Assuming that’s what this is.
For the longest time, I stare at the compass’s quivering needle. There’s not much I’m certain of any more, but I know murderers don’t show mercy. Whatever game he’s playing, I can’t trust his advice and I shouldn’t follow it, but if I don’t... I search the forest again. Every direction looks the same, trees without end beneath a sky filled with spite.
How lost do you have to be to let the devil lead you home?
This lost, I decide. Precisely this lost.
Easing myself off the tree, I lay the compass flat in my palm. It yearns for north, so I point myself east, against the wind and cold, against the world itself.
Hope has deserted me.
I’m a man in purgatory, blind to the sins that chased me here.
2
The wind howls, the rain has picked up and is hammering through the trees to bounce ankle high off the ground as I follow the compass.
Spotting a flash of colour among the gloom, I wade towards it, coming upon a red handkerchief hammered to a tree – the relic of some long-forgotten child’s game I’d guess. I search for another, finding it a few feet away, then another and another. Stumbling between them, I make my way through the murk until I reach the edge of the forest, the trees giving way to the grounds of a sprawling Georgian manor house, its redbrick fa?ade entombed in ivy. As far as I can tell it’s abandoned. The long gravel driveway leading to the front door is covered in weeds, and the rectangle lawns either side of it are marshland, their flowers left to wither in the verge.
I look for some sign of life, my gaze roaming the dark windows until I spot a faint light on the first floor. It should be a relief, yet still I hesitate. I have the sense of having stumbled upon something sleeping, that uncertain light the heartbeat of a creature vast and dangerous and still. Why else would a murderer gift me this compass, if not to lead me into the jaws of some greater evil?
It’s the thought of Anna that drives me to take the first step. She lost her life because of those thirty seconds of indecision and now I’m faltering again. Swallowing my nerves, I wipe the rain from my eyes and cross the lawn, climbing the crumbling steps to the front door. I hammer it with a child’s fury, dashing the last of my strength on the wood. Something terrible happened in that forest, something that can still be punished if I can only rouse the occupants of the house.
Unfortunately, I cannot.
Despite beating myself limp against the door, nobody comes to answer it.
Cupping my hands, I press my nose to the tall windows either side, but the stained glass is thick with dirt, reducing everything inside to a yellowy smudge. I bang on them with my palm, stepping back to search the front of the house for another way in. That’s when I notice the bell pull, the rusty chain tangled in ivy. Wrenching it free, I give it a good yank and keep going until something shifts behind the windows.
The door’s opened by a sleepy-looking fellow so extraordinary in his appearance that for a moment we simply stand there, gawping at each other. He’s short and crooked, shrivelled by the fire that’s scarred half his face. Overlarge pyjamas hang off a coat-hanger frame, a ratty brown dressing gown clinging to his lopsided shoulders. He looks barely human, a remnant of some prior species lost in the folds of our evolution.
‘Oh, thank heavens, I need your help,’ I say, recovering myself.
He looks at me, mouth agape.
‘Do you have a telephone?’ I try again. ‘We need to send for the authorities.’
Nothing.
‘Don’t just stand there, you devil!’ I cry, shaking him by the shoulders, before pushing past him into the entrance hall, my jaw dropping as my gaze sweeps the room. Every surface is glittering, the checked marble floor reflecting a crystal chandelier adorned with dozens of candles. Framed mirrors line the walls, a wide staircase with an ornate railing sweeping up towards a gallery, a narrow red carpet flowing down the steps like the blood of some slaughtered animal.
A door bangs at the rear of the room, and half a dozen servants appear from deeper in the house, their arms laden with pink and purple flowers, the scent just about covering the smell of hot wax. All conversation stops when they notice the nightmare panting by the door. One by one they turn towards me, the hall holding its breath. Before long, the only sound is the dripping of my clothes on their nice clean floor.
Plink.
Plink.
Plink.
‘Sebastian?’
A handsome blond fellow in a cricket sweater and linen trousers is trotting down the staircase two steps at a time. He looks to be in his early fifties, though age has left him decadently rumpled rather than weary and worn. Keeping his hands in his pockets, he crosses the floor towards me, cutting a straight line through the silent servants, who part before him. I doubt he even notices them so intent are his eyes upon me.
‘My dear man, what on earth happened to you?’ he asks, concern crumpling his brow. ‘Last I saw—’
‘We must fetch the police,’ I say, clutching his forearm. ‘Anna’s been murdered.’
Shocked whispers spring up around us.
He frowns at me, casting a quick glance at the servants, who’ve all taken a step closer.
‘Anna?’ he asks in a hushed voice.
‘Yes, Anna, she was being chased.’
‘By whom?’
‘Some figure in black, we must involve the police!’
‘Shortly, shortly, let’s go up to your room first,’ he soothes, ushering me towards the staircase.
I don’t know if it’s the heat of the house, or the relief of finding a friendly face, but I’m beginning to feel faint, and I have to use the banister to keep from stumbling as we climb the steps.
A grandfather clock greets us at the top, its mechanism rusting, seconds turned to dust on its pendulum. It’s later than I thought, almost 10:30 a.m.
Passages either side of us lead off into opposite wings of the house, although the one into the east wing is blocked by a velvet curtain that’s been hastily nailed to the ceiling, a small sign pinned to the material proclaiming the area ‘under decoration’.
Impatient to unburden myself of the morning’s trauma, I try again to raise the issue of Anna, but my Samaritan silences me with a conspiratorial shake of the head.
‘These damnable servants will smear your words up and down the house in half a minute,’ he says, his voice low enough to scoop off the floor. ‘Best we talk in private.’
He’s away from me in two strides, but I can barely walk in a straight line, let alone keep pace.
‘My dear man, you look dreadful,’ he says, noticing that I’ve fallen behind.
Supporting my arm, he guides me along the passage, his hand at my back, fingers pressed against my spine. Though it’s a simple gesture, I can feel his urgency as he leads me along a gloomy corridor with bedrooms either side, maids dusting inside. The walls must have been recently repainted for the fumes are making my eyes water, further evidence of a hurried restoration gathering as we progress along the passage. Mismatched stain is splashed across the floorboards, rugs laid down to try and muffle creaking joints. Wingback chairs have been arranged to hide the cracks in the walls, while paintings and porcelain vases attempt to lure the eye from crumbling cornices. Given the extent of the decay, such concealment seems a futile gesture. They’ve carpeted a ruin.