Diamond (3 page)

The room was not as dark now. Dawn wasn’t quite breaking, but it was on its slow way. It wasn’t too early to
get up, she thought. She had got up at five for years, drunk a glass of wheatgrass juice, done an hour in the gym or pool before taking her calls. There hadn’t been enough hours in the day, then. She strongly suspected that there might be too many, now.

She drew back the heavy, dusty curtain and looked out into the wet, dark garden. It was overgrown and needed a lot of tender care. She would have to hire a gardener.

But what was she thinking? She wasn’t staying. She was going to pack up and get out of here, as soon as possible. The split with Deano had infected her brain. What on earth had made her think this was a good idea?

She pulled out one of the bottles of water from her bag and drank it on the mattress, letting its cold clear stream flow down her throat and revive her. She would have bags under her eyes. She needed to apply some gel. God, she needed a shower. This was just dire.

She put her head in her hands and began to sob.

Three hours later, she woke again, having cried herself into an exhausted sleep. Now it was light, quarter past eight by her watch, and things looked slightly less desperate, in that odd way they always did once the darkest hours were past.

She’d call the estate agent at nine, as soon as they opened.

She put on the same pair of 7 jeans and cashmere hoodie she’d worn yesterday – perhaps the first time she’d worn the same outfit twice in a row this millennium – and sauntered, barefoot, into the front hall.

Nothing was disturbed. Everything was as it had been the last time she saw it.

So what had caused the noise up above her? She peered
up but the staircase held no clues. Harville hadn’t shown her the attic. He hadn’t even mentioned it.

Perhaps she ought to check it. Or perhaps she should just leave its rats, or birds, or whatever were up there, for the next lucky owner.

She sat down on the bottom stair, overwhelmed by a need for some human contact – a voice, a word, anything. Before she could stop herself, she was keying in Lawrence Harville’s number.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, God, I’m sorry, I forgot it was before nine, have I disturbed you?’

‘No, no.’ But he sounded as if he was still in bed, with that thick, slightly drugged tone to his voice. ‘Sorry, who?’

‘Jenna. Jenna Myatt, the new owner of the Hall.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, forgive me. Brain hasn’t kicked into gear yet. More coffee needed, I think. What can I do for you, Jenna? Is everything all right up there?’

‘Oh, fine, I think. Just wanted to ask you about the attic space.’

‘The attic?’

‘I don’t remember looking around up there. Is it boarded? Insulated? Is there a step ladder anywhere so I can go up and look around?’

‘The attic? You know, I really couldn’t say. I don’t think I’ve been up there in my life. It used to be servants’ quarters, years ago, so I suppose it’s got flooring.’

‘It’s just there were … funny noises. They seemed to come from there.’

‘Oh, dear. How unnerving. I hope they didn’t keep you awake all night.’

‘No, no.’ Jenna wondered why she needed to give the
impression that strange noises in a strange house in the dead of night when completely alone were no big deal. His voice, alone, seemed to make everything all right, and convince her that she had been fussing over nothing. ‘But I did want to check. Could be a family of squirrels or anything.’

‘Squirrels! They’d be company for you. Must have been rather lonely in that rattling old place on your own.’

‘Well …’

‘Listen, would you like to meet up for lunch? There’s nowhere much in Bledburn itself, but some smashing country pubs in the area.’

Jenna didn’t want to bite his hand off but she couldn’t keep a note of almost hysterical relief from her voice when she said, ‘That might be nice – thank you.’

‘Shall I pick you up at twelve?’

‘Perfect.’

Lunch, then London, she thought. The attic could go fuck itself, along with the whole of Bledburn.

She put on socks and boots and climbed the stairs to the first floor, walking through each of the bedrooms in turn. Her visions for the rooms came back to her and she began to regret that she would never see them transformed. She had been full of plans. Renovate the house then turn it into an exclusive boutique hotel and five-star restaurant. Put Bledburn on the map. Perhaps make it the first of a chain, buy other property in the Nottingham and Sheffield areas.

She looked up at the ceiling, but she couldn’t see a hatch or any obvious access point. There was clearly a room, or rooms, up there, but how the dickens did one access them?

But, then again, she didn’t want to. It was pointless, after all. She was going to go downstairs and call the agent.

She could hear the chirrup of her phone from the parlour. Probably one of the offices, unable to cope without her, already. It was a strangely cheering thought, and she headed back to the stairs. But before she could take the first step, a huge clatter from overhead was succeeded by what sounded like a cry of pain.

A voice. It sounded very like a human voice, or that of an animal that counterfeited human voices exceptionally well. An adult male voice.

She could run down to the phone, but instead she ran back until she was standing beneath the ceiling and shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ Instead of fear, she felt a sudden and growing outrage that somebody was in her house, ruining her sleep and her nerves. That somebody needed to know who he was dealing with. He needed to know that she was furiously angry with him.

There was no reply, so she shouted again. ‘Who’s there? Answer me or I go straight to the police.’

Again, silence. The clatter and cry had been accompanied, now she thought about it, by a huge thud. Perhaps whoever it was was hurt. Or perhaps he was lying in wait for her, and when she went downstairs he’d creep out, find her and clobber her.

She had to call the police. It was the only option. Whoever it was had no business there – probably just some old tramp with nowhere else to shelter, but all the same, she wasn’t the Salvation bloody Army, was she? There was a hostel in Bledburn, surely.

She was on her way to the stairs yet again when she was surprised by the unmistakable miaow of a cat. There was
a
cat
up there! Was it possible that the cry had been of an animal? Sometimes she had heard cats making the most remarkable noises, like children crying. That was it. Relief showered down upon her, drenching her. It was just a silly cat, or cats. Maybe kittens.

They couldn’t stay there – they’d starve. She would have to let them out.

She began a close examination of the landing, thinking as she did of Lawrence’s assertion that he had never been in the attic. Well, clearly someone had, or how had the cat got up there? Perhaps the estate agent or the surveyor?

She pushed and thumped at the wood panelling until she felt something give beneath her hand and a section of wall was revealed to be a hidden door. It opened, without grinding or creaking, to reveal a small dark staircase. Even now, her heart was thumping wildly and she half-expected to be coshed by an unseen hand, but there was nothing looming overhead when she got to the top and peered ahead. It was too dark to see much, but a smoky grey cat ran over quickly and stood miaowing at her head with an air of righteous indignation.

‘All right, kitty,’ she said, lifting the animal down and letting him jump on to the landing. ‘I expect you’re starving, aren’t you? Have you been mousing up here? Are there any more of you?’

She made a kissing noise with her lips, but no more cats appeared.

Now the attic was attained, she wanted to investigate. She went to get her phone and put on the torch app, returning to the attic. The cat bounded around her feet, still mewing, in a fury.

‘I’ll feed you in a moment,’ Jenna promised, although
she didn’t think she had anything a cat might be interested in. She’d have to nip to the shop for some tins, unless the remains of the Thai takeaway were acceptable.

She climbed the hidden stairs again and shone her torch into the big dark space.

‘What the fuck?’ she breathed, staggered by what met her eye. The wall in front of her was painted as intricately and beautifully as anything she had ever seen on her trips to Italy. But instead of cherubs and saints and churches the scenes were of local landmarks and people, the hills outside and the mineshaft, the high street and the working men’s club. They were executed by the hand of a master, and Jenna could not do anything but haul herself up, into the attic to look more closely.

‘Harville Charity’ read the title of the closest panel, and on it were painted scenes of the Victorian bigwigs of the town cutting the ribbon in front of the old workhouse – now a sheltered housing development. All around the well-dressed, well-fed men in top hats were thin men, women and children holding up wooden soup bowls. Many of the men had coal-blackened faces along with crutches or bandaged heads, indicating that they were workers fallen on hard times. And the Harville version of charity had been to send them to the workhouse, where they would be separated from their wives and children and set to harsh, futile labour for the rest of their days.

Jenna brushed a tear from her eye at the image of the queue of hopeless, helpless people. She had studied local history at school, but care had been taken not to point any fingers at the Harvilles, even though it was open knowledge that they had never done a working man a favour in all their lives.

‘Bledburn’s Lost Heroes’ was the next panel. It was a depiction of the famous Harville Pit disaster of 1869, when twenty-seven men were killed after a seam collapsed in on them. The bodies were brought up from the shaft, one by one, while weeping women and children were provided for and comforted by their fellows and neighbours. Meanwhile, in the distance, Harville Hall stood remote, no representative of the family to be seen amongst the mourners.

Fascinated, Jenna drew closer, shining her torch on every poignant detail. The people were tiny and cartoon-like and yet each possessed a three-dimensional humanity that shone from their expressions and stances. Who had done this work? Was it old? It didn’t look in the least faded or timeworn. And the anti-Harville sentiment was an odd thing to find in Harville Hall itself.

‘This is crazy,’ she murmured to herself, shining her phone on the next panel, which showed the general strike of 1926. It was unfinished, and in front of it stood a legion of paint tins and a bucket of white spirit with brushes in it.

Her throat tightened with sudden fright and she wheeled around, shining the torch behind her.

‘Oh fuck,’ she whispered.

An indeterminate bundle under the opposite eave proved to be a sleeping bag and lying in the sleeping bag was a person.

She could see it was a man, and she could see that his eyes were shut, scrunched up against the torchlight, but they didn’t open. She moved the beam swiftly aside and went closer, to investigate. An open backpack lay next to his head, which was covered in a dishevelled mop of dark hair. He looked as if he’d never seen the sun, his blue-tinged pallor making his dark stubble stand out all the more. He had full, sensual lips that made him look sulky in sleep. Long eyelashes fluttered and shadowed his high cheekbones.

He could be very attractive with a bit of a makeover, Jenna thought. But what the hell was he doing here? And what would he do if he knew she’d found him?

She stepped back again, intent on finding her phone, but a peripheral glimpse of one of the paintings stopped her in her tracks. If this was her artist – and it surely must be, judging by the paint streaks on his fingers – then she wanted to know more about him.

She wanted to wake him, but she sensed that to shock him into consciousness might well be dangerous. She
would go down, get her phone, and if he gave her any trouble at all she’d call 999. But with luck he would take it well and tell her about his painting. Already, a nebulous vision of sponsoring his first gallery show was developing in her brain. She was a professional talent-spotter, after all. OK, her field of expertise was music, but why not diversify into art? And such art! A hazy feeling of being in the presence of greatness had quickened her spirits and awakened that intangible sense of excitement she got when something special came to her notice. She’d had it with Warp and Weft, with Crew Two, with Sophie Cator. This could be her next big thing.

She went downstairs, got her phone and, in a flash of inspiration, picked up the cat, who was standing on a windowsill, howling at the birds in the garden. He could be deployed to wake up her mystery artist.

The cat seemed quite happy to be picked up and cradled in her arms, purring away as she ascended the stairs. At the door to the attic rooms, she popped him on to the floor and let him run up the stairs ahead of her. Whilst she made her way up, he padded over to the artist, as she had hoped he would, and sat down by his head to commence a volley of miaows.

She watched the artist’s face move from one expression to another, then he spluttered as the cat waved his tail beneath his nose.

‘Bo,’ he muttered, still not quite awake. ‘Fuck off, I’ll feed you in a minute.’ The stranger had a strong local accent so that ‘Fuck off’ sounded more like ‘Fook off’. The richness of his accent made the swearing sound almost affectionate rather than hostile, the vowel luxuriously elongated.

The cat put its front paws on his shoulder and started to climb all over the sleeping bag. The man groaned, shifted position then reluctantly opened his eyes.

‘What?’ The light coming in from the open attic door was evidently a shock to him. He sat bolt upright and stared at Jenna, who stood by the open square, ready to make a speedy getaway if needed.

‘Don’t panic,’ she said, quickly. ‘It’s OK.’

‘Fuck!’ he said forcefully, fighting his way out of the sleeping bag. He reached for the backpack, repeating the expletive. For someone who was clearly sleeping rough, his clothes were relatively clean and Jenna could see that there was plenty of power in the body beneath his cheap tracksuit.