Two's Company

Lisa King had been missing for two weeks. Her husband was
distraught. She'd only nipped out to the shops for a few minutes.
They'd run out of pasta, you know how it is. The local shop was less
than half a mile away. They'd have been married three years next month.
Police were baffled. If anyone knows of her whereabouts....on and on
and on. Mark knew she was dead. So did the husband. He'd seen it in his
eyes that morning; no hope; no joy; only a bleak despair common to all
who'd shared the experience and those who would share it next year. The
only thing to do now was to wait and pray. Wait for Lisa's body to be
discovered; pray that her death had been merciful and quick; pray that
her sexuality was still a secret shared only by herself and her
husband.

Like most of the stories Mark had been given, this one had been handed
down to him by the more experienced reporters. Ostensibly this was
because he needed the experience. In reality it was because
interviewing people who had lost their loved ones was a profoundly
depressing experience. The senior male reporters on the paper were all
married, had girlfriends or both. Speaking to John King face to face
would have meant facing a mirror which magnified and reflected every
fear and neurosis. So Mark had been given the job. Junior reporter Mark
Bradshaw at your service; young, no girlfriend, straight out of
university. No fears, no neurosis.

Well, that was what they liked to think but Mark could have told them
that it wasn't true. Talking to Lisa's husband that morning had thrown
a pall over the day that even a lunchtime pint had failed to lift. It
was one thing reading about such disappearances in the paper (Tut tut,
really? How shocking; turn the page; help yourself to more toast) quite
another to actually speak to the victims - to have the story fleshed
out in front of you. It was going to be difficult to convey the despair
that he had felt that morning, particularly using the monosyllable
words which were the Bridgeport Messenger's stock in trade.

He stared at his unfinished story as it glowed on the computer screen
and decided that the last sentence would never get past the editing
stage. He had worked for the paper less than three months but that was
long enough to realize what was acceptable prose for the masses that
read The Messenger. It was not a newspaper aimed at the city's
intelligentsia. He hit the "Backspace" key, watching in resentful
fascination as the cursor swept left, swallowing the words it found in
its path.

A flurry of activity caught the corner of his eye and he looked up to
see a miniature tornado spin from the office at the end of the room. He
sank lower in his chair. Bill Townsend, assistant editor and
martyr-in-chief was coming. Bill was a man with a mission, a man who
thought that he should have been promoted to editor years ago rather
than Jack "always on the bloody golf course" Fielden. Bill went
everywhere at top speed; Bill had the weight of the world on his
shoulders; Bill made sure everyone knew. His mood was bearable on
Mondays rising exponentially to explosive on Fridays. Today was
Thursday and a glance at Bill's face told Mark that all was not well.
He could only hope that he was not to be the target of the Great Man's
attentions.

He was out of luck. The assistant editor's destination was immediately
obvious. Mark avoided the magnetism of eye contact until Bill stopped
beside him, his feet still marking time as though to an invisible
personal stereo.

"You doing anything this afternoon?"

Mark went through the motions of flicking through the desk diary that
was positioned to one side of his computer terminal. He knew what he
would find. The page for that day contained a single entry regarding
the morning's interview with the unfortunate John King. There was
nothing scheduled for the afternoon. Bill did not wait for Mark's
denial.

"I'm sorry about this," he said, in a tone that indicated he wasn't and
that he didn't care if Mark knew, "but I've only just been told that
Howard's off sick."

Mark glanced automatically at Howard's desk. The empty chair looked
like the aftermath of a magician's trick. "I heard, yes. 'Flu, isn't
it?"

"Swinging the lead more like. You know Howard. Anyhow, personnel only
just bothered to tell me and I've got him down for a story this
afternoon." He shuffled his feet as though dancing on the unseen grave
of the Personnel department. "Any chance you could cover it?"

Why had Bill been unaware that Howard had not turned in? It didn't
matter. The desk diary was clearly visible, laying bare both its blank
page and any deceit he may try and offer. There was no way out. "No
problem, what's the story?"

"There's an old dear living on her own in Highfield Street. Heard of
it?"

Mark shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Should I have?"

"Perhaps. It's in the old part of the town - all post war council
property. Falling down, most of it. The council want shut, its been
costing them a fortune in repairs and they've been given a very good
offer from a major supermarket chain."

"And this old woman doesn't want to move, I take it?"

"You take it right. All the other residents leapt at the chance to get
the hell out of there - it's not the nicest area of town. But not
Martha Grey. She's hanging on in there."

Mark looked puzzled. "But if it's council property..."

Bill gave a wry smile reminding Mark of a shark sensing prey. "Does
them no good. She exercised her right to buy two years ago. It's her
house."

"So what are we after?"

"Just a chat with her. Find out why she's being so intransigent." He
glanced over Mark's shoulder at Howard's empty desk. "Howard had
arranged to meet her this afternoon," he grumbled, the sentence more
significant for what was left unsaid.

Mark gave Bill what he hoped was an engaging smile. "No problem, I'll
give her a ring, tell her I'll be talking to her instead. What angle
are you after?"

Bill shrugged. "A sort of David and Goliath story I think," he said,
"Her versus the council."

Mark thought that the deputy editor's clarification was a little
insulting but he was too low on the promotional ladder to risk voicing
a complaint. He had not really wanted to venture out of the building
this afternoon but his options had vanished the moment Bill's door had
opened. "When do you want the story?" he asked, hoping that his lack of
enthusiasm wasn't showing.

"I'd like to get it in Saturday's edition. We're a bit short on human
interest at the moment and if we get some decent reader feedback we can
run a follow up story next week." He handed Mark a crumpled piece of
paper. "Here's her address and phone number. If you give me some decent
copy by the end of the day I can get a photographer to go round
tomorrow." With a last, disparaging look at Howard's silent desk, Bill
bustled off back to his office looking, like he always did, like a man
rushing from A to B without wanting to be at either.

Mark sighed and reached for the 'phone. He struggled through Bill's
almost illegible scrawl and dialed Martha Grey.

The ringing tone began to sound. It droned its metallic message several
times and Mark could imagine old Martha Grey hobbling down the hall,
desperately racing the unseen caller's patience. Could she reach the
instrument before the caller reached the end of his tether? He felt
illogically guilty and then a ghost in the earpiece said "Hello?"

The voice did not sound old at all. "Hello, Mrs. Grey?"

"Yes. Who is this, please?"

"My name's Mark Bradshaw. Bridgeport Messenger."

If Mark was hoping that the name of the paper would elicit some
enthusiasm he was to be disappointed. "Oh I see. I suppose this means
you're not coming after all?"

"No, no, I'll be there. It's just that my colleague was covering the
story and he's not in today. I'll be writing your story from now on if
that's okay?"

"I suppose so. Not much choice have we?"

Mark did not know how to respond to that conversational gambit. "Is it
true that you're refusing to sell your house back to the council?" he
asked although he knew the answer.

"Certainly. We've lived here all our lives. They're not going to turf
us out now. Why should they? What right have they got? We've made this
our home and..."

Mark could sense that this was about to be the start of a well
practised - and probably very long - speech. "Oh we can talk this
afternoon," he said quickly. He didn't like cutting her off but he
wanted her to deliver her soliloquy to a wider audience than himself.
"We should be able to turn this into quite a nice article." Silence
greeted this remark and he immediately regretted it - turning her
problem into nothing more than ten inches of newsprint. He was about to
add "Can't we?" when she said: "We need this article, Mr. Fanshaw. Get
public opinion on our side. They wouldn't dare shift us then."

Mark forced a laugh into his voice although he had the distinct
impression that both he and the paper were being used. "That's the
idea. When would be convenient?"

The earpiece emitted a series of barking coughs and Mark was about to
repeat the question when she said: "You'll have to excuse me, I've got
a terrible chest at the moment. You can come anytime this afternoon,
we're not going out anywhere."

She was trying to imply that they never went anywhere, Mark realised.
"No problem," he said, "About three?"

"As I said, Mr. Forshaw, we're not going anywhere."

"I'll see you about three then. My name's Bradshaw by the way."

A fresh burst of coughing and then: "Yes, whatever. We'll see you
later. Good-bye."

"Yeah, 'bye"

A click terminated the conversation. He dropped the receiver back into
its cradle and threaded his way through the office to Bill Townsend's
door. He knocked lightly, awaiting permission to enter. As always, it
took its time in coming; Bill always liked to give the impression that
he was doing his junior reporters a favour if he deigned to see them.
After the usual five seconds of wondering whether he should knock again
there came a muffled "Come in," from the other side of the door and
Mark entered the Inner Sanctum of the Bridgeport Messenger.

Bill was sitting behind his desk wearing an expression that was
designed to indicate that there were insufficient hours in the day. He
looked up at the young reporter, a tiny shift in his face indicating
that permission to speak had been granted.

"I've just spoken to Martha Grey. I'm going to talk to her this
afternoon."

"Good," Bill said flatly.

"Its just that..." Mark paused, wondering whether to question Bill was
to imply criticism. "I thought you said she lives alone."

"Apparently so. Howard checked the electoral roll yesterday. No one
else registered at the address. No children. Her husband died a few
years back." Bill's eyes narrowed. "Why? What did she say?"

"Not much. She kept saying 'We'. You know, We've lived her all our
lives; Why should we move. That kind of thing."

Bill shrugged, returning his gaze to whatever was glowing on his
monitor. "God knows. Maybe she's related to the royal family. Now that
would be a story."

"Let's hope so."

Bill didn't respond and Mark realised that he had been dismissed. He
walked carefully from his office, closing the door gently behind
him.

***

Highfield Street was a decaying collection of ramshackle houses in the
older part of Bridgeport. Bill had been right - most of the residents
had leapt at the opportunity to sell up and get out of there. The
council had not been able or willing to spend the money that Highfield
Street needed to keep it in a reasonable state of repair. As the
residents had moved out the vandals had moved in. They had worked with
such quiet efficiency and performed their task with such ruthless
precision that it called into question the common notion that such
people were of limited intellectual standing. The vandal's handiwork
was plain to see: many of the houses sported wood where once was glass;
damp and crumbling brickwork where once was lead.

All this was apparent to Mark as he turned his car into Highfield
Street. Spring had finally arrived, igniting the flowerbeds and
shortening the shadows but even the occasional blaze of colour could do
little to brighten the street's crumbling fa?ade. The houses seemed
crushed under the weight of the slate coloured sky, each leaning
against its neighbour like drunken friends staggering home.

Mark drove slowly, gazing through the windscreen as the houses slid
past, looking for Martha's number. Gardens, wild with neglect, nodded
their weeds at him as he passed; trees stretched their semi-naked
branches to scratch at the leaden sky. Most of the front doors had lost
their identities, becoming one with the faceless desolation that
surrounded them. He had just decided to turn the car around and start
again when he saw the house. He hit the brakes and the car slid to a
halt on the crumbling road.

Thirty-Four Highfield Street was like none of its neighbours. It stood
tall and proud as though no one had bothered to explain to it the
street's membership rules. The windows gleamed; the garden was tidy;
the chimney pointed straight up at the sky like the finger of a small
child indicating the whereabouts of God. Even in a normal,
well-maintained road, number 34 would have been a tribute to its owner.
In the middle of Highfield Street its condition was little short of
breathtaking.

Mark opened the car door, not quite able to believe the evidence of his
eyes. The house had been incredibly well maintained. By whom, he had no
idea. Unless, of course, it was the mysterious third party Martha had
referred to by her constant use of the word 'We'. He smiled to himself.
The story had seemed mind-numbingly tedious when Bill had first
presented it to him. Now, it was beginning to look a little more
alluring. Besides, it would be nice to swing the paper into campaigning
action - particularly after the depressing interview that morning with
John King.

He swung open the front gate and walked up the short path to the front
door. He was about to knock when he heard the sound of a bolt being
drawn back and the door was pulled away from him.

Martha Grey was old, of that there was little doubt. On the other hand,
she didn't seem worn out, not by a long chalk. Her hair was white but
it seemed like a proud testament to her age as opposed to an
unfortunate side effect of it. Her bright blue eyes blazed from her
face, diminishing the wrinkles that surrounded them. She gave him a
mechanical smile that somehow failed to reach her eyes and Mark was
sure that she possessed all her own teeth into the bargain. "Well," she
said, "Three o'clock. At least someone's still punctual in this day and
age." A sudden burst of coughing wracked her. "This cough'll be the
death of me. I've had it a week now." She eyed him curiously. "Well,
are you going to come inside or are you going to stand there all
day?"

"Thank you." He took a step into the hall and she closed the door,
sealing him in. His eyes darted around, taking in the decor. The walls
were coated in a heavy floral pattern the like of which he had only
ever seen in photographs. Dark red carpet ran down the hall and up the
stairs; the skirting boards were painted brown. A grandfather clock
dominated the hall, counting down life's remaining seconds with every
swing of its pendulum. Nothing seemed worn, nothing seemed broken.
Everything from the paintwork to the fabric; from the electrics to the
carpets was either a superb copy of the original or had been
brilliantly restored.

"You like our house?" she asked.

"It's..." Mark said and wondered what exactly he could say. Fifties
nostalgia was not exactly his cup of tea. "Its very nice," he finished,
lamely.

Martha laughed, a sound which turned into a gurgling cough that
threatened to bring more than humour to the surface. "You don't have to
pretend. We like it, that's all the matters, isn't it? After all, it's
us who has to live here." She jutted her face forward as though in
challenge. "And we intend to stay here for a very long time."

"Quite."

"Now," she said, indicating a door, "Let's sit down, have a cup of tea
and have that chat you wanted. You didn't come here to admire our
hallway did you?"

"No, but it's a start. I mean where did you get all this stuff?"

"You sit down in there and I'll make the tea. Then we'll talk."

Mark smiled. "Okay. You're the boss."

He'd meant that as a joke but as Martha went into the kitchen he found
himself wondering if it were actually true. His feeling that he was
being manipulated had not diminished by meeting Martha face to face -
if anything it had become worse. He wondered fleetingly if she treated
council representatives as she was treating him - after all he was
supposed to be on her side. Still, he reasoned, she had not actually
been rude as such. But her indifference was certainly making him feel
uncomfortable. He was beginning to get a shrewd idea that Howard was
not sick at all; that his absence had Martha Grey at its root.
Doubtless he would return the following morning when the interview with
Martha was safely over - his recovery from 'flu little short of
miraculous. He cursed himself for not realising this earlier and
stepped into the front room.

It was another perfect replica of a fifties room. A tiled fireplace
pressing itself against the wall; flock wallpaper; heavy floral settee;
a floor-standing television set whose cabinet dimensions exceeded that
of its screen by about ten to one. He wandered around the room, his
hand trailing over exposed surfaces. He glanced at his fingers. No
dust. The old dear was certainly house proud, he'd give her that.

He took out his pocket voice recorder. He could hear Martha busying
herself in the kitchen and he mumbled his impressions into the tiny
machine before she came back. He did not switch the machine off before
he dropped it back into his jacket pocket. His early experience had
told him that people rarely talked naturally when they knew they were
being recorded. Far better to do it discreetly and make paper notes for
the sake of appearances.

The afternoon sunlight broke through the cloud cover and played through
the window creating a heat haze which chased itself up the fifties
style carpet. There was nothing in the room that appeared to originate
from any other era. The demand for such material would be rare and Mark
could not envisage any shop making money out of selling such period
reproductions. And yet plainly someone out there was doing it.

He wandered around the room, awaiting Martha's return. A series of
photographs were set into a large frame at the back of the room. Here
was an old monochrome wedding photograph from which a younger and
slimmer version of Martha smiled back at him. The man standing next to
her was, presumably, her late lamented husband. Now here was another,
this one more recent but still in black and white. The woman looked
much like Martha. A sister perhaps? And here was another, this one more
recent still. It was a colour wedding picture. Mark stared at it and
his jaw began to drop. This was a very familiar picture. He had seen
this photograph before.

My God. It had been at John King's house that very morning. The face in
the photograph was wearing a proud smile; this morning it had been
haunted, unfocussed. The photograph showed a man almost impossibly
happy; this morning had been a picture of bleak despair. Most
significantly, the picture showed the man standing next to a pretty
young girl. This morning he had been all too obviously alone. Three
years separated the photograph from the afternoon but it might have
been a lifetime for the difference it had made to the young man's
life.

A sudden coughing fit heralded Martha's return. "Here we are then," she
said as she walked into the lounge. The tray she was carrying contained
a tea pot, a sugar bowl and three cups. She placed the tray on the
small table beside the settee and sank herself down gratefully.

Mark indicated the photograph. "Are these relatives?"

Martha glanced at where he was pointing. "Yes. That's my daughter, Lisa
and her husband. Why?"

Mark gave what he hoped was a sympathetic smile. "I'm covering their
story as well. I spoke to John this morning."

"What story would this be then?" She sounded irritated as though her
daughter's disappearance did not measure up to her own council battle
in the newsworthiness stakes.

"You know," Mark pressed, "She's missing."

"Missing? Since when?"

Mark was suddenly aware that the old woman had been kept deliberately
ignorant of her daughter's absence. Why she had not been told he
couldn't say but it was presumably a family decision. And now here he
was, blabbing all about it. Still, having committed himself this far,
he could hardly back out. "She's been gone about a fortnight. I'm sorry
you had to find out this way."

"Rubbish."

At first Mark thought she was deriding his apology. Then he realised
her face was wearing an expression of amusement. "I'm sorry?" he
managed.

"It's rubbish. Missing indeed! I only saw her yesterday."

A curious mix of emotions made a mockery of Mark's heartbeat. "You saw
her...."

"Of course. She always comes round on a Wednesday. She was very
interested in our argument with the council." Her expression shifted to
one of petulance. "Which is more than you seem to be."

"I'm sorry it's just that..." Mark crossed to the settee and sat down
beside Martha "This is fantastic news. I'm sure John will be...."

"Look, Mr Renshaw, I'm sure this is all very fascinating but do you
mind if we discuss our council problem That is what you've come for
after all."

Mark was too stunned to correct his surname for her benefit again.
"Yes, you're right," he said even though he didn't think so for an
instant, "I'm sorry. Please, tell me your story."

"Right, that's more like it." She gestured at the tea tray.
"Tea?"

He toyed with the idea of refusing but he doubted that this would
improve Martha's mood. "Please." He indicated the tray whilst she
poured his cup. "Three cups?"

"Yes. My husband will be down shortly."

"Your husband?"

"Yes." She placed a hand over her mouth, stifling a cough. "His name's
Frank."

Mark gave a laugh. "I'm sorry, I was told you lived here alone."

"Dear me, your research is wide of the beam today, isn't it? Missing
daughters, missing husbands! Of course I don't live alone - I live here
with Frank; have done ever since he built this street."

"Your Frank built Highfield Street?"

"That's right. I thought you'd have known that at least." She handed
him the cup. "Milk and sugar?"

"Please." He waited whilst Martha handed him the sugar bowl and milk.
"When was this?"

"1951. We'd been married three years and we'd lived with his parents
all that time. I suppose its difficult for you to understand but there
weren't a lot of houses about after the war and money was tight. Frank
was an architect and could turn to a bit of building work when the need
arose. Anyway, he designed Highfield Street for the council and in
return they made sure he got one of the houses. There would have been
hell to pay if anyone'd found out. No one did. I don't think it'd be as
easy to get away with a trick like that these days."

"Probably not," said Mark although he suspected it was easier to get
away with a whole lot more. He moved his arm around to take in the room
and, by implication, the entire house. "So where do you get all this
stuff from?"

Martha looked at the young reporter curiously. "I thought you wanted to
know about our battle with the council."

"Oh, I do. I'm just curious as to how you keep this house in such
original condition." And why, he thought but did not say.

"Oh Frank does all that. I don't interfere. Never have done. I just let
him get on with it."

Mark took a sip of his tea. "You don't know where he gets all these
reproductions?"

"Repro..." she laughed and coughed at the same time, a somewhat
disturbing sound. "These aren't reproductions you silly man. These are
all original fittings. This house hasn't been redecorated since we
moved in."

"Not been..."

"Goodness me, no. Frank wouldn't hear of such a thing. It was good
enough then and it's good enough now. That'll be what he'll say, you
watch."

"But that's incredible." He put down his tea cup and wandered about the
room, taking in the furniture; the decor; the television. His hand
strayed over the cabinet. "Does this still work?"

She coughed. "Of course."

He indicated the power switch. "Would you mind...?"

She gave a sigh that was presumably meant to indicate frustration at
this latest delay to the proceedings. "I suppose not, Help
yourself."

He turned the switch. Nothing happened. He was about to check if it was
plugged in and then he remembered that old televisions required a while
to warm up. The sound came first carrying the plummy sounds of an
English actor into the living room. Mark recognized the voice from
somewhere. The picture finally crossed the finishing line some twenty
seconds after its audio partner. Mark stared at the grainy image
contained on the twelve inch screen. An elderly man with a huge
handlebar moustache was lecturing a bored looking child in front of
him. The elderly man was carrying a wicked looking cane. Mark moved
around to gain a better view and Martha groaned as she saw the
screen.

"It's Wacko! Not really very funny, that."

Now Mark remembered the voice. Jimmy Edwards. He stared at the screen
in disbelief. The coincidence was astounding. "Wacko? I didn't know
they were rerunning those."

"Rerunning?"

"You know. Repeats."

"I don't know what you mean."

He tried to figure out if Martha was making fun of him. If she was, she
was a damn good actress he thought. The look on her face could only
mean one thing: she really didn't understand what he was driving at.
From the moment he'd first spoken to her, he was sure that Martha was
on the borderline of sanity. The afternoon's conversation was leaving
him increasingly convinced that she crossed that line several years
ago. He waved his arm at the screen. "Do you want to leave this
on?"

"No, thank you. I'll think it's best if we continue our chat now, don't
you?"

He silenced the television with a brief twist of the switch and Jimmy
Edwards collapsed into the middle of the screen and faded from view.
The silence seemed somehow oppressive and he said "Well..." more to
break its hold on the room than for something to say. He crossed the
room and sat down next to Martha. "Why don't you want to move?"

"Why on Earth would we want to move? This is our home. We've lived here
for nearly forty five years. No damned council is going to force us to
move. We've bought it from them fair and square. Frank built this
house, it was always ours by rights. Now it's ours legally as well."
Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the young reporter. "You're not
going to take their side in this article of yours are you?"

"No, of course not. I'm just asking so that I can get your side of the
story, that's all." He took a sip of his tea. "Do you think I could
speak to your husband? If he built this street it would be nice to get
his perspective on things."

Martha coughed and stood. "Of course. He'd better get down here soon or
his tea will get cold." She wandered out of the room to the foot of the
stairs and yelled "Frank!" at the top of her voice. This elicited a
fresh bout of coughing but no other response. "Frank!" she repeated
when the coughs had subsided, "Come and get your tea."

She wandered back into the living room and smiled at Mark. "He'll be
down in a few seconds," she said.

Mark wondered if he should attempt to continue the interview with
Martha or wait until Frank put in an appearance. He decided to wait.
Talking to Martha was futile - the mere mention of the council
inevitably produced the same well-worn diatribe that he had received on
the telephone that morning. It seemed pointless to clutter up any more
of his tape with such worthless nonsense.

Several seconds passed but there was no sound other than the hall
clock's steady heartbeat. Frank did not seem in a rush to put in an
appearance. He glanced at his watch but it had obviously stopped the
minute he had entered the house because it was still stubbonly
insisting that it was three o'clock. He was about to ask Martha if she
was sure that Frank was okay when she suddenly said "Oh, there you
are!" and he looked up.

No one was standing where Martha was looking. "Frank, this is Mr
Fenshaw from the paper," she said. Mark gaped at the empty doorway as
though, by doing so, Frank would put in a sudden and miraculous
appearance. His earlier suspicions had been suddenly and dramatically
vindicated - Martha was nuts. Completely and utterly over the rainbow.
Howard's research had been right - Frank was dead and Martha lived
alone. The only problem was that Martha didn't realise it.

"Yes, quite," he said slowly. He drained his tea and stood up. "Well, I
think I've got everything I need, thank you." He began to move towards
the doorway which continued to gape emptily at him. No Frank.

"I thought you wanted to talk to Frank?" said Martha with a hint of
petulance. "Why've you changed your mind?" Mark realised that she still
thought Frank was standing in the doorway. "There's no need, really,
it'll be fine," he said, manoeuvring himself around the thin air where
Frank was standing and into the hall, "I've got all I need,
honestly."

Martha followed him into the hallway. "Well, if you're sure..." she
said thinly. Mark could not tell if she sounded disappointed because
his interview had not reached her expectations or because he obviously
had been incapable of seeing her husband. He didn't care either way -
he just wanted to get out of there. He glanced at the grandfather clock
to check the time and his jaw dropped.

The pendulum was still swinging. But the clock's hands were still set
at three, slicing a corner from its face.

His watch hadn't moved. Neither had the clock. The television played
programmes from the 1950's. No dust, no decay. Everything a perfect
reproduction of a fifties terraced house. Insane conclusions began to
pile up in his mind and he tried to push them down again without
success. This is crazy, he thought, insane! And yet he could not
dismiss the theories easily. He fumbled with the catch on the front
door, almost convinced that it would fail to open.

A sudden idea seemed to seize Martha with delight. "We could show you
the rest of the house, if you like," she said. Mark followed her gaze
up the stairs. An icy finger traced his spine. Suppose he's dead up
there, he thought wildly, Suppose she's kept his body in the bedroom
all this time like that crazy bastard in Psycho! It was a lunatic
thought and entirely believable. He wrenched at the catch in panic and
was almost surprised when the door suddenly swung inwards on well oiled
hinges. "No, honestly, I'll be in touch," he yelled and staggered
backwards into the afternoon glare; the sky swooping down to greet him.
Martha leaned out, her elderly body framed in the doorway. "Come back
soon," she said and it seemed like a joke.

Mark fumbled with the car door and got in. He started the engine and
floored the accelerator setting the front wheels scrabbling for
traction. He had journeyed around four miles before he dared to slow
down; another mile before he risked looking at his watch.

It was going again.

***

The following morning Martha woke up at her usual hour. She swung her
feet out of bed and pushed them into her carpet slippers that were
waiting for her like a pair of faithful puppies. A series of painful
coughs racked her body and she cursed the agony they caused. She turned
and looked at Frank still sleeping peacefully in his side of the bed.
Did he know how much she loved him? She smiled at the thought. Of
course he did. She'd told him often enough and he'd told her. They were
lucky they still had each other after all these years. Even if the damn
council did manage to demolish their house, they could never demolish
their spirit.

Up until yesterday she had been confident that the council would fail.
That was until the local paper had sent that idiot along. Is that all
they were worth these days? Mr Whatsisname and his ridiculous stories?
His tale about Lisa's disappearance had been a little disturbing
though. After the young reporter had left she had found herself
wondering whether her daughter really had called on Wednesday as she
had claimed. She sometimes found it difficult to know what was real and
what wasn't these days. She would have called John but she had not been
on speaking terms with her son-in-law for several years. Frank had done
his best to reassure her, of course, but she was glad that Lisa had
called again last night.

She went into the bathroom and rinsed her face in cold water, swilling
the sleep from her eyes. A cup of tea, that would be just the ticket
now. The first one of the day always tasted best. Frank always said so
and Frank was always right. She would make him a cup, that would be a
nice surprise.

She had just reached the head of the stairs when a fresh wave of coughs
racked her frame. She doubled over, trying to maintain her breathing.
Too late, she realised she had lost her balance; that she was falling.
Her hand groped out as she tried to find the hand rail. Her fingers
touched the rail but she hadn't the strength to grip it. Unable to
prevent herself from falling, she toppled down the stairs.

She lay in a crumpled heap in the hall. She knew she was coughing but
she could feel nothing. It should have been scary but it wasn't. It was
just peaceful. She tried to cry out to Frank, to ask him for help. She
couldn't. Nothing seemed to be working anymore. Including her vision,
it appeared. There was a darkness spreading in from the corner of the
room, swallowing detail. Her fingers moved, trying and failing to
locate Frank's hand. Her sense of peace began to disperse. Where was
he? Her failing vision revealed nothing except the darkening hall.
Frank? Nothing. Darkness. A spreading darkness. Please? Her hand moved
out, searching, failing; closing around nothing more than empty air.
Doubts surfaced in her dying mind. She remembered her childhood; the
home-made swing in their back garden; the resulting grazed knees, the
happy times with her father before the great war had claimed him. She
remembered her first date with Frank, his first kiss, the first time
they had made love. Where are you, I need you, don't leave me now. And
she remembered something else. A painful time a few years ago.
Something about Frank. Something that was best forgotten and yet was
trying to surface in her mind. She pushed the memory away - afraid of
what it might reveal - and the darkness closed around her, dragging her
down.

The grandfather clock stopped.

And slowly - ever so slowly - 34 Highfield Street began to fall
apart.

***

Mark was summoned into Bill's office twenty four hours after returning
from Martha Grey's house. He had arrived at work early that morning -
sleep had not been easy to achieve the night before - and it had given
him no pleasure to see Howard already there looking like an animated
extension of his desk; not even a token handkerchief to add credence to
his tales of influenza. Annoyed, Mark had tried to tell Bill about
Martha and her galloping insanity but it was now Friday and the
assistant editor's mood had reached its explosive peak. He had not made
much of an impression and he had retired back to his desk nursing his
wounded pride.

Now, several hours later, he was back. Bill was typing away at his
console, leaving Mark wondering why he had been called in to the Great
Man's domain. Bill finally spoke without looking up.

"Tell me again your thoughts about Martha Grey."

"I thought she was mad. Completely crazy."

"Because she saw someone who wasn't there."

"Her husband, yes."

"Well, it wasn't just her husband was it?"

Mark frowned. "I'm not following this."

"You told me that she claimed that her daughter Lisa had visited her on
Wednesday. Am I right?"

"That's what she said, yes."

"Well, I called the police and told them. They were very interested to
hear that. Particularly since they'd just found Lisa's body in woods
near her house. She'd been raped and strangled. Been dead about two
weeks. Probably killed the night she went missing."

Mark closed his eyes, seeing only the photograph of John and Lisa as
they were on their wedding day; those proud eyes; those happy smiles. A
photograph that would haunt John King for the rest of his life. "Oh
God," he said.

"I also checked out what you said about Wacko. It wasn't been shown
yesterday. Not on any normal station, not on satellite, not on
anything. I also mentioned it to one of our technical lads. He said
that even if it was been shown it couldn't have been picked up on a
television as old as the one you described. They're different nowadays.
More lines or something."

"I'm not sure what you're driving at."

Bill stared at him steadily. "I'm saying that the old dear took you for
a ride. Either that, or you've let your imagination get the better of
you. Either way, that's not something I want from my reporters."

The telephone rang suddenly, rescuing Mark from a reply that he would
regret and Bill snatched it up. "Yes?" He looked steadily at Mark,
nailing him to the floor. "Really? Good God. Yes, we'll get someone
over there." He dropped the receiver back onto its rest. "Looks like it
won't be an issue anyway. Martha's house was destroyed by a gas
explosion this morning. Go down, have a look and for God's sake keep
your imagination under control."

Mark broke every speed limit on his journey to Highfield Street. He had
no clear idea of why he was rushing - when he had left the place
yesterday he had vowed never to return. But he had to dispel the ghosts
from his own mind. He was becoming convinced that large portions of
yesterday were down to his own over-heated imagination. And if he
wasn't convinced, Bill certainly was.

He turned right into Highfield Street and found himself facing a mobile
disco of blue and red flashing lights. He pulled up, looking in
disbelief at the gaping hole where number 34 had once stood. The houses
either side were still standing giving it the appearance of a pulled
tooth. He climbed out of the car slowly, not quite believing the
evidence of his own eyes. The once proud building had vomited its walls
into the street; pieces of its skeletal superstructure still jutted
into the sky.

He locked the car and dropped the keys into his jacket pocket where
they jangled faintly against his voice recorder. He suddenly remembered
- he'd forgotten to switch it off in his rush to leave yesterday. He
pulled it from his jacket pocket and turned it over and over in his
hand. Suddenly, its contents seemed of vital importance. He thumbed
through the tape, needing to know; needing to confirm his suspicions.
The machine mocked his own voice as it echoed his opinions about the
room. He wound forward again; needing to know; needing to hear.

"Frank!" yelled the tiny voice, "Come and get your tea."

Was that the sound of movement? He began to walk towards the blackened
ruin of Martha's house, seeing one of the policemen move to intercept
him. "He'll be down in a few seconds," said the speaker, mimicking
Martha's voice. There was no mistaking the sound now - someone had been
coming down the stairs; the stairs that no longer existed as such. The
policeman was talking to him now. What was he saying? He couldn't go
any further? Was he a relative? Words, just words. He could see the
ruins behind the talking uniform; could see the grey suited
pathologists bending over the shapes that lay at the base of the gutted
staircase. The speaker played him the sound of footsteps approaching
the living room door and he hit the STOP button before he could hear
Frank's dusty and long-dead voice greeting him. Just before he turned
away he saw the pathologists stand, revealing the shapes they had been
inspecting.

He mumbled his apologies to the policeman and walked slowly back to the
car, knowing that Martha had been right. Lisa had visited her on
Wednesday like she always had; Frank was still living with her. After
all, love held no respect for death. It never had.

He climbed back into his car and stared through the screen. It was
starting to rain and the droplets slid down the glass, scattering the
image. One of the policemen had brought a large white cloth. Mark
watched whilst he handed it to the pathologists who covered the shapes
- two blackened skeletons that lay hand in hand at the foot of the
ruined staircase. He could tell no one else - this would be a truth
known to himself alone. This was one story that he couldn't write for
Bill. After all, who else would believe him?

He stared down at the voice recorder for several seconds.

Then he pressed ERASE.

***