part one by John Riley
The Owners
IN THE QUIET SUBURBAN neighbourhood of Slaughter Bridge, Number 31 Melrose Terrace stood as a symbol of elegance and pride. Mr and Mrs Garnett had bought the terraced house with the proceeds from selling their old family home three years ago. They saw the new place as their sought-after retirement bolt-hole by the sea. The home, beautifully maintained by the previous owners, needed one final job. The Garnetts wanted the front face sand-blasted and had it completed two years ago. However, what remained now was a burnt and scorched facade, tarnishing their beloved residence. The Owners never wanted to move out. The house looked inhabitable, and the black soot staining the front face looked like a shrouded phantom.
The Fireman
According to Fire Marshal J T Smith, the fire started upstairs, confirmed in a report with his signature underlined twice. It started from a faulty old electric blanket that caused the damage.
When the local news team interviewed him outside Melrose Terrace, J T Smith towered above the reporter, spreading his chest of service ribbons, making sure the camera caught them in shot.
What had happened here? Well, he had seen it over 35 years in the fire service. These old blankets readily burst into flames if not looked after and inspected. He said it as if directly issuing a warning you could be next in that Kitchener poster way. They are the fucking bane of my life.
He did not realise the microphone was still live.
The Builder
Now, with the insurance people, they wanted damage to the upstairs windows boarded with OSB, and builder Bill Smith was cheaper than the other two quotes and got the job. A lot of his work came from insurance claims. He knew these jobs tied him over in leaner times of the year, keeping his small local business alive.
To get the job done, he enlisted the help of Josh Martin, a labourer, uninterested in the job and only there to fulfil his dole requirements. Josh, more times than not, would have his hands stuffed into his ripped jean pockets while Bill, yet again, repeated how to hold the hammer towards the end and not the tippy-tappy part down the neck.
Bill struck a deal with the local authorities to provide training for the long-term unemployed. He got money for them, enough to help the cash flow. But he had one condition – he did not want to waste his shit on individuals selling off the tools and supplies he provided them. He had been shat on in the past and hear this, the point pressed home, willing to take any more chances. Josh is on probation according to Bill. Never mind those mard-arses in the training centre, bleating how good he is as a provider. All they wanted was positive outcomes. They repeated it all the time to him. This is more about them getting the dosh for finding a placement more likely.
The Neighbour
“There’s no sign of those damn sheets being replaced. They are a right eye-sore.” Mr Broadbent muttered, nursing a pint at the local pub. His drinking mates nodded sympathetically, knowing all too well the frustration of him banging on about it. He would repeat himself when back home. Mrs Broadbent, a woman of few words and patience that had worn thin, listened to her husband complaining with a forced smile and mentally counted to ten.
Days after the fire, passersby started noticing the peculiar soot-stained phantom shape on the house. It carried a haunting in the minds of those seeing it. Despite its abandonment, some thought the owners still lived there. A few had seen someone caught looking out through the downstairs bay. A pale-looking woman folding a tea towel. Yet, go around the back, and the home is not so bad. It might be that the owners can live in it.
Mr Broadbent, on the other hand, would beg to differ about damage. His yard faces the back of number 31, and the overspill of foam and water from the fire tender killed off his veg patch.
Mrs Broadbent did find a moment to tell the other neighbours when her husband went out to the Dog and Gun. It ended up the only time she could update her friends when he went out. She put Linda right in case she could get her stuff elsewhere. Master has no interest in the veg plot anymore. So, no rhubarb this year.
The House
The house happens to be the gable end of a short row. 33 and 35, and then a narrow alley. Then, another three houses continue the row. Opposite the terrace is a cemetery park that once had tended gardens. Over the years, cutbacks had left the council short on gardeners to maintain it. It became a draw for the lost and dispossessed at night and during the day, a communal dog toilet.
The townsfolk of Slaughter Bridge had grown accustomed to the peculiarities of number 31 on Melrose Street. There is something eerie about that house. Something that gave them an uneasy feeling. But not just the house, with the wreaths and bunches of wilted flowers appearing at the front gate. Despite their strange existence, these floral arrangements went largely unnoticed. People hurriedly passed as they took a shortcut onto Harbour Road.
Inside No 31
She is folding a hand towel and looking out of the window.
“I wonder who leaves the flowers? Never a card. They must spend a fortune.”
She looks over at him. No reply other than a grunt. Mr Garnett somewhere else and lost in thought, staring at the burnt-out hearth.
Mrs Garnett pulls that face and sighs. She sits on a badly damaged dining chair. She tried to make conversation to fill the uncomfortable silence.
Not that any row is going on between them, more like they are both waiting or perhaps thinking about their lucky escape from a fatality. It has left them stunned and lingering in this limbo for weeks.
Mr Garnett sometimes turns his head to look at her as if ready to say something.
Mrs Garnett speaks.
“I am sure I hear lots of different voices coming from next door when I listen to the wall.” She says, spoken with that shrill voice of hers. “I never see anybody go in and out.” She changes tack. “The flowers are beautiful, they might not last though. Turn as quick as the moon changes face.”
They sit at different ends of the room. The place is worst for wear because of fire damage and everything dripping wet damp from the hosing.
Mrs Garnett tries to fill the void with more conversation. She might as well be talking to herself, but bless Mr Garnett, still probably in shock. They have lived in this house for just 3 years, till Death does us part…
Mrs Garnett hears a familiar noise. She listens and is not keen on answering. She tries to think of something else.
The latest flowers she took in quickly and also retrieved the card. That proved a first. She wanted to keep them from that stranger. That way, he had no excuse to come and enquire about them. Another thing, she no longer had her glasses to know who they were from because they had melted in the fire.
“I can’t say I’ve seen the stranger next but one? I wonder if they rent the house? I wonder if they hear those different voices through the wall?”
She tried to read the card, holding it at a distance before making out the words. She read it aloud. Mr Garnett looked worryingly at her.
To Mr and Mrs Garnett – forever in our hearts – Rest in Peace – All at No. 66.
You could say something dropped after all this time about what happens next and arriving at a point when they know beyond the moment. It became the first thing to block out when it had happened.
A knock on the front door startled them both.
Nervous and flashing an anxious look at one another, they clasped hands and shuffled along to see who waited at the door.
Mrs Garnett thought the shadow beyond the glass pane could be the stranger from the house a few doors down.
They looked again at each other, and Mr Garnett nodded.
The first thing they saw at the feet of the stranger – two large carpetbags, and they both thought the same thought he had come to collect…
Outside No 31
Outside, the soot-stained wall didn’t so much resemble a ghostly phantom anymore. The staining looked to be fading. Bits of it had started to wash away in the gentle rain shower.
