‘But you didn’t.’
Sacha shakes her head. Her hair seems to catch alight. ‘I was walking back to my car when I noticed two painters packing up their van. Number seventy-nine was being renovated and put up for sale. I got talking to a young bloke and his boss. The house was a mess when they arrived, they said. There were holes in the walls, broken pipes, ripped-up carpets. The smell was the worst thing.
‘The young guy, Toby, said the house was haunted because stuff had gone missing – a digital radio and a half-eaten sandwich. His boss laughed and said Toby could eat for England and had probably forgotten the sandwich.
‘“What about the marks on the ceiling?” said Toby. “We’ve painted the upstairs bathroom three times, but the ceiling keeps getting these black smudges, like someone is burning candles.”
‘“That’s because ghosts like holding séances,” joked his boss.
‘I asked them if I could look around. They gave me a guided tour. The floorboards had been sanded and varnished, including the stairs. I climbed to the upper floor and wandered from room to room. I looked at the bathroom ceiling.’ Sacha pivots and asks, ‘Why do people have double sinks? Do couples actually brush their teeth side by side?’
‘It’s so they don’t have arguments over who left the top off the toothpaste,’ I suggest.
She smiles for the second time.
‘It was Friday afternoon and the painters were packing up for the weekend. I asked if I could borrow their keys and stay a while longer.’
‘“Is that a direct order from the police?” Toby asked, making fun of me.
‘“I can’t really make orders,” I said. “It’s more of a request.”
‘“No wild parties.”
‘“I’m a police officer.”
‘“You can still have wild parties.”
‘“You haven’t met my friends.”
‘Toby’s boss gave me the keys and the van pulled away. I went upstairs and walked from room to room. I remember wondering why Terry Boland would rent such a big house. Four bedrooms in north London doesn’t come cheap. He paid six months in advance, in cash, using a fake name on the tenancy agreement.
‘I sat on the stairs for a few hours and then made a makeshift bed from the dust sheets, trying to stay warm. By midnight, I wished I’d gone home, or I had a pillow or a sleeping bag. I felt foolish. If someone at the station discovered I’d spent all night staking out an empty house, I’d have been the office punchline.’
‘What happened?’
Sacha shrugs. ‘I fell asleep. I dreamed of Terry Boland with belts around his neck and forehead; acid being dripped into his ears. Do you think it feels cold at first – before the burning starts? Could he hear his own screams?’
Sacha shivers and I notice the goose bumps on her arms.
‘I remember waking up, bashing my fist against my head trying to get acid out of my ears. That’s when I sensed that someone was watching me.’
‘In the house?’
‘Yeah. I called out. Nobody answered. I turned on the lights and searched the house from top to bottom. Nothing had changed except for a window above the kitchen sink. It was unlatched.’
‘And you’d left it locked.’
‘I couldn’t be completely sure.’
The waitress interrupts, bringing our meals. Sacha blows on each spoonful of porridge and watches as I arrange my triangles of toast so that the baked beans don’t contaminate the eggs and the mushrooms don’t touch the bacon. It’s a military operation – marshalling food around my plate.
‘What are you, five?’ she asks.
‘I never grew out of it,’ I explain, embarrassed. ‘It’s an obsessive-compulsive disorder – a mild one.’
‘Does it have a name?’
‘Brumotactillophobia.’
‘You’re making that up.’
‘No.’
‘How are you with Chinese food?’
‘I’m OK if meals are pre-mixed, like stir-fry and pasta. Breakfast is different.’
‘What happens if your baked beans touch your eggs? Is it bad luck, or something worse?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then what’s the point?’
‘I wish I could tell you.’
Sacha looks baffled and laughs. She is lightening up; lowering her defences.
‘What happened at the house?’ I ask.
‘In the morning I drove home, showered and fell into bed, sleeping until early afternoon. My parents wanted to know where I’d spent the night. I told them I’d been on a stakeout, making it sound like I was doing important police work. Lying to them.
‘It was Saturday and I was due to go out with friends that night. Instead, I drove to a supermarket and picked up containers of talcum powder, extra batteries for my torch, orange juice and a family-sized chocolate bar. Near midnight, I went back to Hotham Road and quietly unlocked the door. I was wearing my gym gear – black leggings and a zip-up jacket and my trainers.
‘Starting upstairs, I sprinkled talcum across the floor, down the stairs, along the hallway to the kitchen. I went from room to room, covering the bare floorboards in a fine coat of powder that was invisible when the lights were turned off. Afterwards, I locked up the house and went to my car, where I crawled into a sleeping bag, reclined the seat and nodded off.
‘A milkman woke me just after dawn – the rattle of bottles in crates. I let myself into the house and shone my torch over the floor. There were footprints leading in both directions, up and down the stairs, along the hallway to the kitchen. They stopped at the sink, below the window I found unlatched the night before. I followed the footprints, tracking them up the stairs and across the landing and into the main bedroom. They ended suddenly beneath the hanging rails of the walk-in wardrobe. It was like someone had vanished into thin air or been beamed up by Scotty.
‘I studied the wardrobe, pushing aside hangers and running my fingers over the skirting boards. When I tapped on the plasterboard it made a hollow sound, so I wedged the blade of my pocketknife under the edge of the panel, levering it back and forth, making it move a little each time. I put my weight against the panel, but something seemed to be pushing against me. Eventually, I hooked my fingers through the widening gap and pulled hard. The plasterboard slid sideways, revealing a crawlspace behind the wardrobe. It was about eight feet long and five feet wide with a sloping ceiling that narrowed at the far end.
I shone the torch across the floor and saw food wrappers, empty bottles of water, magazines, books, playing cards, a snow-dome of the Eiffel Tower. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I said. “I’m a police officer.”
‘Nobody answered, so I put the torch between my teeth and crawled through the hole on my hands and knees. The room seemed empty, except for a wooden box that was wedged between the ceiling and the floor. I moved closer, saying, “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.”
‘When I reached the box, I shone my torch inside on to a bundle of rags, which began to move. The slowness became a rush and suddenly, this thing burst past me. I reached out and grabbed at the rags, which fell away in my fingers. Before I could react, the creature was gone. I had to backtrack through the panel into the bedroom. By that time, I could hear door handles being rattled and small fists hammering on the windows downstairs. I looked over the banister and saw a dark shape scuttling along the hallway to the sitting room. I followed the figure and saw legs poking from the fireplace, like a chimney sweep was trying to climb up.