Think of the Price

Still wet from yesterday’s ordeal, Katryn stirred, tried to get up but her hands were still tied at her back. She blinked in the dimness, shivered on the bare earth of the lock-up. The chill of mud under her cheek brought her into full consciousness of the past few days, the freezing water, the screams and taunts of her neighbours around the pond, the misery, isolation, grief for her children dying, one after the other and the helplessness against the power of the pestilence. Why had it spared her and taken her children? Katryn lay on the cold ground, her mind still battered by the accusations, the hostility of the villagers. How could they blame her? But they had to blame someone. Anyone, for the creeping blackness of the plague which come to threaten them all. Praying to God hadn’t helped and the priest had run away so they’d returned to the old ways - always the best. Appease the beast with sacrifice - or diversion at least.

She tried to get to her knees, lift her head off the ground, but the bonds cut into her wrists, held her arms fast and she sank back onto the earth. Better to die now than face what would come with the dawn. Timber had been felled yesterday outside the village, she had heard the chopping of axes and smelled the fresh wood as the carpenters worked. No sound of it now, just the raucous calls from the rooks in the trees on the downs, but light was beginning to show through the planked walls of her prison and an increasing hubbub and the odd shout indicated early risers intent on something.

#

James strode across the sales floor, his face expressionless. “You have a viewing this afternoon.”

Sophie needed no clue. She knew exactly what he meant. “Not there again!’ She snorted, clenched her teeth. “Why is it always me? Why can’t somebody else do it for a change? You know I can’t stand the place!” James’ eyes narrowed. He retreated behind the glazed dividing wall. A fly performed a drunken circuit around the word MANAGER printed on the glass.

Silence.

Sophie clacked across the floor in the killer heels – which belied her role as the victim. She wrenched the filing cabinet open, grabbed the property portfolio and keys and crashed the metal drawer shut. A framed photo, hanging on the wall, shook at the impact and re-arranged itself into a wonky position. Sophie smirked. James loved his display of prestigious sales, ‘Achievements.’ She blew air out between her teeth. Poncy, pretentious prat! She glared at the rest of the staff. No movement in the room just the jerking second-hand of the clock on the wall. The other negotiators stared at their screens in rapt and relieved concentration. Sophie grimaced at the lop-sided photo and held the portfolio away from her body in distaste. Her eyes blazed, but she felt like crying. So unfair. The manager was a coward. A bully.

James fiddled with papers on his desk. Her heart hammered but she remained where she was forcing him to look at her. He held out some keys. Dismissed her with a wave. “You can take my car.” Sunshine twinkled on the bodywork of the vehicle parked outside. She scowled. Big deal! Driving the Manager’s Porsche no longer a thrill. How times had changed!

In the beginning, six months ago, the day the house came onto the books, all the staff had been eager to welcome Mrs. Trevelyan, as she stepped into Blancharde’s Estate Agency. Her chauffeur had held the door open for her and James had ushered her through the office, then into his sanctuary, all smiles and obsequiousness. A new property – and on Gibbet Lane! Location, location, location. It doesn’t get better than that.

As the most junior negotiator, Sophie didn’t get a look in. James sent her to put the kettle on. When she reappeared with a tray, she made a point of not meeting his gaze, but smiled instead at Mrs Trevelyan and poured the tea, noticing that the old lady’s trembling hands could hardly hold the cup. The mottled skin of the ancient fingers was shiny, the knuckles ugly, but oversized diamond rings flashed with each shaky movement. Mrs. Trevelyan cowered in her chair like a nervous animal, deprived of its habitat, as if something were compelling her to capitulate, to be here, to sell the house. She kept glancing outside to where the chauffeur was waiting.

James continued his patter but Sophie’s eyes filled with compassion. She steeled herself not to intercede; as a junior she couldn’t step out of line. Her boss chose not to notice the client’s distress. He gave Mrs. Trevelvan his usual ‘spiel’ – assured her of his personal attention - a totally professional service – discreet. “Please leave it all to me, Madam.”

And the big house was filed on his sales list.

Natch! Manager’s perks. He always gave himself the plum selection.

The solicitor’s letter with the news of Mrs Trevelyan’s death came two weeks later, the same day the Gibbet Lane brochures arrived from the printer’s. James dropped the letter on his desk with satisfaction. “That’ll make it simpler, without her around to change her mind.”

He’d already arranged a viewing and left the office whistling smugly - but he didn’t come back afterwards. He took some clients the following morning too and returned in a foul mood.

“Time-wasting weirdos!”

After that, James was always ‘too busy’ to show the house and the task fell to whoever was ‘available’. As the junior, it seemed, Sophie was ‘available’ most of the time, the rest of the staff only too pleased to leave her to it. And now again today. She clamped her teeth together, clutched the paperwork, said nothing. Something ghastly always happened.

The second hand continued its jerky progress dropping ticks into the brittle silence. Sophie shuddered, snatched the keys of the Porsche from James’ outstretched hand and, with masterful self-control, closed the office door quietly behind her.

Her control didn’t last. She plonked herself into the bucket seat, slammed the door hard enough to rock the vehicle, and, hoping that James was watching, took off from the kerb with defiantly grit spitting tyres.

She sped through the narrow suburban roads, disregarding potholes, skidding on gravel at the bottom of Gibbet Lane to take the hill. She crunched the gears dropping into third for the gradient and finally slid to a halt in the leaf-litter in front of the house.

She killed the engine and sat gripping the steering wheel, panting as if she had run all the way. A bird shrieked in the silence as Sophie slowed her breathing, fixed a smile. No point taking it out on the client. She eyed the property. Maybe this’ll be my lucky day.

Dappled sunlight glistening on its dew-wet roof, the house squatted like a large reptile in front of the autumnal glory of the large oaks which crowned the hill. Three black birds strutted across the grass. A perfect scene, innocent. Sophie picked up the portfolio of details with and the recently reduced sale price.

*Character Property

*Spacious and adaptable family accommodation

*Some updating required

*Prestigious plot

Buyers should be fighting over it.

But they weren’t.

She checked the paperwork for today’s client.

KATE YOUNG:- first time buyer, young professional, finance arranged. YOUNG. Well… young and foolish maybe? Sophie hoped the Autumn colours would lift her mood, but her stomach churned, her mouth already dry. Please let her like the place. She peered through the windscreen. At the bottom of the hill, patches of light between the trees glinted on the pale hair of a young woman striding up the pavement. Sophie watched her approach.

Kate flicked her hair from her face and shifted her bag to the other shoulder. A long way to walk from the station - but a beautiful setting – not the usual location for stuff within her budget. Must be in a state for that price. Leaves, twigs and even small branches fallen onto the pavement made the steep incline an obstacle course but she grinned to herself, eager to see the property. Could be a free daily workout if I lived here. 12B can’t be far now. She wrinkled her nose. Someone must be having a bonfire. She paused. The houses were all huge with names not numbers. Too big, too expensive for her. The price must have been a typo, she thought, Another wasted afternoon!

When she’d seen the price, she hadn’t worried that the photo on the web page wouldn’t come up full size. Perhaps it was a conversion - only part of the house which would explain the 12B.She passed one plot which had been redeveloped - the original house replaced by a cube of glass and concrete. New gates announced ‘Number Eleven’ in square font.

Only another house to go. It’ll be where the red car’s parked.

As Kate neared the top of the hill the door of the red car swung open and a girl in a pencil skirt struggled out clutching a folder.

“Hello. I’m Sophie from Blancharde’s. You must be Miss Young.”

Kate mumbled a reply, her attention was taken by the house. She stared. The windows stared back.

“Yes. Sorry I’m late. The houses are so far apart – I didn’t realise it was so steep.”

She took the portfolio, looked at the photo - and the price.

“Is it the whole property?”

The estate agent flashed a smile.

“Oh yes – er – all you see. It’s priced to sell - it needs a little updating. The figure takes that into account.” She adjusted her skirt, gestured towards the house: “Shall we?”

Kate looked across the expanse of lawn. Half-timbered, with a story-book porch, the house sat back from the road, its roof overhung by tall oaks. Unseen rooks screeched in the canopy. Kate shuddered, flicked her hair off her face trying to adjust her eyes to the shadows. Twenties Tudor. The pinnacle of Home Counties aspiration. Mother would love it! She sighed. Don’t start. Think of the price!

Three more rooks, hopping on the lawn, took flight and settled on the roof as the estate agent teetered up the path to the porch trying to avoid the bulbous green scabs of moss growing through the broken slabs. Kate followed thinking that the killer heels and over-tight skirt could be one way of making the job glamorous. The girl was now wrestling with the door under the dark beams of the porch roof, a gloomy structure which reminded Kate of those old churchyard gateways with benches for coffins. The key finally turned and the agent gasped. Or was it a sob? “Sorry it’s a bit stiff.” She pointed at the beams. “Reclaimed timbers. Much older than the house. but you could get rid of them if you want to.”

Kate didn’t see why she would want to? Twenties’ Tudor was Twenties’ Tudor. No escaping. She pictured her mother’s house in Berkshire, although this house looked much older.

The rook screeched again as the girl was putting a second key in the door.

“Has it been on the market long?”

The agent fumbled with the Yale: “Er. No. Not really…in the scheme of things. Nothing moves much at this time of year.” She jiggled the key, gave Kate a bright smile.

Too bright. What’s wrong with this time of year? Maybe she’s insecure - new to the job?

The door swung inwards and took the agent off balance. She half fell and dropped her phone onto the parquet. Kate stooped, handed it back. The wood-block floor made her think of the hall at school where they had sat, cross-legged, for assembly. Visiting mothers in stilettos were asked to wear plastic heel-caps to protect the wood. Kate wondered if the girl’s killer heels left trails of little indentations in all the houses she visited. Evidence. Like fingerprints at the scene of a crime.

Sophie straightened her skirt, regained her composure.

“Don’t know why it didn’t sell straight away though. Family house, big garden and a good price, but you can never tell.” She folded her arms, glanced at her phone, prattled on. “Of course some people don’t want a plot this size.” She opened a door. “This is the kitchen. Totally refurbished. Don’t know why they left that black beam though. You could paint it white if you want - it would make the room brighter.”

The hard sell. Kate pushed her hair off her face and smiled. She didn’t object to the black beam in the ceiling – or the size of the plot. “I wouldn’t mind a big garden.” I’d love one. Somewhere peaceful, all my own. Incredible I can afford this. She looked around the Scandinavian soullessness of the room, granite worktops, neutral units. Mother would hate it. Brilliant!

The room was devoid of colour save for a wizened grapefruit on the windowsill with a fly crawling over a patch of green mould on the wrinkled skin like a dying man in a desert. Kate lifted her eyes from it to the garden, where a lawn sloped upwards to a gate and a stand of trees.

The agent noticed the direction of her gaze. “The other side of that gate is National Trust. You can see ever such a long way from up there. You’re straight onto the Pilgrims’ Way – if you like walking.” Kate didn’t reply. Perfect but why so cheap? She flicked her hair and walked into the next room to hide her glee. Maybe they’d take an offer?

The sitting room ran the depth of the house. A cloud of tiny insects jostled in the stale air in front of the clouded French windows as if trying to escape. Another beam formed a lintel over an inglenook fireplace where the bloody contents of a smashed bird’s egg congealed in the litter of twigs and soot in the hearth. The smell of wood-smoke hung on the air.

And something else. Familiar. Forgotten. Fetid.

Kate pulled a face, shook her hair, tried to clear her thoughts. Cleaned, redecorated. this room could be wonderful. Hope and excitement surged. She dismissed the smell and followed the agent upstairs.

The girl’s voice droned on like a recorded message. “Three double bedrooms, all a good size, and there's space in the attic you could use for an office. Obviously a bit dated. They haven’t refurbished up here so you’d have a clean slate.”

Kate wasn’t listening. She dragged off her jacket. Dropped it on the floor. Gripped the banister. Her face started to run with perspiration, cheeks burning, mouth gasping. Wood-smoke again. Her throat constricted. “It’s hot up here.”

“Bit stuffy. Been closed up too long I expect.”

Sophie glanced at Kate, fixed a smile and went to open the back-bedroom window. “This would make a lovely master bedroom. South facing. You could put the bed there facing the garden. Wonderful views and you’d get the sun.” She turned to her client. Her smile faded. The recording ground to a halt.

Kate was staring out at the trees on the hilltop. Darker now, simple silhouettes but then flickering flames. Kate couldn’t move. Something was stopping her. She was fixed, restrained, tied. The smell of fresh cut timber filled her nostrils. Her heart pounded. Her breath came in gasps and her ears roared with the remembered baying of voices. Of the mob.

#

Katryn gagged at something knotted around her throat, pulling, biting her flesh. She squirmed in the rising heat, flames licking her clothes, smoke filling her mouth as she tried to breathe. She struggled, twisting, wrenching against the cords and the pain to avoid the voracious fire beneath her feet. She screamed, but her cries were drowned, overwhelmed by the howling blood lust of the mob.

‘Dance! Dance! Dance the witches dance.’

#

The screen of the agent’s phone glowed. Discordant belly-music jangled. Sophie scowled. Why couldn’t James keep his nose out? She jabbed at the key pad with shiny nails to delete his call, looked at her client. “Sorry. My next appointment.”

Kate didn’t reply, the silhouettes on the hilltop held her gaze with deadly fascination. Smoke. Lots of it. Flames. Terror gripped her spine. She had to get out. Had to escape the beamed scaffold and the dancing figure in the fire but then began another dance in frantic rhythm, a dance to the rhythm of death, compelling her to join in. Her body shook with the jerking limbs in the conflagration. The violence of it gave her sudden release. She fled - down the stairs, out of the house, across the grass.

Sophie sighed, another sensitive soul! another wasted afternoon. Her toes had lost all circulation standing around in this foul, freezing house. She slammed the window and left the room as quickly as the killer heels would let her. No point looking for the client outside. She gained the sanctuary of the Porsche and groped for her mobile, tapped the office number - the response immediate.

“James Blancharde.”

Now for the usual interrogation. Sophie chewed her finger. “No. No! Of course I did. Yes, another one. Worse this time.” She breathed deeply to calm herself, to be professional, to hide her fear.

“Well no, not at first and we did get upstairs.”

A pause.

“I don’t know!” she tried not to sound peevish. “Maybe get the trees trimmed, raise the fence at the end of the garden, or drop the price - again.”