Excerpt: The Curse of Sulham Close

Chapter 1

August 31st, 2008

Mark took a pinch of Golden Virginia from the tin, and spread it out on a Rizla. He rolled the tobacco back and forth a couple of times to make a thin sausage shape before licking the edge of the paper, and sealing the rollup shut. The battered silver Zippo lit on the first flick. Mark put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled. During the whole process, he didn’t look down once.
Two hours previously, a young lad had strolled up and sat on one of the long wooden benches near the front of BHS. Earlier the same day, Mark had laid out his tatty blue blanket in the spot where the sun shone between the two buildings opposite all morning. By the afternoon, the rays caught him as the sun arched over the roofs. Playing guitar all day long, hoping for a few coppers, was always more pleasant in the warm sunlight. Besides, he never seemed to be able to shake the chill in his bones. Right now the dull ache of hunger was louder. The Sainsbury’s a few shops up would be marking cooked meats down soon, emptying the shelves the fresh stock for Monday morning.
But the lad – Mark first noticed him three days ago. He’d been minding his own business, playing Stairway to Heaven, picked for cash-strapped mums. They flooded Broad Street and dragged their complaining kids in and out of shops, as they huffed and puffed through their cake-induced podge. He strummed, praying for their pity. But money was thin. Everyone was moaning on about the credit crunch. They should try sleeping on the street.
But the lad – his grin was what set him apart. He wore a wide smirk that never faltered. Almost like a painted on caricature of happiness. Each time he appeared, he had dressed in khaki shorts teamed with hiking boots. Was he planning on a ramble next? On Thursday, he wore a FCUK shirt. His hair had a tousled sexy look, and had the type of colour that should have been brown, but too much time outside had bleached the tips dirty blonde. Women, and not a few men, checked him out as they passed. But the lad’s gaze never wavered from Mark and his guitar playing. Where the hell had he found sun, and why the fuck had he come back for three days, to sit and smirk while Mark tried to work out the mood of the public, and cater to the their musical desires.
Mark dragged on his cigarette, idly strumming the strings on his guitar and nodding at people as they passed by. Catching their eye was the first step. Half of them dumped some change then, unable to cope with their guilt. He’d already pocketed over fifteen pounds. Not sufficient to sleep on a bed, but enough coins for a bag full of reduced pasties, maybe some sausage rolls, and definitely a new tin of Golden Virginia.
The lad glanced at his watch. Mark didn’t need one. He’d spent long years outside, living rough. He told the time by the sun and shadows. Besides, the streets were emptying as four o’clock drew nearer. Bloody Sunday hours. His watcher stretched, and straightened from the slouched back, knees spread, position he’d maintained all day. Good. Freaky stalker guy was going to leave.
But then the unexpected happened. Freaky Boy stood up, shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and strolled across the cobbles towards him.
“Hi,” he said, and stopped by the open guitar case.
“Wotcha.” Mark squinted up at the lad.
“May I ask you a question?” Freaky Boy said.
“Sure thing, mate.”
“Do you like living on the street?” Freaky Boy squatted down, so they were on the same level.
“Course I fucking don’t. What kind of fucked up question is that?” Mark glanced to the left and right of Freaky Boy. Maybe he’d bought some buddies along for a game of abuse the homeless guy. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“You’re right. Sorry. I haven’t done this before.” Freaky Boy’s cheeks pinked. “Mind if I sit down?”
Mark frowned, put the rollup to his lips and took a drag. “Suppose,” he said finally.
“Cheers.” Freaky Boy sat cross-legged on the pavement, and gazed out at the passing people for a few seconds. “It looks very different from down here.”
“You get used to it.”
“I’m Pete.” Freaky Boy extended an arm to shake. Mark stared at the hand for a moment, then up at the lad. “Don’t worry. Sorry. I’m a bit nervous.” He lowered his hand in a couple of jerky movements, as if he still half expected Mark to reach out.
But Mark stayed silent. This guy was a loon.
“My mother used to do the talking. But she died, and now I have to.”
Mark raised his eyebrows, and pinched the last of the cigarette between his lips and inhaled.
“She picked someone. One person – to help. Each year. Get them clean.” Pete tapped a silent drumbeat on his knees. “She cured people.”
“Why?” Mark picked up his guitar and placed it in the case. He was going to need a quick exit from Freaky Boy.
Pete extended one arm, and held it out for Mark. “I was a junky. See the marks?”
Mark nodded. A mosaic of dark grey scars covered the skin, like a bad design for a new constellation.
“Mum cured me.” Pete withdrew his arm.
“What’s the cure?” Mark popped open his tobacco tine, and made a fresh rollup. “Want one?”
“Cheers,” Pete said and nodded. “The cure? Good old fashioned cold turkey, a councillor and eventually, we’ll enrol you in college.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I’ve picked you.” A wide smile stretched across Freaky Boy’s face.
“Ha. That’s a funny one, mate. How much this gonna cost me?” Mark handed over the cigarette, and flicked his lighter for Pete before lighting his own.
“Nothing – and you get to live in the cottage for as long as it takes.”
“Nothing’s free.”
“This is – did you know a guy called Lou? Has dark brown hair and a hooked nose. Claimed to be Italian, but we knew he wasn’t.”
“Lou? Yeah. Disappeared last year. I figured he’d OD’d on something.”
“Nope. We got him clean. He’s got his own flat now, studying part time to be a chippy, and we got him an apprenticeship with a builder.”
“You’re fucking kidding me?” Mark sat forward. “So how come he never came by and said?”
“That’s the deal.” Pete intonated his words carefully, slowly. As if speaking to an idiot. “You have to sever all contact with everyone you know. This is a fresh start. A new life. Your old life ends today.”
Freaky Boy’s smirk returned with this last comment. A chill flared in Mark’s belly, and shot up through to his heart.
“I’m not so sure…” The street was emptying. Four had come and gone, and he’d probably lost a few quid because of this joker sat besides him, yakking away. Sainsbury’s would be closed now. His stomach rumbled. Shit and fuck.
“We will fix you.”
“We?” Mark asked. He got up, and picked up the old blanket he’d been sat on. “Sorry, mate. This all sounds a bit religious cult for me.”
“No, by ‘we’ I mean my twin and I.”
Mark shook his head and bent down for his guitar case.
“Do you want to die a junkie?” Pete said and stood up to face Mark. “Is this what you want for your life?”
Mark swayed a little on the spot. He was hungry. And thirsty. He could get a bottle of Strongbow, go see Cliff and score something stronger. “No.”
“Come back with me, sleep on it. We’re not bad or strange. We want to help people, the way my mum did. You can call Lou tomorrow after you’ve woken. He’ll tell you.”
He’d sleep in a warm bed, after a long bath. And he’d have a hot dinner, his mouth watered at the thought. “Just one night?”
“Certainly. And afterwards, if you still want to come back here, you’re free to do whatever you want.”
Freaky Boy had taken on the look of a confidant salesman. There was catch, Mark thought. There’s always a catch.
“Can I let one person know where I’m going?”
“Nope, the separation from the junkie life needs to be complete. My mum always insisted.”
“Your mum sounds like quite the woman,” Mark said.
“She was something else.” Freaky Boy had his hands in his pockets again. He pumped his heels up and down on the pavement, as if he couldn’t wait to get away.
“One night…?” Mark peered over Pete’s shoulder to the Sainsbury’s. A young woman with a screaming toddler tied down in a pram was shouting at a security man.
“I just want milk for the baby!” she shouted.
The security guard’s reply was inaudible, but Mark could guess – four o’clock had indeed come and gone. The woman pushed the toddler away, the child’s screams fading as they turned off Broad Street.
Freaky Boy tilted his head back into Mark’s line of sight. “My car’s this way.”

Chapter 2

Pete’s car was a large black BMW, kept so shiny, Mark couldn’t avoid his reflection as he walked up. The windows were darkened, almost black. Like politicians and gangsters drove. He could almost imagine the glass being bulletproof. Pete held out his keys and pressed a button. The car unlocked and blinked its lights simultaneously. Freaky boy hopped in, and slammed the door. He waited half a second, and triggered the motor on the passenger window. It buzzed down, and Mark leaned over to see inside. Pete had his seat angled way back, too far, so he needed to stretch his arm to curl his fingers around the top of the leather steering wheel.
“You coming or not?”
Mark nodded, “Um, sure, mate.”
“Dump your gear on the back seat.”
Mark opened the rear door, and placed his rucksack and guitar case with care on the leather seat.
“Don’t worry about the upholstery. Leather’s supposed to get scuffed. Looks better that way.”
“Thanks,” Mark said, unsure how he should answer Freaky Boy, and climbed in the passenger seat.
“Where’s your house?”
“Near Pangbourne,” he replied, and gunned the engine.
Pete drove them out of Reading via the Oxford Road. The BMW streaked past the shops, crowds of teens smoking and chatting, mothers held their children tightly as they walked from bus stops. Mark gripped onto the handle above the window, concentrating on dingy upper floor flats as they zipped along the road.
“Hey baby,” Pete lowered his window and tooted the horn. Just ahead, a young black woman with a bum shaped like a peach strutted along the pavement. She wore jeans so tight they coated her like a second skin. Her hair had been plated into long extensions, some streaked blonde, some copper. She turned to smile. Her shapely figure continued to her breasts. Mark never caught sight of her face, as the car continued on.
“Ooo, I’d like a bit of that, eh?” Pete nudged Mark with his elbow. “Bet she gives what for.”
What for? Mark thought. Where does Freaky Boy think he’s from?
“What’s your dad think of all this then?” Mark asked.
“All of what?” Pete tooted his horn at another young woman. “Hey baby, wanna get together tonight?”
The ‘baby’ in question flipped him, her eyes cold and sharp as she stared into the BMW through the open window. She’s memorising our faces, Mark thought. Just in case.
“Guess not, then.”
Mark cleared his throat. “I was meaning bringing my type back to your home an’ all.” Mark paused. “The junkies.”
“I think he’s past caring.”
“Excuse me?” Maybe he’d made a mistake. His stomach rolled with hunger, and emitted a thunderous sound. Soon, the hunger would turn to nausea, and he’d lose his first meal.
“Forgive me for being obtuse. I shall explain properly. He’s dead. Been dead for years.”
“Sorry to hear that. You must have been like a baby or somethink when he passed on.”
“Sixteen.”
Mark stared at his driver for a moment, as he collected his thoughts. “But you can’t be much older now, how could it be years ago?”
“Ha!” Pete cranked the stereo up, and pounded on the wheel in time to an M&M track. “Feels like bloody years. The man was a tyrant. Besides, mum died not so long ago. Maybe that’s why it feels like so long.” Pete drummed the beat. “Anyway, I’m not that young. I’ll be twenty next birthday.”
Mark raised his eyebrows. “You don’t look it.”
“Great. Thanks,” Pete replied, but not with a happy voice. “Cursed with a young face.”
Mark gave Freaky Boy a sideways glance.
“Mate, you’re going a bit fast, ain’t ya?” Mark dared to say as they shot across the roundabout at the bottom of Norcot Road.
“What’s it to you?” Freaky Boy didn’t take his eyes from the road, but did slow a little as the shops made way for houses.
“Nothing, mate. Just saying.” Mark grabbed the handle harder.
Pete didn’t slow down as they passed the sign that read Pangbourne. They were into the countryside now. The houses had become increasingly infrequent, and now, fields swept down the valley to the right, and woods climbed the hill to the left.
Mark knew the area from a long time ago. When he’d been young like the freak next to him, he’d hung with a lad from Bourne Road. Then Jack had cleaned up and trained as a furniture maker, and Mark had gone north on his own quest. Freaky Boy threw on his left indicator, and at the last possible moment, jammed on the brakes, and swept the car into the small lane that led to Sulham, tires screeching on the tarmac.
Now woods crowded in on both sides of the road. Sulham brook gurgled on the left side, the water level low. Pete slowed as he took the car over a tiny humped bridge, the brook swapping sides.
They bumped over an unavoidable pothole, and then Pete turned left again, this time onto an almost invisible track. They drove along the edge of a field, and up towards a large wood that sat on the top of the hill.
“Sulham Woods,” Pete said. The track swept away to the left, following the edge of the trees. “Not far now.”
Suddenly, he steered the car into the woods, veering into an almost hidden clearing. Three red brick farm buildings lined the right side of the road. At the end, a tiny cottage and a large house, perhaps a former farmhouse completed the street. Woods surrounded the houses, fruit trees filled the left side of the road before the oaks and chestnut trees took over once more.
“That’s my house,” Pete said, pointing to the house. “It’s called Sulham House. You’ll be in the cottage next door. It only has one bedroom, but the rooms are large.”
“This is beautiful,” Mark said, his voice so quiet, the comment was almost made under his breath. “You really want to help me?”
“This is mum’s legacy. Thank her.” Pete pulled into a gravel driveway, and stopped in front of Sulham House. “You want me to throw all that away?” He indicated at Mark’s rucksack.
“All my stuff’s in there,” Mark said. “I’ll still need clothes. If you’re worried, you can search through, there’s no drugs in there.”
“I should have said. I guessed your size. The wardrobe’s full.”
Mark stared at Freaky Boy for a few moments, his mouth hung slightly ajar. “This is the real deal, ain’t it?”
The side of Pete’s mouth curled up into a slight smile, and he nodded. “Real as it gets.”
They got out of the car. Mark slung his rucksack over his shoulder, put his blanket under one arm, and grabbed his guitar case. He followed Pete across the lawn to the cottage. The building looked like it had once been old milking shed, built in red brick like the houses on the close, but only one story high. Red Virginia creeper climbed up the front of the cottage, and up and over the slate roof. Bushes with tiny bright blue flowers edged up to the grass, only parting by the front door. Pete slotted the key in the lock, and turned. He let the door swing wide open.
“Welcome to your new abode.” Pete stood aside, and allowed Mark to enter.
Inside, a slight musty smell greeted Mark’s nose. Nothing a few open windows wouldn’t cure. He stepped into a small hallway, with a door to the left and right ends, and two to his front.
“This is your new living room,” Pete side, sidestepping Mark, and leading him inside.
The room was long, with a window at both ends, and a fireplace on the long wall. Built with the same red brick on the outside, there was a large nook to the left of the fireplace. Someone had filled this with cut wood. A flat screen television and a stack of electronic equipment were to the right of the hearth, alongside a tall thin shelved unit full of CD’s and DVD’s. Two large sofas filled the rest of the room, their pale blue embossed pattern complementing the yellow paint on the walls.
“Nice,” Mark murdered. He put his guitar and rucksack down, hesitating before leaving his things, and followed Pete to the next room. Freaky Boy waited in the kitchen, and was already filling the kettle when Mark found him.
“You’ll probably want a cup of tea.” He took a mug from the cabinet. “I stocked up. Wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got a little of a lot. Make me a list when have a moment.”
“Thanks…” The kitchen was small, not large enough for a table, but fine for two walls of cabinets. The window opened up on a small garden, walled off from the main house and covered in clematises and passionflower vines. Their flowers painted the wall in a rainbow of colours. Someone had spent a long time planning the colours, the blooms following the shades of the rainbow.
“Bathroom’s in here,” Pete called out. He’d left Mark gaping at the tiny garden, and was in the hallway, having opened the door to the right of the kitchen. Mark took a peek as the door swung closed once more, and then chased after Pete. He was stood in the bedroom now, where a large bed had been stacked high with cushions.
“Lou liked all the pillows. Said after sleeping rough for so long, he couldn’t get enough of the softness. If you don’t want them, stuff them in the second cupboard. Your new clothes are in this one.” Pete opened one of two doors, displaying a few shirts and t-shirts hanging from a rail. Underneath, a chest of drawers had been squeezed in. “There are jeans, underwear and pyjama’s. If you decide to stay, I’ll take you shopping for some more next week.”
Mark took a deep breath, tears sprung at his eyes. “Thank you, mate.” He dumped his bag on the floor next to the bed. “Got your place in heaven picked?”
“Ha-ha,” Pete turned to go. “Enjoy your stay in the cottage.”
“Blimey.” Mark sat on the edge of the bed, and gazed around the room. Like the living room, it was dual aspect. The sun angled in the window at the north end, lighting a long yellow sliver on the wall the bed backed onto. Mark fetched his rucksack from the living room, and emptied the contents on the bed. He picked out a few old photos from a side pocket, and put them on one of the bedside cabinets. From another he took a worn wallet and added them to the pile. Then he took the clothes, and tossed them in the corner of the room. He’d find a bin bag later. Maybe Pete would let him watch while he burned it all.
The bathroom was long and thin, but functional. Mark put the plug in, and turned on the taps. He tested the temperature to be sure the water ran nice and hot, and then stood up. Along the side of the bath, a high shelf held all sorts of shampoos and soaps. Pete picked through some bottles of bubble bath, opening the caps and sniffing until he found the one he wanted. The scent of lavender filled the small room as he poured the thick liquid into the running water. His fingers trembled a little as he put the cap back on. Time for a little pick me up, Mark thought. Normally, he’d be around Cliff’s at this time, scoring what he could with what he had left of his takings from the street. Mark shivered, lent forward, and turned the cold tap off. He needed a hot bath to heat his bones, take away the permanent chill. Maybe he’d light the fire later. But first, he needed to do something else.
Mark took a battered Nokia phone from one of his pockets. He pushed the power button, and waited for the phone to warm up. After a few seconds, Mark dialled a number, and put the handset to his ear.
“Louisa. Hi, it’s me,” Mark said. “I know, sorry. But something came up… No, shhh. Listen for a moment. Our problems have all been solved… No, I ain’t been gambling! Just listen, go to the bus stops on Cheapside, and take the 133 towards Goring and Streatley, but get off at the first stop in Pangbourne. Give me a ring once you’ve arrived, and I’ll give you the directions from there. Make sure you’ve enough credit… See you soon, babe.”

Chapter 3

Evie sat in the recess created by the dormer window in her bedroom. Harold had built a seat in the alcove, seemed like a hundred years ago, in a different lifetime. The old woman had her feet on the padding in front of her, legs drawn up, her arms resting loosely around her thin limbs.
An enormous black cat with long black fur lay curled up on the other end of the seat. A small tabby sat in her arms, purring softly as she ran her hand over his fur.
The sun was setting on another August thirty-first, staining the sky blood-red over the entrance to Sulham Close.
How appropriate, thought Evie.
The door behind her creaked open. That would be her guard. He’d been locking all the windows and doors to make sure she couldn’t escape.
“It’s okay, Tibbs,” she told the cat in her arms.
“Where’s Harold?” she asked.
The man’s smile faded and changed to a frown. He ran a hand though his silver hair, and opened his mouth, as if to speak.
“What have you done with my Harold. I want him back this instant.” Evie sat up straight, and fixed him with her eyes.
“Sorry… I’ve got to…” the man said, then shook his head and left.
“Fool,” Evie said, and turned to face the setting sun once more.
An hour earlier, Pete had driven past in his swanky black car. She’d watched him get out, seen the smirk on his face as the sacrifice walked hesitantly towards the cottage. Her guard had locked her window in the morning, so she could open it to yell out a warning, and no one noticed as she banged on the glass. Pete waited by the door as the poor scruff of a man limped to the door, one arm weighed down by a guitar case, the other holding the strap to the big rucksack he’d slung over his shoulder. He looked utterly beaten by the world, Evie thought. His clothes hung from his frame, and she guessed his hair might be blonde after a good scrub.
A few minutes after they both disappeared inside, Pete emerged alone and strolled back to his house. He always strolled. Everywhere. With his sun bleached hair, and everlasting youthful looks, he’d faired better than anyone else. But how could they have known the curse would be so cruel?
Evie refused to watch the cottage. The sun held her interest for now. The orb was enlarged, swollen with flames, and rose pink. Painful light burned her pupils until tears streamed down her cheeks. She blinked. White spots filled the centre of the darkness behind her eyelids. Reopening her eyes was difficult, but she forced them wide and let the sun burn into her vision. If she went blind, maybe she’d think less about the sacrifice.
A movement on the pavement distracted Evie. A person had entered Sulham Close on foot, she was sure. Her eyes darted to the place, but the centre of her vision was gone, replaced by a large yellow-white hole. She let her eyes wander to the left until the person appeared out of the misty edges of her blind spot and into her peripheral vision.
There was a woman walking towards the cottage.
In her surprise, Evie forgot about the blind spot again, and lost the person.
“Silly cow,” she said, and looked up at the sky in time to see the door to the cottage close.
Evie baked away from the window, almost tripping on her long skirt before dropping Tibbs onto the bed, and onto of his mother. Buttons mewed her discontent, then pinned her son to the bed with one paw, and started washing inside his ear. Evie bumped along the side of the bed, her eyes once again on the window, and then ran to the door, and pounded on the wood.
“Harold, Harold, I need you!”
Someone pounded up the stairs, and the guard unlocked the door, and entered the room.
“Darling, what’s the matter?” He took hold of her, placing a hand on each shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I want Harold!” she wailed, straining to get past the guard, and out of the room.
“I am Harold, look at my face.”
Evie stopped struggling, and stared up at him. The yellow-white gap in her vision was already disappearing, fixing as she focused on the man who held her. Slowly, the face distorted, changed, like one of those three-d illusion pictures where suddenly the image pops out of the page.
“Harold?” Evie whispered, and put a hand to his cheek. “I thought you were someone else…”
“I know.” He placed a kiss on her palm. “It’s okay.”
“No, everything is not okay. Every time I see you, I think you’ll be twenty years younger.” Evie examined the wrinkles on the backs of her hands. “You’re old.” She gazed into his eyes. “I’m old.” She collapsed against him, sobbing. “I wish you’d put a bullet in my head.”
“I would if I could, my sweet.” He wrapped his arms around her. “You know it wouldn’t make a difference.”
“Hope will save us,” she whispered.
“Hope forgot all about us, you silly woman.” He kissed his wife’s forehead, and pulled her tight to his chest. “What did you want?”
Evie frowned. “I can’t remember.”
“Never mind,” Harold said. He placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back so he could see her. “What do you look like today, woman?” he asked, a slight smile playing on his lips. “I’ve told you, plain shirt, and patterned skirt. Or patterned shirt and plain skirt.”
“I liked the colours. I wanted to be colourful today. I wanted to be bright.” She gazed up at her husband. “Is something terrible happening today?”
A shadow seemed to pass in front of Harold’s eyes. Then the smile retuned as he shook his head. “No, darling. And look, you buttoned yourself wrong again.” He unbuttoned her top to expose her slip, her breasts small and flat under the silk. He realigned the sides, an began redoing the shirt.
“A girl walked by,” Evie said, her voice faint, as if the information was inconsequential.
“Really.” Harold finished with the buttons, and examined his wife, tutting at the clash where the tartan from her skirt met the paisley swirls on her blouse.
“I think she was half peacock.”
Harold laughed. “And why do you think that, my darling?” He led Evie over to the bed, and sat her on the edge while he fetched her hairbrush. He took the pins from her bun, and pulled gently at the curls until the rested on her shoulders. She still had blonde mixed in with the white.
“She had long purple streaks in her hair. That would make her half peacock, wouldn’t it?” She twisted around to peer at Harold.
“Was her hair spiked up at the back, you know how they display? Remember when we went to Beale Park last time, and one came right into the café? Remember the fuss everyone one made, and how the bird squawked and hooted until one of the workers shooed him out?”
“The girls don’t display,” Evie replied, and turned back to the window. “Her clothes were bright, like mine.”
“Did she mix patterns and stripes, like you?”
Harold slid the brush into her hair, the tips of the bristles massaging her scalp. She closed her eyes for a moment, and almost forgot all about the girl.
“What colours did she wear?” Harold prompted.
He’d worked out most of the knots, and was running the brush through in slow strokes. She understood when he did this why the cats liked to be petted.
“The girl who walked by?” he asked again.
“What girl?” Evie asked, and then the image of the girl came back as if through a fog. “Oh, yes. She had a bright pink tank top, and purple dungarees.”
“Oh yes?”
She liked it when he rushed her hair. Harold laughed at her sometimes, told her she’d have a dozen baths in a day, but never remember to brush her hair.
“And she had patterns all the way down her arms.”
“Tattoos?”
“No. She’s half peacock.”
Harold laughed behind her on the bed.
“She went into the cottage. Is something happening there tonight?”
Harold froze for a second, the brush halfway through her hair. “Are you certain?” he asked. Then, in a quiet voice, “Was she another of your ‘dreams’?”
“I don’t think so?” Evie replied, and frowned.
“She went into the cottage.”
“Yesss.” She drew out the words, trying to recall the girl. “I think she had blus streaks in her hair as well. Do you think girls who are half peacock would have gold streaks as well?
“I don’t know, darling.”
Behind her on the bed, Harold resumed brushing.