Death Departed

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

I open one eye lazily, squinting into the bright afternoon light. At first I don’t know where I am, the plush leather interiors of the car are foreign, the lacquered wood paneling strange to my humble eyes. The car isn’t moving, something tells me it hasn’t been for quite some time. My other eye opens and I turn to my left. There’s a man sitting in the drivers seat. He’s staring out the window and looks more like someone made of wax than an actual person – in fact his skin looks vaguely yellow. I think he’s going to be sick. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. Quinton, his name floods back to me; along with the events of the last twenty-four hours since staying in his room at the hotel in Paris. So this is it. The safe place. I rub my eyes and turn to look out of the window. It’s iced up and, as if in an old, grainy film, a pale version of a ramshackle cottage and watermill float in the submerged mist of fogged up glass. The cottage is a weather-beaten honey; the sundried mill lies in an air of abandonment and disregard. There are curtains in each window, drawn tight, and exterior shutters hang loosely on their hinges. I shiver. Unclipping my safety belt I open my door and stand outside, stretching in the crisp air. It’s so quiet, unnervingly so. As I make my way around the side of the property I jump at the sound of my own feet snapping twigs beneath them. I don’t get very far before I lose my nerve and head back. The grounds aren’t quaint or charming, they have an uneasiness about them that gives me goose bumps despite the fact that I usually have nerves of steel. I draw in a breath when I get back to the car and see that Quinton still hasn’t moved. What happened hear? I grimace, certain that it must have been something terrible.

I call out his name and his head revolves in my direction. His eyes are wide and lifeless, void of any explanation or emotion. Why bring me here? I want to ask. Who are you?

He gets up slowly and wipes his forehead with the handkerchief from his left-breast pocket. It’s like the wax is remolding itself, melting. He’s still yellow though, and stiff like card. I now know where the term waxen comes from I think as I watch him. He collects himself and walks up to the door, rattling away for what seems like ages before the key inserts itself in the lock and the whole thing swings open. I hang back, patiently intrigued.

I wait for a while by the car before following Quinton into the cottage. By the time I enter he’s back to what I presume to be his normal self. He has opened the curtains and though the cottage is low and dark and stale there is at least a trace of comfort in it now. There’s a bin bag of things that he must have just wiped off the table and he’s scrubbing away at something with a scouring sponge, wearing a pair of pink washing-up gloves, which I presume to be his mothers.

“I guess you’re parents don’t come here much.” I say lightly and he turns towards me with a smile that’s meant to be inviting but doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No, not for a while.” He puts the gloves to one side and walks around, switching on all the lights and turning up the radiators. With this new warmth the cottage feels less sinister, only sad. It feels like a memorial but it shouldn’t: there are tartan settees and leather footrests, gorgeous textured furnishings and silver candlesticks. In fact, for a cottage it looks almost too grand.

“My parents actually bought this place just after they were married. My father wanted somewhere where he could escape from the world and this was his recluse. No television, no internet, no mobile service. You’re off the grid.” He explains as he boils the kettle to make two cup-soups, the only edible things that we can find in the cupboards.

“So what happened?”

“The world found him.” He says bitterly, passing me a mug of frothy chicken and mushroom soup. “But don’t worry – your running from something very different so you’ll be all right.”