became almost pitch dark he rolled over, slipped an arm under Caro’s pillow, then nestled up to her and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Night, my darling.’

‘Love you,’ she said.

‘Love you so much.’

He lay, holding her, for some minutes, then rolled onto his back. As he did so he heard a faint click, somewhere close by.

Something sent another ripple of shivers through him. He thought back to the message on his screen up in his office, earlier. The feeling that something had been in the room with him.

He had that same feeling now.

Goose pimples spread down his body; hard, icy, sharp as pins.

Right in front of the bed a green light was moving towards them.

Moving closer.

Closer.

Human height. An ethereal human form.

He was gripped with terror.

Closer still.

Closer.

‘GO, GO, GO!’ he yelled.

‘Wasser?’ Caro stirred, then she screamed, too, a deep, almost preternatural terror in her voice.

‘OLLIE! OLLIE!’

Closer still.

‘OLLIE!’

He flung his arm out for the light and sent the lamp, his glass of water and his clock radio crashing to the floor. ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ he yelled. ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT? GO AWAY!’