Michael Wood - The Murder House

Now, she stood in the doorway to the library and looked around at the floor-to-ceiling shelves which Daniel had designed and installed. The wood had been treated and needed a few days to settle before Matilda could unpack the many boxes of books she had piled up in one of the spare bedrooms. This was to be her sanctuary. When work got on top of her, when life became too difficult, she would come in here, close the door behind her, relax in the Eames chair and lose herself in a novel.

Matilda went into the living room and curled up on the large Chesterfield sofa. The walls were painted a deep red, the log fire was burning, and the entire house was warm, homely and welcoming.

On the reclaimed railway sleeper above the wood burner, was a framed photograph of her and James on their wedding day. The marriage only lasted five years before James was cruelly taken from her, another cancer statistic. She used to spend hours with the photo in her hands, crying hysterically, screaming for him to be returned to her. Now, she looked into his ice-blue eyes and smiled.

‘You’d hate this house, wouldn’t you?’ she asked him with a laugh in her voice. Of course he would. James was an architect. As much as he admired period buildings, his job was creating new ones. That’s what he loved. Hope Farm was built in 1891, the same year Conan Doyle moved his Sherlock Holmes stories to The Strand Magazine . Everything about it screamed Victorian.

Matilda was finally home. She was settled. She was almost happy.

Following a couple of hours of reading the new Eva Dolan novel in the lounge, she felt her eyes grow heavy and decided to go up to bed. She closed the door on the wood burner so no burning embers would fall out and set the house on fire while she was sleeping, picked up her book and made her way upstairs.

The house was deathly silent, apart from the usual noises houses made as they cooled down. She stood at the top of the stairs and looked over the bannister at the floor below. Through the stained glass in the front door, she could see thick branches swaying. They cast long shadows on the tiled floor in the hallway. They looked like gnarled fingers, crawling under the door, scraping across the floor. She shuddered at the thought. She’d have to buy a heavy curtain or something to hang in front of the door, block out the light.

Something woke her. She opened her eyes to find she was still sitting up in bed. The lamp on the bedside table was still on, and the hardback novel was open on her lap. She looked at the clock; it was just past one o’clock. She placed a bookmark between the pages, closed the book and placed it next to another framed photo of James on the table. She turned out the light and was about to turn over to hunker down under the duvet when she heard a noise from downstairs. Her eyes widened. She remained still and listened intently. She heard the noise again. It was a creaking sound followed by a tap. Was it the floorboards or the stairs? Was somebody coming up? Matilda sat bolt upright and turned the lamp back on. A few seconds later, she heard the same noise again.

‘Shit,’ she said to herself.

Matilda flung back the duvet and climbed out of bed. Next to the bedside table, one of James’s old cricket bats was leaning against the wall. She’d never had cause to use it in the past, but always felt safer knowing a weapon was to hand if she should ever need to defend herself.

She put on her dressing gown, tying it at the waist and went over to the bedroom door. The brass knob was cold. She twisted it carefully to the right so as not to make a sound, pulled the door towards her and stepped out onto the unfamiliar landing.

‘Hello,’ she called out. Her shaking voice echoed around the empty house. ‘Is anyone there?’

Creak. Tap.

Her mouth dried. She tried to swallow but couldn’t. She gripped the bat hard and went to the bannister to look over the edge and into the hallway. There was nobody there.

She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the creak and the tap again. It was coming from outside the front door.

Creak. Tap.

A branch outside the house creaked each time the wind blew and the tip of it tapped against the door.

Matilda released her breath and sighed. She almost laughed. First thing in the morning, she was cutting that branch off. Standing on the stairs, cricket bat aloft, she suddenly realized how ridiculous she was being. Is this how life was going to be from now on? Every time she heard a noise, would she think someone had broken in or the ghost of Ben Hales had followed her here to torture her all over again?

In the old house, even living on her own, she had never felt this frightened, this paranoid before. Was the fact she was living in the middle of nowhere worrying her? The isolation, the rolling countryside views from almost every window, the lack of neighbours – that was what had sold her the house in the first place. It was perfect. It was everything she had been looking for. She had thought.

Maybe I do want people around me.

Instead of returning to bed, Matilda headed for the living room. She pushed open the door and felt the warmth, despite the fire having died a couple of hours since. She turned on the light and almost screamed.

The walls. The walls she had agonized over the colour of for weeks, the deep red which made the room warm and homely, in the haze of the room, looked like blood dripping down. She immediately thought of the Mercer house, the lifeless, mutilated bodies of Clive, Serena and Jeremy. She looked at her hands, still wrapped around the cricked bat, and for a split second she thought they were covered in blood. She dropped the bat and staggered out of the living room.

She would have to redecorate.

Matilda woke to the sound of her mobile ringing. She turned on the light, and, while her eyes adjusted, she fumbled on the bedside table for it. She answered without looking at the display.

‘Hello,’ she croaked. She sat up and looked around her. She couldn’t remember coming back to bed, but she’d obviously dragged herself back up somehow. She threw back the duvet and looked down at her body. There was no blood.

What the hell was I dreaming about last night?

‘Morning, Mat. Haven’t woken you, have I?’ Adele asked. Her voice didn’t have the usual bounce and lightness to it.

‘No. I was just getting up,’ she lied. The clock told her it wasn’t even six o’clock yet. ‘You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep?’

‘No. I kept having bad dreams,’ Adele said. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Fine,’ she lied.

‘I wanted to let you know that we’ll be removing the bodies from the Mercer house at some point this morning.’

‘That’s great.’

‘I’ll let you know when the post mortems are.’

‘Thanks. How’s Lucy?’

‘She was very quiet when I gave her a lift home yesterday. I’ll have a word with her this morning. Chris went for a run with Scott last night. He said he was behaving, erm, strangely,’ she said, choosing her words carefully.

‘Strangely? In what way?’

‘Well, when he asked him about it, he started crying.’

‘Oh,’ Matilda was surprised. Scott was well known for keeping his cards incredibly close to his chest. Sian had her husband to confide in. Aaron and Christian both had wives they could talk to. Rory used Sian as an informal therapist, but Scott was stoic. Matilda often wondered whether he had an outlet for his emotions, apart from running. She wouldn’t have guessed Chris.

‘Scott told Chris not to say anything and Chris told me not to say anything.’

‘So you’re telling me,’ Matilda said with a smile.

‘Well, we have to look out for the people we work with, don’t we?’