Beast In The Basement Read online

  The whole thing just needs a few more taps and then–

  "Looks like hard work!" The perky voice comes from right behind me.

  I strike my thumb with the hammer and cry out. Riled by pain and fear, I corkscrew around, drawing back a fist to strike.

  My new neighbour gasps and drops the flowerpot she's holding. It lands on the grass and spider-web cracks appear in the plastic.

  Pulling myself together, I rest back on my haunches, sweat-snakes coursing down my back. I let my fist splay back out. Relax... relax...

  "Sorry," I stammer. "You... you gave me a fright."

  She smiles, but I can still see fear in her eyes (those pretty, pretty eyes – no, stop it, forget about those. File them next to the... no, don't even think about that word.) There's the sense that I'm not the person she had cheerily imagined me to be. In her mind, she's probably gone from bidding a new neighbour good day, to humouring a lunatic.

  "No," she says. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to creep up. Just wanted to say hello and give you... well..."

  She looks down at the plant pot. I deploy my finest genial, grateful face while scooping up the bundle of warm, wet soil and ruptured plastic.

  "Thanks, that's very kind. This will go nicely alongside the azaleas."

  I know nothing whatsoever about gardening or flowers. No idea where "azaleas" came from – maybe Sylvie once planted some – but it sounds right and convincing. Good.

  My new neighbour extends a hand to shake mine, then quickly withdraws it upon realising that both my hands are full of soil, smashed plastic and plant life.

  "I'm Maddy," she says. "I just moved into the–"

  "Cottage?"

  "That's the one."

  I don't know why I interrupted her, just then. Maybe it's to speed the conversation along. I don't have all day. For any other man, this might be a dream scenario. Out in the middle of nowhere, my lonely existence has been punctured by an attractive 40-something woman who might well live alone in that cottage. For me, though, if I was to become less focused, this could so easily work against the mission. It could all fall apart.

  I run an appraising eye over Maddy, while she does the same to the house. She clearly looks after herself. The active type, as evinced by the healthy complexion and the firm leg muscles on display beneath that thigh-high, polka-dot dress hem. She probably began the day with a jog. Last time I did that, the internet was merely spoken of in rumour.

  "Amazing place," she continues, filling the silence. "How long have you lived here?"

  I carefully place the plant pot remnants on a wall, then slap my hands together to rid them of the dirt. Inevitably, some remains.

  "You know," I tell her, desperately trying to approximate a man with a sense of humour and a lighthearted outlook, "it's funny. I'm glad you saw me drive away from the house this morning, or you might have thought I was a burglar now."

  Clumsy. And yet, she laughs. "Hardly. What kind of a burglar boards up windows?"

  I feel myself loosening. Maddy's easy enough to talk to. Light and unassuming. Haven't felt like this since Jamie was...

  Since Jamie was...

  "I'm Steve," I say, finding the lie easy enough to pull off. "No need to shake my hand."

  Clearly keen on the whole hand-shaking thing, she does anyway. After all, her hands have soil on them too. We exchange pleasantries for a while, mostly revolving around the weather and the lack of local attractions. I bluff my way through most of it, as I've only been in the neighbourhood a short while and don't want to have to talk too much.

  I learn a lot about Maddy in the space of a few minutes. A few weeks back, she was made redundant from a corporate firm in London. I get the sense that maybe a romance ended too, but she doesn't know me well enough to make that explicit. After considering her options, she decided to spend a few months by herself, getting her head together. She also fancied writing that romantic novel she'd so often thought about. Of course, like most people who talk about things they're going to write, she never will.

  I expertly deflect any questions she has for me. I become a psychiatrist, turning each and every enquiry around and firing it straight back. Maddy perhaps senses my reluctance to speak in depth. Probably catches me stealing glances back at the house in which I long to be. All this socialising makes me itch. She takes a step back, preparing to walk the short distance home.

  "Well, very nice to meet you," she says brightly, still amazingly undeterred by my weirdness. "You'll have to amble over for a glass of wine, so I can drag all the local gossip out of you. Don't worry – I'll make sure you get a taxi home!"

  My laugh sounds genuine enough, and yet the second she turns around to walk away, my face falls like rain.

  I wonder what's become of me. An attractive, seemingly single woman, all but propositioning me in the back of beyond. Her shapely backside bobs pleasingly to and fro as she heads for home, the sun catching her in a way which makes her physique all the more impressive through that thin dress.

  "A glass of wine," she'd said. Unless I'm being presumptuous, that was a clear invitation to have more than a glass of wine.

  In another world, with a different history, with another brain, I'd be taking her up on that.

  Yet all I can think about is finishing this book.

  Completing the mission. Doing what's right. For the children.

  Kneeling again, I check that the boards on the windows hold firm.

  Then I head back inside.

  It's time.

  In the kitchen, I toss some chicken and vegetables on a plate, resenting every moment. I'm half tempted to poison the food. Might there be poison in the house? Perhaps I could improvise. Some watered-down bleach?

  In the end, I decide against the poisoning. Behave like a beast and you become one.

  I stop to think about that, for a moment, the thought troubling me.

  I shake my head. I'm no beast.

  Spinning a tap, I fill an empty plastic bottle with cold water. The bottle has a long nozzle poking out of the top. Handy for Beast work.

  I pop a chunk of raw broccoli into my mouth, then carry the plate and water bottle out of the room, chewing joylessly.

  * * *

  I've been keeping the basement door-key in the lock, so as not to misplace it. Part of me would be happy to hurl it down the nearest well, but then The Beast would probably die. It needs me, even though the feeling isn't mutual.

  I put the plate down by the door and grab the key, twisting it.

  The door unlocks.

  Ping!

  It's a distant and familiar noise. The sound of another message arriving on the computer upstairs. I had cranked up the desk speakers' volume, so I'd be able to hear it. If Maurice has further questions, I want to be able to deflect them quickly, so he'll leave me alone. I've had more than enough social interaction for one day.

  I hesitate, looking from the basement door to the stairs and back.

  Huffing, I grab the key again and lock the door.

  Feeding time will have to wait.

  Maurice is writing exactly what I dreaded he'd write.

  "Just wanted to quickly check... Jade IS definitely dying, right? It's just that Bloomsdale are really sold on the idea."

  I stare at those words. My blood simmers.

  Rising from the chair, I pace around, frustrated, blowing off steam through sheer physical movement.

  I pace like a demon. Outside, it's getting dark. I see lights in Maddy's cottage. I see her silhouette, passing behind a curtain.

  I fleetingly imagine that she's naked. It's actually a pleasant distraction.

  Ping!

  Another infernal message. I storm back over and sit down.

  "... are u there? Hope so. I want u toiling away like the trooper u are. :-)"

  Fuck this. I'm the author, I'm in control.

  Before I know what's happening, my fingers are stabbing at keys. I hit Send.

  "Hi Maurice. Bloomsdale will have to UNsell themselves. Jade
Nexus isn't going to die after all. Changed my mind."

  A pause. A very long pause, during which the animated quill is conspicuous by its absence.

  I picture Maurice sitting in his fancy Soho office, gulping hard. Considering his options. Maybe eyeing a large bottle of gin, if he hasn't started on it already.

  For a while, it appears I've stunned him into submission.

  The quill waggles anew. It waggles for quite some time.

  Ping!

  "Really? U sure, PT? Don't know what Bloomsdale will make of this. Can we have quick chat on phone?"

  I start typing back. Really should suck in a few deep breaths and think about this some more, but I've built up far too much steam. Pure infuriated momentum keeps me going, for better or worse.

  "I've lost my mobile and the landline's not working. Sorry."

  Both are lies. I just don't want to talk to him. Can't.

  I just want him to go away and let me finish this book, my way.

  In fact, I'll tell him as much. As I type, his quill also waggles, but I get there first.

  "Now sod off and let me work, would you?"

  I hit Send.

  I close my eyes as the image of Jamie's small corpse returns.

  I hear the letterbox open.

  I hear the heavy package land on our hallway carpet.

  I hear the screech of brakes.

  I hear the impact. Sylvie screaming.

  By the time Maurice sends his apologetic reply, I'm in the bathroom, washing tears away with great handfuls of cold water.

  * * *

  The basement door really is straight out of a horror movie.

  It's wholly incapable of making a single movement without creaking like a broad oak in the wind.

  Opening it triggers a dramatic ratcheting noise, like a whole series of creaks sewn together.

  This irritates me, as it alerts The Beast that I'm coming. I'm robbed of the advantage of surprise.

  I've stuffed the water bottle into a trouser pocket. This affords me a free hand with which to hold the wobbly banister.

  These cracked wooden stairs wind down into nothing. A thick blackness, rendered even blacker since I boarded up the windows.

  As usual, I leave the basement door open, so that light from the hall filters down to guide my way.

  I could easily replace the bulb in this room, but then I would have to lay eyes on The Beast, so I choose not to. I must, however, remember to buy torch batteries.

  Descending the staircase produces yet more noise. Each step groans in protest beneath me. These things are so old that any given slab of wood is liable to entirely give way.

  I strengthen my grip on the banister.

  Halfway down the stairs, I stop. Bad smells combine to form an acrid gut-punch.

  I cannot see The Beast, down there in the gloom. Therefore, The Beast could be free. Unlikely, granted, but possible. By rights, I should have brought the baseball bat.

  I listen, concentrating hard. Then I discern it – The Beast's breath.

  I hear it breathe.

  A loud, angry exclamation makes me jump. I almost drop the plate. Which would only have been The Beast's own fault.

  "Be quiet," I tell it. "I'm here to feed you. I don't want any trouble."

  The breathing continues – more ragged now. I sense The Beast's resentment drifting up to me like cancerous smoke rings.

  Reaching the basement floor, I watch my step, mindful that it is strewn with junk. From memory: old moth-worn suitcases, tatty rolls of wallpaper, water-damaged cardboard boxes, things like that.

  The Beast's breathing has me satisfied that it remains in its place, where it belongs, in that far corner.

  As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can just about make out its form.

  Its legs, curled up, foetal. The binds which keep it in place.

  Its head.

  Was that a glimpse of eye?

  I crouch a mere couple of feet away from The Beast and put down the plate.

  The china makes a scraping sound as I push it across the dappled concrete surface. Beside it, I place the water bottle.

  "Like I said: no trouble. Be silent. Okay?"

  As far as I can tell, The Beast does not nod. It just breathes.

  I can clearly see that eye now. It stares up at me, glinting. Full of hate.

  "Don't look at me," I tell it.

  Yet it looks on.

  Nevertheless, I allow The Beast to eat and drink. It drains the bottle first, gulping the cool liquid with a greedy, glottal sound which makes my flesh suck at my bones.

  Once feeding time is over, I make my way back across the floor and climb the stairs. Creakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreak goes the door as I haul it shut, then twist the key, reassured as ever by the lock's weighty clunk.

  I try to get that image out of my head.

  The eye. Gazing up at me. Blazing with spite.

  I shiver, then turn back and double-check that the door is locked.

  Half an hour later, I check it again.

  CHAPTER FOUR: TRAPS & PHANTOMS

  The death of a child seems to automatically trigger the death of your own past, present and future selves. In one foul swoop, they are all taken away.

  Three months later, if the whole thing wasn't still entirely crushing and consuming, I might laugh at how naive I used to be.

  I actually used to look at Jamie, back when he toddled around in nappies, and think that everything was going to be all right. As if children came with protective forcefields, or the universe would make a special exception for them when it came to the bad stuff.

  Of course, the dangers were the same for them as for anyone else. The outside world was insidious and unstoppable. It would eventually break through all cosy, imagined barriers and influence these kids. Oh yes, it would find a way to send them spinning into oblivion. There was nothing you could do to stop it.

  When Jamie died, eternal walls rose up between All The Days Before and All The Days To Come. In my mind's eye, the days before now appeared violet in hue. Pinkish. Invested with a rosy nostalgia which I could no longer enjoy. Those were the days of my life, back when I actually lived. I didn't grasp this at the time, but we never do.

  I wish I'd savoured those days, rather than simply working on, on and on.

  The days to come were shot through with grey.

  On the actual day Jamie died, there was no colour at all. The world became an old silent movie. A hazy parade of images and sounds, with the volume dialled right down. Looking back, I suppose it was the onset of a concussion which persists in me to this day. I remember sitting in a hospital corridor, looking at walls, seeing nothing. Sylvie was beside me, face contorted with worry, her voice faint and blurred.

  More than anything, I remember looking at anyone who walked past – even those being hurriedly wheeled towards operating theatres with their lower intestines hanging out – and knowing that I'd give anything to trade souls.

  * * *

  As much as I still feel like a fraud and an impostor, writing this final Jade novel grants me a momentary respite from all those savage, hopeless memories. Not just because I'm entering a fantasy realm, but because I feel like I'm doing something. Something right. Something with the best interests of all children at heart.

  Sitting here at my desk, typing away, I barely notice the darkness rolling in outside. The study's lights remain off, allowing night's sombre cloak to spread around me.

  I hardly glance at the grainy live feeds on that flat screen TV. Right now, I don't care quite so much about infiltrators like the Boy Man. Because for once in my life, I'm being truly pro-active.

  I rarely sought work. Work always found its way into my life.

  When it came to romance, Sylvie, poor Sylvie, had to do all the chasing.

  Until now, I had let life happen to me. I was a leaf in a storm.

  Now, I am that storm. I am bending the world to my will and it pleases me.

  Sadly, the writing it
self is like pulling teeth. I stop for long periods of time, agonising over individual word choices when I should be forging boldly ahead.

  Damn it, this is bad work.

  Drip by drip, tiredness seeps into my brain, behind my eyes.

  I stop for a moment and remove my reading glasses, letting them hang on their cord. I blink a few times.

  Must be near midnight. Out through the tall window, Maddy's cottage is lit only by a pale moon.

  The chaise longue calls to me, from across the room. A sweet, sweet siren song.

  I seize upon the idea that I'm writing badly because of fatigue. If I have a power-nap, I can get right back up and keep writing, this time better.

  It feels good to lie down. So good. I haven't slept in... how long? Truth be told, I've barely slept properly in these grey days. Now that I'm accomplishing something, perhaps I can manage it. Just 15 minutes will do...

  I wake with a start, sprawled on the chaise longue.

  I'm pretty sure that wasn't just 15 minutes. Maybe I needed more. That's okay. I feel awake now, so I can start writing again.

  In fact, I feel too awake. My heart's thumping fast, which makes me uneasy. Why did I wake up? Did something happen to make me stir?

  I find my glasses on the floor beside me. Must have fallen off my chest. Strange, since they were attached to my neck by the cord. Putting them back on, I pad back over to the desk, focusing on the glowing flat screen.

  I freeze, chilled to the core.

  There, on Camera One's feed, is a shadowy, horned figure.

  It's three storeys below me, by the basement door which is wide open.

  The Beast is loose.

  How the hell did it manage that?

  I checked the door. I checked it twice. I know I did this, because I had been reminded of Santa Claus checking his list twice. This, in turn, had unlocked sweet and sour memories: Jamie turning four and being old enough to appreciate his first real, lucid Christmas, tearing excitedly at wrapping paper... followed by the cold, hard fact that he'd never open another gift.