Weyward(49)

Kate wonders how on earth the man can see as she follows him up a sweeping staircase. The large windows over the staircase are dark with filth, and only let in a chink of light here and there. Kate squints to see the little man bobbing up the steps in front of her. For a moment, she stumbles and grips the banister, feeling grit under her palm. Peering at her hand, she sees it is the same glittering substance that covered the mail. It is not dust, she realises with horror. Her palm is coated with the crystal flakes of wings. Insect wings.

With a jolt, Kate realises that she has lost sight of him. There’s the creak of a door opening somewhere. She reaches the top of the staircase, and, following the sound, turns left down the corridor.

There is a slender chink of orange light ahead, and her eyes adjust to make out the form of the old man standing outside a slightly open door, waiting for her. When she is a few paces away, he enters the room and she follows. As she crosses the threshold, fear leaps in her veins, for what she sees unsettles her even more than the rest of the house.

There are no wings to be found in this room, which would have been impressive, once. The space is dominated by a beautiful mahogany desk. A floor-to-ceiling window, largely hidden by rotting curtains, takes up much of the wall behind the desk. The rest of it is covered by a dark portrait of a bald man with an angry expression.

The desk itself is crowded with strange trinkets: mirrored boxes, an old compass. A globe, half of its sphere rotted away. Most startling is an elephant’s enormous tusk, which she initially takes to be a human bone, yellow in the dull light.

There is a sour stink of flesh, and Kate quickly averts her eyes from a sort of nest in the corner of the room, made from blankets, rags, and even items of clothing. There’s another smell, too: over-sweet and chemical, abrasive in her nostrils. Insect repellent. A hurricane lamp – of the kind she’s only ever seen in old films, or antique shops – burns on the floor, giving the room its gauzy glow. Empty tins glint orange in the lamplight. He has been living here, she realises. In this one room.

‘They can’t – couldn’t – get in,’ the little man says, as if he has read her thoughts. ‘I made sure.’

He gestures to the door, and Kate turns to see a roll of fabric nailed to it, another stretched across its hinges. Turning back, she realises suddenly why the room is so dark: behind the frayed, rotted curtains, the windows have been boarded up.

The little man sits down at the desk, slowly lowering himself into a high-backed chair, its leather streaked with mould.

‘Please,’ he says, gesturing to a small chair in front of the desk. Kate sits, and dust rises around her. She stifles a cough.

‘What did you say your name was?’ the man asks. Kate finds the contrast between his cut-glass accent and shabby appearance jarring – unsettling, even. She notices that his hands are shaking, that his gaze flickers repeatedly to the edges of the room. He’s looking for them, she realises. The insects. The skin on the nape of her neck prickles.

‘Kate,’ she says, her unease growing. She wants to leave, to get away from this little man with his vacant stare and animal smell. ‘Kate Ayres.’ He leans forward, the papery skin of his forehead furrowed.

‘Did you say Ayres?’

‘Yes, my grandfather was Graham Ayres,’ she explains. ‘I think he used to live here, as a child. With his sister, Violet. Do you – are we … related?’

Kate isn’t sure if she’s imagining things, but his hands seem to shake harder at the mention of her great-aunt, the bony knuckles whitening.

‘There were so many of them.’ He licks his lips, which are pale and cracked. His voice is so quiet that it takes her a moment to understand the words. He is looking past her, now, his eyes glazed with distance. ‘And then the swarm …’

What is he talking about?

‘The swarm?’

‘The male taking the female … and then the eggs, everywhere … covering every surface …’

Doubt nags at her. This man – whoever he is – clearly isn’t well. The way he is talking, the way he is living – he needs help, rather than to be pestered with questions. He seems … traumatised.

But just as she rises in her chair, making to leave, his gaze fixes on her with a startling clarity.

‘You had some questions for me?’

Perhaps he is more lucid than she thought. Really, she knows, she should leave – but she’s walked all the way here, over the dizzying fells and through the woods. Surely there would be no harm in asking a question or two …

She takes a deep breath, trying not to think about the staleness of the air.

‘I was wondering, actually – if you could tell me anything about my grandfather and his sister? They’ve both passed away, and so I don’t have anyone to ask. My father is dead, too – and I … well, I was hoping you might be able to tell me a bit about them.’

The man shakes his head vigorously, as if trying to dislodge her words from his ears.

‘Terribly sorry,’ he says. ‘Memory isn’t what it was.’

Kate looks around the room. There are shelves stacked with old books, the spines cracked and dusty.

‘Oh,’ she says, hearing the disappointment in her voice. ‘What about records? Would you have any I could look at? Family trees, birth certificates, that sort of thing? Letters?’