An untitled something...
Does it have a future?
The unburnished kettle sits on the front-left ring of the gas hob looking vaguely out of place. It is made of copper, and its subtly beaten surface offers an image of another time. Arts and Crafts perhaps. Having said that, the kitchen itself is not exactly à la mode; it too has seen better days. The cupboard doors — a kind of muddy cream no longer available in modern retail stores — hang very slightly out of true, and on two of its corners the work surface veneer has been chipped away. Although you cannot tell from this distance, it is not simply that the kettle remains unpolished, but it has not been warmed for a good while, and were you to lift it from the hob you might be surprised how little water it contains. And perhaps the state of that water too.
A cursory glance might have suggested everything is in order — and then you notice the bread bin, its front propped open, a hint of green in the packaging beyond. Or the unwashed cups and plates sitting alongside the sink, their surfaces pockmarked with a kind of black volcanic residue. Beneath the cupboards, cobwebs are in evidence, and as you allow your eye to scan the room for a second time you notice the detritus on the floor. Whether crumbs or mouse droppings you have no desire to resolve.
Then there is the smell; the tell-tale aroma of ancient cooking fat. It is a strangely claustrophobic smell, and seeking its source you spot a small white dish near the cooker. Unable to see if it is empty, you have no desire to find out, to step any further into the room. You are happy to make assumptions and leave it at that.
It might be prudent at this point to switch on a light or open the blinds to reduce the drain on your torch; but you have already discovered the electricity is off, and the idea of allowing more light into the kitchen to reveal all you cannot yet see is unappealing. Irrational or not, you suspect the curtains might fall apart at the slightest touch. Not that they are particularly substantial, just sufficiently so to keep out enough of the outside light.
When your phone vibrates it makes you jump. You take it from your pocket and tap the screen. An email you can leave until later. Part of you wishes it might have been something serious, urgent; something demanding you to retreat back into the hall and out through the front door, back to the haven of the car. You want to drive away without completing your task, the order to ‘check the place out’. Neighbours have expressed concern — less at the lack of any obvious movement for some time now, and more at the threat of squatters and what that might mean for the area, for house prices. Replacing the phone in your pocket, you wish you had not come in alone, had not dropped Jack at the top of the road to make enquiries, whistling as he went off up the path to number one. Where is he now? You’re in thirteen, six houses away. Surely he must be close. But you know how talkative people can be when they get the chance; you only have to think of your mother and Audrey. They’ll soon need their garden fence reinforcing giving they spend so much time leaning on it yakking.
If the thought is designed to make you smile, it fails. Instead, you turn back into the hall, look up the stairs, along the corridor to the far room: kitchen at the front, lounge at the back. When had that been ‘a thing’? You’re not sure. And it doesn’t matter. You’re simply stalling, listening out for Jack.
Deciding the top of the stairs looks too dark to be ventured alone, you move forward, stepping over a drift of untouched mail and flyers. To your left you see the catch of an under-stairs cupboard; it is not difficult to leave it untouched. Ahead, the door to the lounge is partly ajar. Your feet make the floorboards creak. Had there been squatters they would have flown by now, cascaded down the stairs or bolted past you and out through the front door. Pausing at the sound of the complaining wood, you listen. Nothing. And you suddenly wonder why nothing is more threatening than something. You want your phone to buzz again, for Jack to come through the front door. But there is nothing there either.
You flash your torch around the door, down to the floor. Then, as you take a step toward the room, the beam — for an instant flickering — picks out a shape on the carpet. The slippered sole of a foot.
I sense tragedy unfolding here...