Linksfield

1- Arrival

Linksfield House felt a daunting place, mysterious and quiet, slightly decayed with fragmented stone angels looking down upon me from two plinths high above. Their faces, what remained anyway, seemed as sad as the house itself. As I stood at the large black front door and glanced upward, I saw a curtain twitch and a figure move behind the glass and I was suddenly overcome with nerves as though I was about to enter into a situation like no other.

Before I knocked, I took a deep breath and let the air find my lungs, allowing myself to take it in before I would head into the house of my new employment and find out who had been upstairs, watching me from above. I had done this routine many times before and every time was the same— that sense of uncertainty, that fluttering of nerves in the stomach, the sweating palms trying to grip the handle of my suitcase. I was so caught up in my wandering thoughts I hardly noticed another servant open the door. I was in a daze and hadn't even realised that I was standing at the wrong entrance. It was as though I had been led there, hypnotised by the house.

"You the new man servant?" the young man whispered. "Here, you're at the wrong door, mate."

"I'm sorry, I didn't notice the other entrance."

He patted me on the shoulder. "Now's you're here, mate, sure I can let you in this way, come inside."

The long narrow hallway from the door led me to the staircase where I stood curiously at the bottom. I placed my suitcase down onto the ground and ran my hand carefully along the shiny oak bannister. I heard a cough and so I looked up— and there he stood— several flights above me, looking down upon me—the master of the house, and I his new manservant, standing below him. He must have been the man at the window.

"Is that you, my new servant?" he called. His voice was softer than I had anticipated but there was a gruffness in it and an impatience in his tone. "Bring your case with you, man."

I nodded and made my way up the staircase, slowly, one step at a time, carrying my own heavy bag, feeling as if I was making my way further inside a house I would never leave. This was to be my home, my place of employment...a prison even. I was in my last position for ten years and I only escaped that place when the old fool died. I only ever saw the sunlight on my half-day or when the master had needed an errand to be made. How long would my time last in this new establishment? How I longed for a home of my own and a life that was truly mine.

By the time I reached the master—Clement Montgomery—he was half in shadow, clinging onto a doorframe as though he had not seen the daylight in days. He was a relatively young fellow in his thirties and had a boyish something about him. Considering his age however, he was unsteady on his feet, more like an old man. He swayed on the spot and seemed as twitchy as the curtains. Observing him, I concluded the stupid devil was drunk and had probably been out late at some gambling club, clearly having not bothered to shave in days.

"Well come along," he said sharply.

"Where shall I put my things, Sir?"

I didn't have many possessions but what little I did have meant very much to me.

"With yourself I should expect."

"And where do I put myself?"

His eyebrow rose at my impertinence. "You're in the attic room."

I hesitated. "Away from the other servants?"

My allies, my friends, how could I be parted from those people?

"Closer to me." He sniffed. "I may need to call upon you at any time of day." He looked me up and down then, it was rather unnerving. "So, it's Boys, is it?"