Mr. Flood's Last Resort(14)

The Great Wall of National Geographics is the gateway to the rest of the ground floor, the staircase and beyond. This remarkable structure is not only a barrier to my progress but also a fitting monument to compulsive collecting. It is over twelve feet high and formed by close-packed strata (yellow spines aligned uniformly outwards) of the widely informative magazine. Each copy has been placed carefully, with aptitude and instinct, so that the whole has the arcane strength of a dry stone wall.

At the dead center there is a mended breach, a gap in the defenses backfilled by VHS cassettes.

Over this repair a sign has been pasted up:

By Order of Cathal T. Flood

PRIVATE

STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE

The wall is patrolled. Run your fingers across it, give the magazines the smallest tap, and you’ll see what I mean. The door to Mr. Flood’s workshop, lying just across the hallway, will fly open. And from this door he will emerge with the uncanny speed of a trap-door spider.

During the raid on Mr. Flood’s hoard it is alleged that council workers broke through this wall. No doubt with the same trepidation as Howard Carter and the Earl of Carnarvon knocking on Tutankhamen’s tomb. One party of stalwart volunteers lured Mr. Flood away from his lair with malt whiskey and endeavored to keep him distracted. The other party jimmied away at Mr. Flood’s defenses. Eventually the wall yielded and they were through with a rush of stale air, and, as the dust settled, a nervous troop of men in high-visibility jackets briefly glimpsed the wonders beyond.

Before the wrath of Mr. Flood descended on them.

In the days that followed, many of the men took sick, some handed in their resignation, all of them chain-smoked cigarettes with shaking hands and stared into space. The wall was hurriedly resealed and the rest of the house went uncharted.

I stand in the hallway looking up at the Great Wall of National Geographics most days, like David turning up at Goliath’s with rubber gloves and a risk assessment and wondering where the hell to aim.

On my very first day at Bridlemere I vowed to open it again, to pass through it and find a bathroom. And on finding one, make the filthy old bastard take a bath.

Experimentally, I run my hands along the barricade. I glance at the door to the workshop and steel myself, waiting for Mr. Flood to come springing out, gnashing his dentures and rolling his eyes, like a grizzled jack-in-the-box.

Not a peep.

I try pushing at the stacked piles and rumpling the sign a bit, then I walk up and down, stepping heavily and coughing.

Still nothing. The door to the workshop remains firmly shut.

Then I see him, and only because he moves his eyes.

He is standing behind a pile of packing crates. Disguised as a bundle of clothes and a hat stand. I only just stop myself from blessing the heart that has turned crossways in my chest.

It’s hard to tell but I think he could be smiling; at least his lips are pulled back and his dentures are bared. Perhaps he has forgotten our altercation yesterday. Or perhaps he is about to start a new one.

Perhaps he’s going to have another hop and a point.

“Can I help you, Drennan?”

I point to the barricade. “Bath through there, upstairs?”

He leans forwards very slightly into the light so that the scarves that are wound about his head slip a little. “There’s no bath.”

“No bath, in the whole of this house?”

He fixes me with a stern blue eye but the corners of his mouth betray amusement. “There’s no bath.”

I don’t believe a word of it. “So what’s beyond, then?”

Mr. Flood frowns slightly, as if I have asked him a complicated question. He thinks for a while. “The past, Maud, and we don’t go there.”

“Not even for a wash?” I ask, but he has melted back into the shadows.

*

THERE IS no sign of Mr. Flood in the kitchen. I have checked the pantry and under the table, although a tall old fella would have to go some way to curl up under there. Even so, I have a strong feeling I am being watched as I set about making his dinner: sausages and mashed potato with onion gravy. But perhaps the cats are my only observers. They lie stretched out on the doormat or sit on chairs around the kitchen table, as if waiting to be served. We have reached an agreement: the hob and the work surfaces are out of bounds and anywhere else is fair game.

As I stand at the sink by the window peeling potatoes I see a flash of color outside. There’s a fox on the path, its coat lit to copper in the afternoon sun. It is prick eared, sharp snouted, and looking straight at me.

I walk to the door. It glances into the bushes, then back at me, meaningfully.

I’m halfway down the stairs with a potato in my hand before the fox moves. Even then it just sidles, weaving its bright flank through an abandoned bed frame, glancing over its shoulder, doglike, as if willing me to follow. Like Lassie but with more stealth and less barking.

I follow, past rusting bikes and decaying sheds, through bushes and forests of saplings, into a small clearing. In the clearing is a caravan. The fox bounces up onto the roof and disappears.

The caravan is old, circa 1950s, the bottom half baby blue and the top half dirty cream, with a lick of chrome in the middle. It was once a thing of utilitarian beauty; now it is painted with mildew and moss. There is an oval window at the side and a rectangular window at the nose. Both have been boarded up from the inside, although the glazing is still intact. There are two new padlocks on the door.