Extract from The House on Hemepoult Road

Kit Ingram

I need this. It’s perfect. He’ll never find me there.

I email the agent. When he doesn’t reply within the hour, I call and leave a message, trying to steady my voice. I’m free today and tomorrow, I tell him. Then I scroll the listing photos again: wide-plank oak floors, cast iron fireplaces, a library with dark green shelving and fussy brass lamps. My chest tightens. I need this. 

The microwave clock blinks 1:23. I pace around the flat, throbbing with excitement. A notification pings. I run to my laptop. Tim Barns. The estate agent. He’s free at four o’clock. I type a quick reply: See you then!

Number eighty-three is the only terrace with its shutters closed. I pull on the edge of one, expecting resistance, but it swings right open to reveal my reflection framed by London plane trees.

I hear something inside – a low, rhythmic drum – and then footsteps on the pavement.

A man walks towards me, waving. His dark eyes soften as we shake hands.

‘Graham,’ I tell him.

‘Oh, an American.’

‘No, from Canada.’

‘Near Whistler?’ he asks. ‘I’ve skied there.’

‘Yeah, about ten hours away.’

He fumbles with a ring of keys, finally settling on one. ‘This one’s got a lot of character,’ he says, turning the lock.

The door swings open, spilling the dull afternoon into a shadowed hallway. High ceilings stretch above us – a promise of space, solitude.

‘Apologies,’ Tim says, handing me a flimsy listing sheet before darting away. ‘Let me get some lights.’

I step inside. The air smells of wood polish and dust. The house is smaller than the photos implied – wide-angle illusions – but whoever owns it has taste: a brown leather Chesterfield, a bronze mantle clock, a walnut sideboard inlaid with ivy, topped with a model schooner.

Tim’s footsteps echo upstairs. ‘Nearly there,’ he calls.

I move through the adjoining rooms, pausing in the library. The French doors are curtained, but I pull them open to a garden overrun by ivy and waist-high thistle. Bare rose stalks fight for light. It’s a jungle, but I could handle it. With gloves. A scythe. A stiff Manhattan.

The galley kitchen is next – too narrow for entertaining, not that I entertain. Two fridges. The little one could hold meat. I swipe a finger along the dusty countertop.

Tim calls from the landing. I follow his voice up the stairs.

‘Three bedrooms,’ he says, gesturing down the hall. ‘Rare for this street. You work from home?’

‘Mostly.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I write.’

‘Novels?’

‘Sometimes.’ I pause. ‘Horror.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Like Stephen King?’

‘No,’ I say, smiling faintly. ‘Like Graham Geffin.’

He chuckles, uncertain if I’m serious. ‘Well, you’ve got plenty of material here. You could use the back bedroom as a study. A bit snug, but–’ He waves me towards the master bedroom. ‘The real prize is here.’

I step inside and spot the original fireplace. I picture logs glowing red in the grate, myself cocooned in a wool blanket, sipping Earl Grey. Peak cosiness.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’ll take it. The house.’

Tim hesitates. ‘I should tell you, there’s other interest. Nothing on paper yet, but they’re keen.’

‘Well, I’m here now.’

His phone vibrates, and he reads the message, narrowing his eyes. ‘It’ll be your lucky day if you can find me four thousand for a deposit.’

I don’t have all the money. But I have an idea. And I’m desperate.

‘Give me an hour,’ I say.

I exit the cab in Hatton Garden and compare the map photos to the cobbled laneway. A red-bricked Victorian building. Cast-iron streetlamps. The time – that can’t be right. I should’ve factored in the traffic from Bermondsey, getting over the bridge.

I spin towards the dim arcade where a Pret and pub sit in the shadows. A flicker of calligraphy on a glass door stops me – this is the place. Inside, the showroom is overbright, its display cases glinting with diamond bangles and rings. A suited man with a shiny quiff looks up from his tablet. I spare him his scripted lines and say I want to sell something. Specifically, the watch on my wrist, and stretch out my arm.

‘An OP,’ he says. ‘You don’t see a bronze dial too often. Box and papers?’

His words glitch in my head. ‘I probably have a receipt on my phone. A photo of one, I mean.’

He motions me to a low desk with stools.

I flip over my wrist to unclasp the watch, but he says, ‘Let me,’ and hooks his nail under the buckle.

He turns my Rolex over in his gloved fingers, the harsh light accentuating every scratch on the bracelet. ‘Some wear,’ he says. ‘But a good watch. Wouldn’t mind one like this myself. I’ll have our tech look it over. See what we can do.’

He jots some details on a yellow carbon copy pad and pushes it towards me, tapping the X-marked fields for me to fill in.

‘About how long?’ I ask.

‘Usually a day or two.’

‘Nothing sooner?’

‘I’ll put it down for tomorrow.’

‘Actually,’ I say. ‘I was hoping for today. It’s – well, I’ll spare you the details. It’s for a house. Not a whole house, obviously.’ My cheeks burn. Three grand, I think to myself. That’s all I need. Anything more, I’ll use on a new bed.

He breaks our eye contact with three rapid blinks. ‘I’ll see what we can do,’ he says, and takes my watch to the back.

I scroll through recent messages, then ones in the deep past. You’ve always been a piece of work, Robert. You should’ve been a politician, the way you warp everything. Proudly. Maliciously.

When I look up, a young man in black-rimmed specs walks by with a water jug floating with lemon slices. I swallow, parched. Then my phone vibrates in my hand: Last appointment at 6 but will stick around for a while, Tim writes.

Perfect. I can make it if these guys hurry up.

The bell tinkles on the front door, and I whip around to see a woman entering. She slides down her sunglasses, squints, and pushes them back up. I return to my phone, flicking between apps. Headlines. Tweets. The latest photo of my golden retriever. 1200 likes. 136 comments.

The woman clicks her nails on a display case and mutters, ‘They really need a bell.’

I smile like we’re on the same team.

The back-room door opens, and the man carries my watch out on a green jewellery tray.

‘Alright,’ he says. ‘With the wear and the broken date function, we’d—’

‘Sorry, broken what?’

‘It’s caught on the ninth, yesterday. Probably a broken date wheel. Fixable. But—’

I grab my watch from the tray, unscrew the crown and turn it forward, trying to move the date ahead. These guys have broken it. Trying to cut the price. Not that I can prove it. Yesterday’s date. Convenient. Makes it look like it was faulty before I brought it in.

‘What are we looking at?’

He glances at my leg, which briefly stops bouncing.

‘As I was saying, a bit of work to get it in saleable condition. We could do twenty-five hundred.’

‘Three-thousand,’ I say.

He studies the watch in my hand and bites the edge of his lip. ‘Twenty-seven fifty. Would be higher with the box and papers.’

I know I can’t accept the offer, but I have to. I’ll make up the difference. No coffees out. No anything out. No. Anything.

‘Ok,’ I say. ‘But I need it now.’

‘Of course. We can set up the transfer.’

‘No, it has to be cash.’

He snorts and shakes his head like I’ll never leave with that money in my wallet.

The shutters are still open when I return to number eighty-three, a light glowing in the living room. Movement inside: creaking floorboards, the clunk of a door. Voices. Someone else with Tim. I want to lean in, but step back and nearly trip over the kerb.

I freeze on the pavement as a woman approaches, carrying a French bulldog in an army-green gilet. She looks, impossibly, like the woman from the jewellers. I turn to avoid her, but the door opens, and a couple steps out. Monied. Snappily dressed. They nod at each other as if a decision has been made, then look up the road to an idling E-Class.

I pull up my phone, seeing if I’ve missed any messages from the agent. None.

‘The owners,’ whispers Tim from the doorway, his face half in shadow.

My shoulders relax. ‘I – I thought they’d beat me to it. I have the money,’ I say.

He leans closer. ‘Good. You ready for the agony?’

‘What’s that?’

‘The usual. Proof of residence. Identity. Earnings. Paperwork.’

‘I’m self-employed.’

Tim pauses. ‘Proof of that, then. And references. At least two.’

I hesitate. ‘I haven’t rented in England.’

His eyes narrow.

‘Not properly’ I add. ‘I – lived with someone. His name was on everything.’

Tim’s face tightens, but his expression stays neutral. He draws in a slow breath, like he’s about to speak, then stops.

‘I’m sure the owners will appreciate having a writer around,’ he says.

‘Feels like I’ve passed a job interview.’

‘Maybe you have,’ says Tim.

A perfect day. Sun out. Leaves turning. That crisp autumn smell on the wind. Someone is standing outside number eighty-three, bundled in a wool coat and scarf like it’s the dead of winter. Baxter matches my pace as I speed up, clearly annoyed. He’d rather be at the park, unleashing his zoomies, chasing his orange rubber ball.

It’s Tim. Relief blooms through me – the promise of moving forward. I almost hug him, but he greets me with a fist pump.

‘Who’s a good boy?’ he says, patting Baxter on the head, releasing a fit of tail wags.

‘That smile. Is he always like this?’ asks Tim.

‘Yeah, never has a bad day.’

He coughs into his shoulder. ‘Must be nice.’

‘You alright?’

‘Yeah, fine. Got whatever’s going round.’

He looks a bit pale, a sheen on his forehead. I feel myself tilting back on my heels.

‘So,’ he says, pulling a folder from under his arm. ‘Lease agreement’s in here, along with some other printouts about the house – rules, quirks, local history.’

‘Rules?’

‘Things to mind. Old house.’

He hands me the folder and a keyring. ‘There’s another for the garden, but I left it in the lock.’

‘You’re not coming in?’

He glances at the door, and I notice the knocker, a rusty frog or toad with its tongue stuck out. I don’t remember seeing it before. But it’s too strange to be new, surely.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says. ‘Spent enough time in there.’

‘Yes, all those showings,’ I say, filling the gap.

A gust of wind spins leaves off the pavement.

‘Good luck,’ says Tim, and he’s gone.

It’s getting late. Amazing they can’t be bothered to bring a few things upstairs.

‘I can’t manage this alone,’ I say. 

‘The deal was for two flights,’ says the lead mover.

‘But you’ve not done any?’

‘Came down two at your flat,’ he counters, wiping his forehead as if he’s been at a sauna.

‘What if I—’ I catch myself about to offer them cash I don’t have. ‘I’ll be calling about this,’ I warn.

‘It’s in the contract,’ he says, fishing a rolled paper from his vest and offering it to me.

I reach for it but get yanked by Baxter, eager to explore. ‘Can you at least bring up the desk? I need that for work.’

He nods at the other mover, who lifts the desk. They carry it five feet, then stop at the bottom step.

‘These stairs got a light?’

I point my eyes to the switch behind him, and he knocks it with his elbow. ‘Doesn’t work,’ he says.

‘Fine. Just leave it,’ I say, trying the switch myself as Baxter tugs me toward the back of the house.

The lead mover pauses at the door. ‘You change the locks yet?’

‘Sorry?’ I say, though I heard him clearly.

‘You never know who has a key.’

I hate unpacking. I start with the kitchen. You’d think a furnished house would come with a plate or two. I slice the tape on a box and start lining my open shelves with dishes I’ve collected over the years. Blue crackleware. Each plate a small reward as I clink it into place.

I remember the first time I used them – dinner with you, Robert. You wanted carbonara, the real deal. Pancetta, not cheap bacon bits. Pecorino, not cream. ‘Cream is for pudding,’ you said. You brought the wine, a fizzy Lambrusco, and we ate by candlelight. You told me what I should do differently: Did I salt the water enough? Let the pan cool before adding the pasta back? ‘Next time,’ you said. ‘I know it’ll be perfect.’ You squeezed my thigh just a little too firmly and left me to do the dishes.

Even now, I tighten at the thought that you’re somehow here.

Baxter sprawls on the floor, watching. He knows it’s mealtime. His food is the one thing I can locate instantly. I scoop the ‘Holiday Turkey’ into a bowl and mash it flat with the only fork I can find.

He’s grateful for every meal. I could serve him worms, and he’d still look at me like I was a god.

I start saying goodnight to the dog, as if I’d leave him down here all alone! He’s never slept with me, but he’s always been close by – outside my bedroom door, or if I’ve given in, beside my bed.

I flick the switch at the bottom of the stairs, forgetting it’s broken. Reality annoys me. Life. Having to change a bulb or hire an electrician to rip me off.

I call for Bax, and he blazes around the corner, tail wagging. I want him to go first. Not that I’m afraid of the dark, but I’m afraid of missing a step and whatever happens next. ‘Up you go!’

He bolts into the darkness, crashing into something before returning to the glow of my phone torch. He spins around, tongue out like a proper goofball.

‘You silly boy. It’s bedtime,’ I say, but he continues up the stairs.

From the top landing, he stares at me through the railing, barking once as the light flickers on, popping in rapid bursts.

Somehow, floating high above the rectangular pit, I still feel the shovel’s heft, its chafing grip on his palms – my palms. He – I – must be getting tired. I watch the shadow of our doubled efforts slanting out from the small lantern behind us. Where is the body? I realise we’re not digging a grave; we’re filling one in. How can a scene that looks so methodical feel so frantic? And then I hear sirens, oscillating louder and quieter as they approach over the hills. But we don’t stop. A crow calls as the first blue light floods through the trees.

I pull off my eye mask. Nearly 8. I rarely sleep for so long. Must be the dark. The coolness. These single-pane windows.

When I reach over the side of the bed, my fingertips graze the floor instead of Baxter’s fur. I roll over to see if he’s curled up by the fireplace, but he’s not there – at least not that I can see without my glasses. I worry he’s had an accident downstairs. He doesn’t usually hold his bladder for nine or ten hours. Do I even have a mop?

I open the curtains, an almost black-out seal against the window frame. All this easy sleeping could be dangerous. I need to get back into my early writing routine.

I head downstairs, tiptoeing on the boards. A childhood habit, I think, from having a dad who treated being woken up and having to make us breakfast as proof he was leading the wrong life.

‘There he is,’ I say. Baxter’s silhouetted behind the linen shears of the garden doors, his tail flat out, stiff. It’s only ever like this when he hears something new or spots a squirrel.

I turn the key, already in the lock, and it catches halfway. I wiggle it back and forth, then try to pull it out, but it won’t budge. My bladder pulses. I should’ve gone when I could. Chestnut eyes look up at me like I’m failing. And I am. I pendulum back and forth on my feet like a boxer, saying, ‘Come on. Come on.’ I wrench the key to the left and feel it stutter and give way, breaking off in the lock. I laugh at the absurdity. No wonder Tim left it in the door. No wonder it’s a bloody jungle out there.

I tell Baxter, ‘We’ll go for walkies, promise!’ and then run upstairs to the only bathroom in the house.

Out on the street, it hits me: it’s Sunday. The quiet here is a far cry from Soho – that grotty little flat where the noise made it impossible to think, let alone write. EDM blasting at 2 am. The couple next door locked in a constant cycle of screaming – whether out of anger or ecstasy, it was hard to tell.

I should’ve asked Tim about the people here. Who the neighbours are. They say you’re supposed to ask, just in case they’re the kind of problem you can’t fix without packing up and moving out. But I’m not going anywhere.

I cross the street and let Baxter sniff at a rubbish bin, which he then pees on. The terraces look different from here. Varying hues of yellow brick. Some have arches over the sash windows, capped in ornamental flowers; others have real flowers in window boxes. The homes alternate between flat and pitched roofs. I picture the ceiling in my master bedroom, white and edged in crown moulding. What’s between it and those slate shingles?

I pull Baxter away, and we pass from street to street, none of them quite as nice as ours. Estates with fluttering laundry on their balconies. Carparks blown full of rubbish. A strip with a charity shop, kebab vendor, and newsagent with faded magazines in the windows. I won’t be going out much, that’s for sure, but I don’t mind, and I shouldn’t with all the work I haven’t done.

We loop back via a churchyard, and as we turn onto our street, I notice a pub on the corner, The Victoria. Below its striped awnings, two older men in dingy work jackets sit at a picnic table, smoking and chatting. I nod at them, and one of them shouts something when I’m almost out of earshot. ‘Ponce’ is the word, which doesn’t seem right. 

My instinct is to ignore them, but I glance over my shoulder. One man gets up and points at something farther down the road. I wait for him to say more, but he just stands there, so I keep going, cursing at them in my head.

At number eighty-three, I look back to the pub, and the man is still there. From here, it looks like he’s pointing right at me.

I wake from my nap with a jolt, my mind free-falling. How long’s it been? The room is dusky, but only an hour has passed. I flip onto my back and stare at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling rose. The thought returns: What’s between the ceiling and the roof?

I dress in my bathrobe and go into the hallway to see if I can find a hatch. The only thing that resembles one is the cupboard above my bedroom door, painted the same celadon green as the walls. I can barely reach it with a jump, so I stack two plastic bins, test their stability, and climb. They wobble beneath me. I hate heights. The idea of falling. Sweat prickles my neck. I steady myself, pressing against the cupboard, hoping it’s spring-loaded, ready to yield its secrets. Nothing. I wedge a nail under the edge, prying at the door, but just get splinters of paint. ‘Fuck off,’ I mutter, climbing down.

The first spare room offers no leads. A small four-poster bed with no linens. A bureau. A rocking chair next to the window. Not even a light on the ceiling.

I move to the last bedroom – the small one, according to Tim – and open the door. Shrunken is a better word, cramped. There’s a single mattress leaning against the wall, a chest of drawers, and a small table by the window topped with a floral water jug and basin. I draw back the curtains but can’t see outside, the glass covered with a dense weave of yellowed wisteria. Another thing to sort out. I turn around for a full view of the room and find the back wall built out with three closets. The first door opens to empty shelves, quite deep, and I expect the same in the middle closet, but there’s a set of stairs leading up. My ears heat at the sound of footsteps, soft, deliberate, getting closer. Baxter peeks into the closet and growls, his upper lip trembling over his bared teeth.

I ask, ‘Are you coming?’ but he doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on the top of the stairs.

He barks once as I walk up, then resumes his growling. It doesn’t matter. Nothing can hurt me in the darkness. I feel for a switch, just in case. What a room up here! It spans the full length of the house. There are some boxes, but mostly it’s wide open with a window at the far end, allowing a circle of orange light. I can’t believe Tim didn’t mention this. It’s perfect. I could write here with a view of the garden. Not even Baxter to interrupt me.

I hurry to the main floor, not bothering to grip the bannister, and take the last three stairs in a jump. My writing desk looks smaller, more manageable. I test its weight, then hoist it up, bearing it like a shield. Each time I glance from the desk to my feet, I knock into walls or clip railings. Rounding a corner, I misstep. The edge of the stair snags me, and I land hard beneath the desk. A hot pain rushes into my abdomen. For a breath, I stay still, but then I’m giddy – buzzing. I pick myself up and feel even stronger. I haul the desk up by two legs and hang it over my back. Each step is proof. I. Will. Succeed.

Upstairs, I face the desk to the window, overlooking the garden – that morass. I return with my Underwood and open the case to a sheet of A4 tucked into the bail. My fingers wait over the keys as if they know something I don’t. All that is real melts into smoke. I repeat the words, my mantra, not letting the echo fade, then type: It was a shining day in October when Griff Maeghan and his partner took possession of the terrace on Hemepoult Road.