The House of Canted Steps Read online

  After reaching the upper floor, he recalled retreating for the night in his previous home, the one he’d shared with Gayle and Lewis for the better part of a decade. Maybe the corridor leading to several bedrooms and a bathroom in this larger house made Mark feel bitter. His ex-wife’s latest lover now co-owned the small semi on the other side of Hantley. He’d bought Mark’s half with ease, drawing on an obscenely large income from his town center restaurant (that was where he and Gayle had met, while she’d been out partying with friends as usual). It was all so unfair, but such was life. Maybe Mrs. Johnson was about to discover this unhappy truth, too.

  But Mark had resolved to remain detached from clients’ lives and should resist breaking this rule. It was just business, he’d always told himself, despite constantly being drawn into others’ concerns. Still, it was this quirk of character that had led to him meeting Nina, and so perhaps he should be thankful for it, after all. His new girlfriend had been seeking a flat to use as a base for her job at the town center library, and while showing her around a few potential places, Mark had asked her out for a date. He’d been feeling reckless, pissed off, adventurous. But dinner a few nights later had gone well, as had the cinema and various other recreational activities during the following weeks. And a month later, he’d left his mom’s bungalow (which he’d been using as temporary digs) and joined Nina as co-tenant in the flat she’d chosen.

  If Mr. Johnson was planning on cheating his wife, Mark couldn’t help sympathizing with her, but he wouldn’t get involved. As far as he was concerned, he’d received a business offer he’d be a fool to turn down. And if that was a cold-hearted approach, so be it. He’d recently been hurt badly, and whatever he’d redeemed from the situation—a new relationship with a lovely woman—remained only a dressing on a wound…for the time being, at any rate.

  All these thoughts had come at him with disorienting force. While measuring and photographing the first-floor rooms, he’d sensed his surroundings begin to squirm unpleasantly, as if what he surveyed was about to alter and become former domestic venues.

  The master bedroom wasn’t dissimilar in dimensions to that in his previous home…

  “…maybe if you showed me a little more concern and attention, I’d be willing to do what you expect of an evening.”

  The smallest bedroom reminded him of his son Lewis’s room…

  “…you’re supposed to be his father, but when are you ever here for him?”

  And the bathroom was of course just a bathroom…

  “…it’s only a new set of taps—they’re hardly going to break the bank!”

  Each recollection of his ex-wife’s words evoked the rancorous mood in which they’d originally been uttered or more commonly yelled. Mark felt his head thump with pain. Then, having gathered all the information he required, he stole away, back down those curiously canted steps and into the kitchen, where Eric Johnson awaited him, a guy who might be going through a similarly fraught period in life.

  “All right, mate, I’m done,” Mark said, sensing the manic spell he’d experienced upstairs easing off. He pulled a pack of documents from beneath the sheet on his clipboard and laid them on the dining table. “Here you’ll find a guide to property prices in the area, but I think we’re looking at around three-hundred-K. I’d advise you against marketing it at a lower figure—you might get lucky in the first week or so. That’s been known with houses in this neighborhood. They’re highly desirable.”

  “Put it on at two-eighty,” said Eric, attempting to hide his expression behind one hand over his mouth. “I’m not interested in incremental reductions. I’d rather just offer it as a straightforward bargain. As I say, we need to move quickly on this.”

  At least he’d included his family this time by saying “we”…Despite disquiet lingering from that attack of powerful memories upstairs, Mark said, “Well, if you’re sure. It’s your choice.” He paused, and then lapsed into hypocrisy, his business sense overruling the complexities of a real life he knew all too well. “Personally, I’d be inclined to maximize your return on the investment. As a husband and father, you’re surely working not only for your own future, but also for that of your family.”

  The man was unable to return his gaze. “I’m aware of the facts and grateful for your advice. But believe me, I’m doing this for my family.”

  “What do you mean?” Mark hadn’t been able to help himself; the question had just slipped out.

  Was Eric starting to lose his temper? His mouth certainly quivered with suppressed emotion as he spoke again. “Please. I have to ask you whether you’re prepared to do what I’ve asked. If not, then I’m afraid—and this is nothing personal, I swear—but I’m afraid I’m going to have to go elsewhere to shift the house. Two-eighty is the figure I want to sell at. And if you won’t do that, I’m sure I’ll find someone else who will. Now, what do you say?”

  “I say…could you please sign here?” Mark replied, and held out the contract and the pen with which he’d been making notes earlier. He’d pledged not to become involved with clients and on this occasion found himself as good as his word.

  Minutes later, he was ready to depart. He took one look out of the window at the back of the house—a long garden led to a greenhouse, and, beyond a wall at its foot, a country lane held back many fields—before shaking hands with the vendor for a final time.

  “You did add a telephone number to the contract, didn’t you?”

  Eric said he had, his own mobile number.

  “And a key—we’ll need a key for the days you’re unable to show potential buyers around.”

  After guiding Mark towards the exit, Eric removed what must be a spare front door key from a cabinet in the hallway. “Take this one,” he said, but then added hastily, “However, I’ll need you to deal with viewings, if that’s okay. There’s no guarantee you’ll catch us at home to book appointments. So if you could send somebody, that would be great.”

  “Er, yes, we can arrange that, no problem.”

  Back outside, Mark bid goodbye to the man, and after the pleasantry was returned, the door was shut with a slam. There was one thing left to do: Mark needed a good photo of the property’s exterior. He got out his camera again, and shifted to and fro on the empty driveway to find a decent position from which to capture the building’s character while eliminating its peripheral disorder. While examining the house through the LCD viewfinder, he fancied he spotted a figure moving in one first-floor window, but after glancing directly, he saw nothing there. It must have been the red curtains stirring in a draught. Although the shape he’d half-seen had been as tall as a child, no boy or girl could have a face that color…In any case, after taking a picture he was happy with, Mark had another issue to preoccupy him.

  No vehicle was parked in the driveway. Surely Eric Johnson, in a senior position with some expanding chemical company, owned his own transport…Mark left the property’s grounds and advanced towards his modest vehicle. Several other cars were parked opposite, and if one belonged to the man he’d been dealing with, why had he left it in the street when his drive had been free for parking?

  The case grew more bizarre, but Mark wasn’t about to let it get the better of him. After climbing into the driver’s seat, he tossed aside his equipment and then started the engine. Lewis’s gift shook beside him as he turned around in the cul-de-sac’s bulbous head.

  Mark now had his own familial issues to negotiate and refused to add anything else to all the stress he’d suffered lately.

  2

  As soon as he turned into the high street, an alternative explanation for the absence of a vehicle in the Johnsons’ driveway occurred to Mark: maybe his wife was out in the car, along with their son or daughter.

  At the head of the cul-de-sac, out of view of the property he’d just valued, Mark pulled over in front of another row of large houses. He told himself he’d forgotten to call Jenny at the office, but while hitching his mobile, he kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. And mom
ents after dialling one of his preset numbers, this scrutiny was rewarded.

  Eric Johnson emerged from the junction in one of the cars—a pricey-looking estate—that had been parked outside his home. Mark’s first idea had been correct, after all.

  “Hello. Addisons. Jennifer speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Oh, hi there, Jen,” Mark said into his phone as the driver barrelled past him, looking directly ahead. Mark wondered whether he should follow Eric, but then recalled more serious issues in his life. He told his colleague, “I’ve signed up that house in Nester Street. Can you call the Sale Board company and ask them to put one up? I’ll be in the office this afternoon with my notes, but might be a bit late back—I’m taking Lewis’s present to Gayle’s.”

  “Okay, Mark. I’ll see you when you get here. I’ll type up the details and process the photos.”

  “Cheers, Jen. You’re a star.”

  “Good luck with your son.” Jenny paused, but then added with supportive haste, “Well, you know what I mean.”

  Mark smiled, a wan expression in his rearview mirror, but a smile nonetheless. “Don’t worry. I understand. And thanks, it’s appreciated. See you later.”

  “Bye.”

  After hanging up, Mark’s mind turned back to the man he’d seen fleeing his home. But maybe that actually hadn’t been the case. Perhaps Mr. Johnson had a work appointment or had arranged to pick up his family from somewhere. Whatever the truth was, Mark knew he might be focusing on this familial situation as a way of reducing tension in his own. It was his son’s seventh birthday today and he must go to his ex-wife’s house—or rather, the house he’d once half-owned, where Lewis had been conceived, and which he’d previously regarded as home. He reckoned visiting his son would be less difficult in a neutral location, somewhere not associated with their former lives together. It was as if the property had absorbed their emotions over the years, storing them in its fabric for future tormenting purposes…Maybe Eric Johnson felt similar about his place.

  But Mark mustn’t be distracted from the task at hand. Pulling back into the high street, he glanced briefly to one side and saw the gable end of the house he’d just valued peering over the roofs of several other properties. A little bit of redness continued to stir at that upper-floor window.

  He looked away to concentrate on the road ahead.

  After reaching his former home, he parked the car at the curbside and climbed out. He’d collected his son’s gift from the passenger seat and was free to advance up the garden path. Thank God Justin’s sports coupé wasn’t parked in the driveway. The man must be at his restaurant, cooking up as much profit as his chef managed food. But he seemed a decent sort, really. Mark remained angry about all that had happened, but in more lucid moments he could appreciate it had probably been for the best. He and Gayle had drifted apart towards the end; she’d wanted to live fast while Mark had preferred the quiet life. A familiar, unremarkable story. He swallowed his pride and knocked at the door.

  Footsteps hurried towards him from inside. Then the door opened and Lewis stood there, looking heartbreakingly vulnerable in a Spiderman T-shirt. Mark stooped to gather the boy in his arms.

  “How’re you doing, tiger? Happy birthday! Who’s a big boy today, then?”

  “I’m seven!” cried his son, excited by the day’s events. “Come and see what Mommy and…I mean, what Mommy has bought me!”

  Mark appreciated the way Lewis had modified his comment; the boy had obviously inherited his own sensitivity and not Gayle’s lack of it. But Mark refused to let this catty reflection get the better of him. He carried his son along the familiar hall passage and into the kitchen, towards which the boy had been eagerly pointing.

  Gayle stood against one of the work surfaces, heavily pregnant. She and Mark had been separated for a year and divorced for eight months. She’d certainly wasted no time in getting what she wanted from her new lover. When was the child due? In a month or so, wasn’t it? This was another reason why Mark had found it hard to adjust to their new circumstances. But he was determined to be reasonable, if only for his own child’s sake.

  “Hi,” he said to his ex-wife, and after setting Lewis down on the tiled floor, he smiled and rattled the wrapped present he’d bought on his way to valuing the house in Nester Street.

  “Hiya,” Gayle replied, her tone coolly neutral. She must feel as awkward about the visit as Mark.

  Their son clambered on one of four chairs pushed up against a brand-new dining table and then indicated the remote-controlled car he’d obviously been bought by Justin the rich-man.

  “Look, Daddy, it goes fast. It’s got ’spension on every wheel and when it turns round corners, it skids just like…like Justin’s real one does!”

  Despite not wanting to be difficult, Mark shot a serious glance at Gayle. If the boy’s stepfather-to-be was driving recklessly with Lewis in the car, Mark would need to warn him against such irresponsible behavior.

  But then Gayle explained, “It only happened once, Lewis. It was raining that day.” She hesitated—a little awkwardly, Mark thought—but quickly redeemed herself. “Look, your daddy’s brought you something. I told you he would.”

  Did this mean she’d previously suggested he might forget? Mark wouldn’t be surprised if that was true, but he let the moment pass and then handed over the present he’d had the electrical goods shop gift-wrap.

  There were the remnants of a McDonald’s Happy Meal on the table, and when Lewis looked away from the remote-controlled vehicle and reached for the box his daddy was offering, Mark noticed that the boy’s hands bore smudges of ketchup.

  “Don’t get sauce on it!” Mark said, and sensed Gayle staring through widened eyes, as if to say: It’s a pity you weren’t so paternally attentive years ago…But Mark also let this go, mainly because he thought she might have a point. It was hardly the time to reflect on that, however; their son was opening his gift.

  “What is it? What is it?” said Lewis, his hands reduced to blurs.

  “Only one way to find out, munchkin.”

  In the corner of his eye, his ex-wife mouthed the word “munchkin” and then shook her head. Mark felt like confronting her about this, but in the event merely watched his son reveal the glossy box underneath the wrapping paper.

  “Hey, it’s a…it’s a…” Lewis said, trying to read the words written on the front of the box. Then he looked up. “What is it, Daddy?”

  “It’s a mobile phone, Lewis. Now you can call me anytime you want, and in private.”

  The last phrase was a dig in return for the slight Gayle had offered a moment earlier, but Mark didn’t think he’d taken too much advantage of the situation. Seconds later, however, all this was rendered irrelevant when the boy, visibly delighted, cried out, “Oh, greeeat! Lots of other boys at school have a mobile phone. I’ve always wanted one.”

  “That’s a very sensible present,” Gayle added, directing her comment at Mark. “Now neither I nor Justin need worry when he’s playing out. We can just call him up to see where he is.”

  Mark rose above this latest aspersion and said to his son, “When you come over to mine and Nina’s next weekend, Lewis, you can ring us first to tell us what time you’d like picking up.”

  “Yeah! Brill!” said the boy, and put down the box—which he’d already half-opened with frantic fingertips—and held out his arms for a hug.

  For a moment, with the three of them present, the house felt like theirs again, as if the structure of the building responded to this togetherness. Mark held his son for long seconds, during which even Gayle appeared to drop her head, as if also reflecting on what had gone wrong and maybe even regretting it. Lewis was too young to understand the implications of divorce, which was simultaneously a good and a bad thing: it protected him from emotional distress now, but was that being delayed for later in life? Only time would tell…and that was an unpleasant prospect.

  Just then, curtains blew up in front of the parted kitchen window, and
as Lewis unpacked his phone, Mark stood to confront his ex-wife, the way mature adults should behave. Nevertheless, the sight of her expanded waistline reminded him of the time she’d been pregnant with Lewis, rendering the task more difficult than expected.

  “So,” he said, and coughed once before continuing. “How are things with you?”

  “Not too bad,” Gayle replied, with no obvious suspicion about why he’d sounded concerned. She clamped her hands to her back and levered herself more upright. “A bit tired, I guess, but that’s only natural, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” he said, and waited at least ten seconds for her to reciprocate his polite enquiry. But he wasn’t surprised when she failed to do so. This was more like the Gayle he knew so well—self, self, self, that was usually all she thought about. He looked away, at a photo of her parents in a frame on the wall. Her mom and dad appeared coldly aloof, as frozen in emotion as they’d been in time when the picture had been taken. They’d been such difficult people…But Mark pushed aside these unpleasant reflections and asked his ex-wife, “And how’s everyone else? How’s…how’s Justin?”

  “He’s good, thanks. The restaurant’s doing okay.” At that moment, Gayle seemed to remember how to be a decent human being—well, half-decent, at any rate. “And how about Nina? Have you both settled into your new flat?”

  Mark didn’t care for the emphasis she’d placed on the final word, but again managed not to retaliate—not much, anyway. “Hey, we’re loving it. Far less housework. And no garden to bother with.”

  Not that you ever did much of that here, his ex-wife’s gaze communicated slyly. But then she drew a long, apprehensive breath before saying, “Actually, Mark, you may as well know our news. In fact you might be able to help.”