Mr. Flood's Last Resort: A Novel Read online

  “A horse trough on the road out of town, but it was said to have powers.” He glances at me. “God bless Ireland in the olden days; if water collected in a teacup it was said to have curative powers. Ours was a great well for curing scrofula.”

  “Scrofula?”

  “Five miles down the coast, there was a pond that relieved pharyngitis. I ran up the road, threw the baby into the water, and held her under.” He frowns. “If she still had eyes in her head I couldn’t see them. Her face was pulp, a mess of poison. Her little arm floated up and out of the water as if she was waving to me, although I was sure she had gone.”

  He looks at the cigarette end forgotten in his fingers. He finds his lighter. “But the saints were listening that day and the water in that trough was truly holy. For as I raised her up out of the water Ruth took a deep breath and began to wail. And I saw there wasn’t a mark on the child. Not a sting. Not a bruise. I pulled her outfit off and turned her around and around. There she was, shivering and turning before my eyes, a perfect little unmarked girl.”

  “St. Gobnait,” I mutter.

  St. Gobnait with her pale hair and calm face, lovely in her golden robe and diadem. Smiling down at the friendly bee that has alighted on her finger. I glance around, half expecting to see her leaning against the sink, but she isn’t of course. No reasonable saint would come into this house.

  Mr. Flood frowns. “What?”

  “The listening saint would have been St. Gobnait. Although, she’s bees really, but she’d have been a great one to help with the stings.”

  He looks puzzled. I’ve dropped a pebble in his story; it has made ripples and clouded the picture.

  “So Ruth survived?” I ask.

  He nods. “But things were never the same with her. She had changed. She began to talk to herself.” He gives me a twisted half smile. “She said she was speaking to the dead.”

  “The dead?”

  The cistern gives a resonant burble.

  Mr. Flood looks up at it distractedly. “Mammy took her before the priest and Daddy offered to knock the corners off her but still Ruth twittered on. Until I sat her down and told her that if she wanted to survive her childhood she must keep her abilities to herself.”

  “And did she?”

  “She did. From that day, whenever the urge was upon her, Ruth crept outside and whispered to the fence post. So it all ended well in a way.”

  “In a way,” I say flatly.

  “But the biggest change was in her eyes and Ruth couldn’t hide that.” He smiles at me. “They were lit with a kind of sorrowful gleam, a kind of tragic luster, like pearls, you know.”

  Something moves deep in the heart of me, as lithe and unwholesome as an old snake turning over in the sand. My breath snags; my nerves catch.

  I keep my voice light. “Not conkers?”

  A faraway look settles on Mr. Flood’s face. “Do you know how pearls are made? A tiny bit of grit works its way inside the shell, into the softest place.” He twists his fingertips into his cupped hand. “The oyster coats this irritant to make it smooth, to make it bearable.”

  I can’t answer.

  “A pearl is an everlasting tear,” he whispers. “A swaddled hurt.”

  I stare at him.

  “Likewise, the loveliest eyes are found in the heads of women who have suffered.” He smiles. “Damage lies at their shining core. As I said, Drennan, you have beautiful eyes.”

  The cistern gives a tense gurgle and I remind myself that this old man has no idea what damage lies at my shining core. Away with his reveries, prodding at his palm, murmuring nonsense; he hasn’t a clue what he’s saying.

  “Stick to the story, Mr. Flood,” I say.

  He narrows his eyes. “But you’ve a better one . . . ?”

  “If I had I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Fair play.” He smiles. “So because of me, Ruth went to the brink of death, was saved, learnt to keep her cracked ways to herself, and became better-looking.”

  “And because of you the nest came down and the wasps nearly killed her in the first place.”

  “Shit happens. Mind, Ruth did predict that I’d marry Mary.”

  The cistern comes alive with the happy gushing of water. I glance up at it.

  “Your wife?”

  He nods. “Although my sister didn’t need second sight to work that out.”

  “Why not?”

  Mr. Flood hesitates. “Mary had this fiery hair like the sun setting on autumn. Born to a farmer but built for the drawing room. You’d never imagine she wasn’t a lady, a queen, Helen of Troy, any day.”

  “You must have loved her very much.”

  His body stiffens. “Must I?”

  “You must miss her.”

  Brows lower over a blue glare. “Must I?”

  “You’ve been on your own for a while now, haven’t you?”

  “Have you even read the fucking care plan?” He affects a singsong snarl. “Mr. Cathal Flood, retired artist, mechanical engineer, and dealer in curiosities, lives alone in his substantial Victorian Grade II listed villa.”

  “But you have a son. He must be some comfort to you?”

  “What do you know about my son?”

  “What I read in the care plan.”

  He pauses, his face a picture of disgust. “Spill.”

  “Dr. Gabriel Flood is a Drama and Theatre Arts lecturer and an active member of West Ealing Choral Society.”

  “Dr. Gabriel Flood is a gobshite.”

  I frown. “Who wishes very strongly for his father to continue to reside at Bridlemere, with the best possible care, pending Mr. Flood’s admission to a suitable residential home.”

  Mr. Flood smiles sourly. “Which will prove a challenging placement because the old bastard has threatened trouble on a biblical scale—dirty protest, arson, and ruin—if he is moved to a residential home.”

  “It doesn’t say that in the care plan. So you’re not planning on moving to a residential home, Mr. Flood?”

  “Not while there’s a hole in my arse,” he says.

  He throws me a look of loathing as he unfurls his limbs in a series of spasms. Hauling himself to his feet, restacking bone and joint. Setting his great head wobbling at the top, all hinged jaw and glowering brows.

  He’s halfway down the corridor when I say it.

  “I’m sure your son only wants the best for you, Mr. Flood.”

  With remarkable speed, in one blurred bound he’s back in through the door and across the floor.

  Bolt upright his height is stunning.

  He is a gigantic longbow: body held taught, every sinew trembling with tension. He points down at me, the arrow of his index finger aimed between my eyes.

  “Fucker,” he hisses.

  He backs out of the room, still pointing, drops his arm, and casts off down the hallway. Piles of rubbish slump and tumble in his wake.

  * * *

  I WONDER if I should make a run for it. I sit down on the toilet while I think about this, my legs not being quite trustworthy yet. Above me water races through the pipes, a sudden deluge into the cistern, as if it has been waiting with its breath held.

  Then this happens, in this order: the cloakroom door slams shut, a low moan sounds deep in the cistern, a toilet roll unspools itself across the floor.

  I glance over at limbless Barbie. She looks alarmed, despite the winning smile.

  I cross the room at a half run, try the door handle, and find it locked.

  The wall lights flare with a sudden tungsten glow. Burning bright, then dipping low.

  I wait, still holding the handle with my heart flapping, counting down and then up again in little panicky scales of numbers.

  On high, the top of the old tin cistern begins to hop like the lid of a pan on the boil, dribbles of water bubbling over. This is followed by a concentrated hiss like the pressurized song of a coal-fired train. Streams of water spurt from the joints of the pipework in a series of gushes. I press myself against the
door. Airborne arcs of water whip and fall from the cistern. Dashing and collapsing, twisting and falling, like dropped skipping ropes.

  The water in the toilet bowl starts to rock.

  The handbasin taps join in, opening with a metallic grind, vomiting water. In moments the sink is full, overspill pouring onto the floor.

  I watch as a milk bottle, of all things, bobs up from the depths of the handbasin. The milk bottle treads water in a slow revolve, as if, fully aware of its inexplicable entry into the scene, it is waiting for the audience to catch up. Then it launches, decisively, over the side of the basin in a cascade of water to skim across the wet linoleum and knock gently against the side of my trainer.

  The torrent halts as suddenly as it started. The last jet from the cistern arrested in mid-air falls, scattering droplets on the linoleum. The handbasin drains.

  The room is silent but for the odd coy drip and contrite burble and sheepish plash. As if the plumbing is embarrassed about its outburst.

  Behind me the cloakroom door opens.

  * * *

  THE MILK bottle is old-fashioned, shoddily stoppered with a taped-on foil top. It is empty but for a photograph. I dry my hands and the bottle and poke the picture out.

  Two children stand, hand in hand, beside an ornate fountain. The stone nymph at the center of the fountain watches them with languorous curiosity whilst pretending to listen to her conch shell. The water in her pond looks solid, dark. Icicles hang from the tiered rims. The branches on the bushes in the background are frostbitten and bare.

  The boy scowls up at the camera. No more than four, his face translucently pale and his hair a vivid auburn.

  The girl is taller, no less than seven, and has no face. Instead there is a burn that goes right through the photograph. Edges melted, a raised welt, as if from a cigarette.

  An army of spiders march across my scalp. I feel cursed even to be holding this. Drop it, I say to myself.

  But I don’t. I look at the frizz of hair that surrounds the space where her face should be: russet hair, unnaturally bright, backlit by the setting winter sun. I look at the girl’s patent shoes and her legs in red patterned tights and her navy coat. The toes of her feet meet. Pigeon-toed.

  I turn the photograph over. The first word is scored out, a series of deeply etched kisses. The caption reads:

  Xxxxxxxxxx and Gabriel, Bridlemere, 1977.

  An artifact has washed up, knocking, on my shore.

  But why my shore?

  My shore is strange, inhospitable terrain. It is rock-ringed and uninviting and ruled by odd, unfathomable tides.

  Another person, in another time, put their faith in the unknown—in the unseen me. They rolled and stoppered and hoped their message would get through. Someone transmitted: I received.

  Would it be churlish to throw it back amongst the flotsam and jetsam and let someone else find it?

  Would I dare? In all the mad swill of objects, the house gave me this.

  The photograph lies on my palm, turning up at the ends like a fortune-telling fish. It’s telling a bad kind of fortune, of that I’ve no doubt.

  I glance around me. At the sodden rubbish, the soaked walls; at limbless Barbie watching me from the corner with one eyebrow raised. Her fuchsia lips mouth one word. Run.

  CHAPTER 2

  I don’t run at all. I go into the kitchen, close the door, prop a chair against it and select a cast-iron skillet. Testing the heft of it in my hand and placing it within easy reach on the Formica-topped table.

  I am professionally obliged to leave Mr. Flood a nutritious dinner. Then I can run.

  Today it is steak and kidney pie and potatoes; for afters there is jelly and mandarin oranges. My landlady, Renata Sparks, says I ought to pocket Mr. Flood’s money and serve him dog food and crackers. I tell her I derive a sense of occupational pride from finding a clean plate every morning. Besides, the old man is looking a lot less peaky, still cadaverous, but filling out a little around the eye sockets. Renata laughs through her nose at me.

  I also have to feed his clutter of cats before I run.

  I’ve named them for all the top writers. Hemingway has half an ear and a rousing meow, Dame Cartland is a sociable Persian with a matted rear end, and Burroughs, dour and sneaky, hisses suspiciously in corners. They are starting to come when I call; they twist themselves around my legs, giving me bubonic constellations of fleabites.

  Once or twice I stop, hearing something at the door: a faint cry, a scratching, perhaps not of cats. Once or twice my hand reaches for the skillet. But after all it is nothing. Away from the confinement of the downstairs cloakroom I remind myself of the following:

  1. There are more things in heaven and earth, but rarely are they this direct or comprehensible in their methods.

  2. I hardly read Biba Morel’s legal disclaimer, but if I had paid more attention I would have noted the words: council raid, booby traps, ingenious mechanisms, police caution.

  3. Quick reflexes and heavy cookware will turn the tide in all but the most desperate situations.

  Keeping a calm, steady pace, I wash up, put my jacket on, and lock the back door behind me. Fighting the urge to break into a run, I make my way sedately down the garden path. Congratulating myself for reaching the gate in a serene and orderly fashion, I step out onto the street.

  And take a deep breath.

  Here the pavement is certain beneath my feet and nothing heaves or scurries. Here smells are simple, uncomplicated: the scent of bus fumes, the dwindling waft of a cigarette. Rather than the thick, fierce, mind-shattering, stomach-lifting stench of decades of hoarded refuse, one unwashed old man, one hundred cats, the shit from one hundred cats, and the fecund wreckage of a decaying garden.

  It’s funny how humans and care workers adapt. On my first day I thought the reek of Mr. Flood’s house would take the top of my head off. By the end of my shift I could eat a fig roll if I breathed through my mouth.

  But I haven’t got used to the uneasiness that haunts me as I catch the bus to work, or the foreboding that grows as I walk from the bus stop, or the dread that drowns me as I step over Mr. Flood’s threshold.

  I look back at Bridlemere from the gate. From the street it’s a wall of dark green, a forest of leylandii grown up around Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

  The only way in now is through the back gate, past satellites of sheds and decaying outhouses. Along a path lined with dismembered bicycles, eviscerated mattresses, and abandoned car batteries. Step off the path and you will allegedly find a walled garden, an icehouse, a well, and a gate lodge with mullioned windows. Keep to the path and you’ll reach the rear of the house with the conservatory to your right. A miniature glass cathedral, all pointed spires and arches, its panes fogged with whorls of whitewash and greened with moss. The lower windows of the house have been blinded: shuttered or newspapered to a height. A flight of iron steps leads to the back door, the kitchen, the scullery, and the pantry.

  The house has four stories and at the top there is a belvedere, a long glazed gallery, which, if I ever got to it, would give me a view of the whole of London. From there I would see the wing-tips of the planes landing at Heathrow or the masts of the boats in Greenwich. From there I would see the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace or a pigeon shit on Nelson’s Column.

  To the left of the house is a narrow path that continues to the front of the house, where you can still discern, amongst the riotous undergrowth and suppurating bin bags, the ghost of a driveway. It circles a pond with a fountain where a nymph wilts with moss in her crevices.

  The place where two children stood in 1977, one with a face and one without. (I check my bag. The photograph is there, rolled and furled and back in its bottle for now.)

  The nymph still holds a conch to her ear, pretending to listen. At her feet, stone fish with gibbous eyes cavort and unspeakable pond creatures turn in water clotted with algae, a soup of ooze. She gazes languidly towards the porch, as if waiting for the occupants of the ho
use to come outside, which they don’t, for the front door is painted closed. Walk up the wide, flat steps and look through the letterbox—you can’t: it’s nailed shut.

  There’s an underwater quality to the light at Bridlemere, a greenish cast from the forest of foliage that surrounds the house. Sound changes too, noise fades, so that you hardly hear the traffic outside. At Bridlemere there is only the slow settling of rubbish and the patter of cats, and, when he is not roaring a lungful, the subtle sounds of Mr. Flood moving, or the silence of him standing still. Sometimes there is a kind of hushed rustling, a sort of whispering. Like a sheaf of leaves blown, or a prayer breathed, rushed and desperate, just out of earshot.

  Time wavers and retreats at Bridlemere, coughing and shambling. Here is history mutely putrefying and elegance politely withering.

  But for all this, the quiet house is not at peace, for there is a watched and watchful feeling, a shifting shiftless feeling. As if more than cats track your moves, as if nameless eyes follow you about your business.

  At Bridlemere objects disappear and reappear somewhere else at will. Put your wristwatch on the windowsill, you’ll find it hanging from a hook on the dresser. Turn your back and the teapot you left on the table is now on a shelf in the pantry.

  At Bridlemere cats startle and hiss at nothing, bouncing down the hallway with their hackles lifted and their ears flat. Or else they rub themselves, purring, against patches of air.

  At Bridlemere spiders spin webs like Baroque masterpieces. They hang all through the house like coded warnings.

  But it doesn’t do to dwell on it.

  * * *

  SAM HEBDEN, Senior Care Worker, no doubt dwelt on it and that is how Bridlemere broke his nerve. Mr. Flood’s attempted assault with a hurley would have been the final straw; the house would have got to Sam first.

  Sam Hebden was armed with an NVQ in Social Care and a diploma in Geriatric Conflict Resolution. He didn’t need an induction; he merely glanced at the risk assessment. He worked alone. Some said that Sam was a tall man with a topknot like a Samurai. Some said he rode a Ducati and had a tattoo of a cobra on his neck. The truth is, only Biba had seen him and she spoke his name low and with a barely contained excitement. Sam was the human embodiment of a care plan successfully coming together; he was untouchable.