It Knows Where You Live (3 page)

It was quiet when Berger got off the phone. He sat at the dining table, his hand still clutching the receiver even though he’d replaced it in its cradle, and stared at the wall. The wall that was part of his house: the same house that would soon belong to the mortgage company unless he managed to think of a solution fast.

The woman on the phone had been polite, even friendly, but the message she relayed was terrible: pay your outstanding mortgage or we’ll repossess the property. Berger had been expecting the conversation for weeks—had even been putting it off because he was unable to face it. But now it was out of the way he felt strangely liberated, as if a handful of unseen tethers had been disconnected from his body. The sensation did not last; within seconds he felt once again encumbered, tied down by the weight of his responsibilities. Freedom, he thought, was a perishable illusion.

He glanced sideways, out of the window and into the garden. At first he thought there was a woman standing out there on the lawn, her body leaning at an odd angle, and then he realised it was merely a reflection of his wife in the glass. The sight triggered something in his mind; a memory of a dream he might once have had. Then this illusion—like so many others—dissolved.

“Tell me we won’t lose the house.”

Sophie stood behind him, framed by the kitchen doorway. He could not be sure how much of the conversation she had overheard, so decided to be honest. “I promise you I’ll do everything I can to prevent it.”

She moved towards him, her arms going around his shoulders from behind. The skin of her hands was cold against his cheek; her thin fingers rubbed at his stubble as if struggling to break through and touch him deep inside. “I know you will. You’ve never let us down.”

He wished he could cry, but that wasn’t the kind of man he aspired to be. He’d been trained to keep everything locked down inside, to swallow the pain and soldier on. Even at the end, just before his death, Berger’s father had refused to talk about the heart condition that was slowly breaking him apart.

He stood up and turned to her, somehow managing to summon a smile. “We’ll be okay, Sophie. You just concentrate on keeping the boys happy and I’ll sort out everything else.” The world seemed to shift around him, as if tightening its grip, and he stepped back and headed for the door. “I have a job to go to—one of the few on our books. We can talk more about this later.”

Sophie nodded, hugging herself despite the spring morning being warm and bright. Standing there in the slanting daylight, she looked miles away, part of another world.

Berger drove north towards Otley, taking the back roads as much as he could. The rush hour was over but traffic was still heavy on the motorway. He was due at a house located near the airport to fix a faulty alarm system. Apparently the alarm went off at odd times of the day and night, triggered by nothing the owner could fathom.

He found the house easily. It stood, aloof and imposing, on a patch of ground at the end of a narrow street, a gap of about twenty feet between it and its closest neighbour. There was a council estate at the back of the property, and a shabby primary school around the corner.

Berger got out of the car and retrieved his tool box from the boot, then locked the doors before heading towards the house. The garden was neat and tidy; plants stood proud in the borders and the lawn was short. He walked up the concrete drive, noting the BMW parked with its nose against the garage doors, and knocked on the door.

There was a slight pause, and then the door was pulled open. A small man with narrow shoulders stood blinking into the day. “Yes? What is it?”

“Hello, sir. I’m Patrick—from Berger Alarms. You called me about your problem.”

The man scratched his head; his hair was already dishevelled and the motion seemed to neaten it. “Ah, yes. Of course. You’d better come in, then.”

Berger followed the man along a hallway hung with photographs—family portraits, houses, landscapes—and into a bright kitchen at the back of the property.

“I’m sorry if I seem flustered, but I had a late night last night. The bloody thing went off again. I’m sure the neighbours must hate me by now.” Despite his complaints, the little man was smiling. “Cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely, Mr...Mr Eastman.”

“Oh, call me Charlie,” said the man as he turned to a counter and flicked the button on an electric kettle.

Berger located the wall-mounted plastic box containing the workings of the security system in a small alcove near the kitchen door. The problem was a simple one to resolve: just a frayed wire and a loose connection. It took him only ten minutes to fix.

“That’s marvellous, son. Thank you.” Eastman handed Berger a cup, still smiling.

“I feel guilty for charging you a call-out fee for this, sir, but I’m afraid it’s company policy.” He sipped the tea; it was a herbal blend, and rather satisfying.

“No worries. In times like these, I expect prompt payment is what keeps small businesses afloat. At least that was certainly the case in my day.” The man went to a shelf and took down a chequebook, then scribbled the appropriate sum and signed the bottom. He tore it from the book and handed it to Berger.

“Thanks. So, you’ve experience in running a small business?” Berger wasn’t really interested, but the old man was pleasant enough company and the tea was rather delicious.

“Yes, I ran a small accounting firm for a few years after being made redundant from my job. It was a struggle, but turned out to be the best thing I ever did. No boss; no set working hours; all the profit was my own. I miss it now, and still keep my hand in, but I’m too old to work full time.”

Berger tried to guess the man’s age. Sixty-five? Seventy? The truth was, he barely looked a day over sixty, but if he was in fact retired he must be older. Certainly he was old enough that the current recession would barely leave a mark on him.
 

“I have my hobbies to keep me busy these days,” said Eastman, glancing out of the kitchen window. “I enjoy a spot of gardening, do a lot of reading about the economy, and have a slight interest in the paranormal. Quite often these last two subjects make unlikely bedfellows.”

Berger grinned. “Really? Ghosts and stuff? That’s interesting. My wife likes to read about all that, but I’m afraid I’m a bit of a sceptic.” The grin froze when he recalled his uneasy episode only that morning: the trick of reflection that had made him think a woman was standing in his garden.

Eastman shook his head. “So was I, Mr Berger, until I saw something. Just after my wife died, I witnessed her likeness walking across the back garden. She turned and looked at me for an instant, and then vanished into the shadows. Since then I’ve studied the subject quite extensively, and also how it relates to socio-economic factors.”

Berger put down his cup. “You’ve lost me now. I’m just a simple electrician.” He smiled, glanced at the door.

“Oh, it’s nothing too complicated, just more examples of the so-called supernatural are reported during times of economic downturn. Some would say it’s an example of people clinging to the hope of some kind of spiritual meaning during bad times, but I’d suggest periods of social turmoil and recession produce their own ghosts: actual spirits of the times.”

“I see.” Berger didn’t see at all. If he was honest, he thought the old man might be just a little bit crazy. Perhaps the loss of his wife had affected him badly, or living alone in such a big house had twisted his mind towards strange matters. “Anyway,” he said, changing the subject, “you should have no trouble with that alarm now, and if you do I’ll come back and discount you the call-out fee.”

Eastman nodded, smiled. “Thank you, Mr Bergman. And please, don’t mind me and my idle talk. I have too much time on my hands and tend to come up with some odd theories.”

The man accompanied Berger to the front door, and as he walked back down the drive, past the big car, he turned around to watch the door close. He thought of his own current troubles with his mortgage repayments and business being so bad, and wondered if perhaps Eastman had a point. If his theory even approached the truth, then Berger thought the spectres people saw in troubled times were more likely the result of stress than something supernatural.

He called into the office to find a heap of unpaid bills on his desk. Vanessa, the secretary, had been trying for days to call in money owed on outstanding invoices, but had experienced little success. They were owed a lot but their debts amounted to even more. It was becoming increasingly evident that Berger was going to have to make one of his small staff redundant. But who would it be? Tony Chong had been with him for years, and was a good worker—if a little sour of demeanour. Young Trev the apprentice was bright and cheery, eager to learn, and his meagre salary didn’t make much difference to the company balance, anyway. Vanessa was the only person in the office dealing with admin, bills and accounts: she would be the last to go.

Considering the current light workload, it made sense that Tony be the one sacrificed.

Berger sat at his desk with his head in his hands, unable to even consider letting his workmate and friend go. He simply couldn’t do it to the man. Yet...if he did nothing, the whole business might fail and they’d all be out of a job.

He looked at the little model windmill on his desk—the pretty little folly Sophie had bought him one weekend in Whitby. It was a hand-made item, crafted with love and care, and seemed now to symbolise something greater than his problems. He pushed the tiny wood-and-leather sails of the windmill with his forefinger, watching them reluctantly move. If that motion was the economy, then it was stalled; no wind blew the windmill’s sails, no produce was being processed within. The whole thing had ground to a halt.

The phone rang, drawing him out of himself, and he picked it up after a slight pause to refocus his thoughts. “Hello, Berger Alarms.”

A voice was trying to be heard through the static, but Berger could not make out what it was saying.

“Can you speak up...or better still, ring me back? There’s something wrong with the connection.”

The line went dead.

Berger spent the rest of the day going through paperwork and ringing around suppliers. He managed to bring in some money the firm was owed, but it was not enough to make a difference. He told Vanessa he’d be back in the morning, and then returned home.

The twins were asleep upstairs so it was the perfect opportunity for a chat with Sophie.

“Things are bad, aren’t they? I mean,
really
bad.” Her eyes were dull; her skin looked old, wrinkled.

“I can’t lie to you. Yes, we’re in a bad way. I think I’m going to have to lay off Tony.”

Sophie lowered her head. Her hands writhed in her lap like pained animals. It took him a while to realise she was weeping silently. “The twins are so expensive. I try to make the money stretch, I really do, but I have to buy two of
everything
.”

“It’s okay, honey.” He went to her and put his arms around her thin frame, feeling how cold she was. Her face, when she looked up at him, was like a mask, a crude representation of what she might look like in another decade. “You look ill. Maybe you should go to bed.”

She dried her tears and slumped against him. “I’ve been ill for weeks but I didn’t want to add to your worries. My joints ache, my head hurts, I feel weak as a kitten. The doctor says its depression, but I can’t allow that to happen.”

Berger did not know what to do. “You need to be well, Sophie. The twins need you better. Just go to bed and rest for a while, and we’ll make another appointment with the doctor. I’m sorry I didn’t realise how badly you were suffering...it’s been shit lately, and I’ve neglected you all.”

She reached for him, her small hands flapping at his face. “No, you haven’t. You’ve been trying to keep the business afloat.”

“Some things,” he said, truly believing it for the first time, “are more important than money.” He looked around at their home, at the things held within it, and all of it seemed so pointless. What really mattered here were
people
, and somehow everyone had forgotten that simple fact on the way to realising their dreams of decadence.

That night Berger went for a drive. He’d been doing it for almost two weeks now, just driving through the streets and perhaps out into the country. It helped clear his mind, gave him some time and space away from his worries.

He guided the car through residential areas and past industrial centres, along narrow alleys and one-way streets. On the outskirts of Leeds, under a stone railway arch where shadows gathered like a crowd of beggars, he saw a figure detach itself from the abutment and glide across the road.

It was a woman, tall and willowy and dressed in what appeared to be a flowing black gown. Perhaps she was on her way home from a party or an event; maybe she was looking for a taxi rank. Berger stopped the car to let her pass, and tried to see her face. Darkness gathered around her features, obscuring them, and he could make out nothing but a strip of pale skin and dark, dark eyes.