Downward Read online

  DOWNWARD

  Bethan White

  First published 2016 worldwide by T Squared Books.

  www.tsquaredbooks.co.uk

  Copyright ©2016 Bethan White All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  ISBN: 978-0-9954521-1-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. All situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to all who travel with a black dog at their side.

  Contents

  Lightning Crashes

  Let Her Cry

  Mad World

  Sound of Silence

  Ain’t no sunshine

  In the Air

  Forever Autumn

  How To Disappear Completely

  Ain’t No Man Righteous

  Through the Bottom of the Glass

  Stone Cold Sober

  Monday, Monday

  God’s Away on Business

  I Can Let Go Now

  The End of the Affair

  Who by Fire

  Exit Music

  Author’s Note

  Lightning Crashes

  *

  It all seemed very strange. Every day was different; that was one of the things that stopped being a lettings agent boring him to death. Actually, the only thing, but perhaps one thing was enough. It could be worse. He could be emptying bins. He could be teaching thirty snotty-nosed kids who despised him. He could be … but right now, being a lettings agent was a bit confusing. He couldn’t get the lights to work in this stupid house, for one thing. He had told the landlord over and over about making sure the bulbs all worked, that the wiring had been checked, but click, click – the switches just weren’t working. And this stupid couple he was showing round. Every time he turned his back, they wandered off. He had found her in the cupboard last time, just standing there, staring at the wall. He was going to recommend they didn’t let to these two. They didn’t seem to have all their sandwiches at their picnic.

  He turned to speak to the husband, boyfriend, whatever the hell he was. And he’d gone. Again. But sitting there, looking up at him with that manic grin they sometimes seemed to have, was a black Labrador. Labrador cross, perhaps. It was certainly a big bugger. Well, that was a clincher. This house was strictly no pets. The landlord was absolutely adamant about that. He might be a total moron when it came to making the house habitable and attractive to potential clients, but he wouldn’t be shifted on pets.

  This dog seemed quite well behaved, though. It just sat there, panting softly, rolling its big, brown eyes.

  ‘Sorry, boy,’ he said. ‘I don’t carry dog treats on viewings.’

  The dog looked at him, dolefully.

  ‘There’s rarely the call.’ He looked down at it. Was that a tooth starting to show at the corner of the animal’s mouth? Was that rumbling noise the beginnings of a growl? Where the bloody hell were that dim couple? Standing in the cupboard like some kind of vegetables, bringing a bloody dog when there were no pets allowed, disappearing again.

  ‘Hello?’ he called. Had this hall always had this echo? ‘Hello? Are you there? Your dog is getting a bit …’ yes, that was a growl and now he could see all of its teeth. It was bigger as well. Could dogs grow like that? Should dogs grow like that? It was rearing up now, its breath hot and rank, its mouth wide to take his throat in just one bite, to shake him, and shake him, and shake him, until …

  ‘Chris! For God’s sake, what is it?’

  He sat up sharply, drenched in sweat, heart racing. Where was the house, the couple, the dog? He looked round, eyes wild. ‘There … there was a dog. A big, black dog.’

  Megan put a soft hand on his chest and pushed him back down onto the pillow. She pushed his hair back from his sticky forehead, soothing him as if he were Kyle, climbing into bed with them, confused and crumpled from a bad dream. ‘There’s no dog.’

  He nodded, but with less conviction now that reality was biting. ‘There was. A Labrador or some such thing. Big. Black. Teeth.’ He half-heartedly mimed a vicious mouth, snapping his teeth at her, smiling.

  ‘Perhaps it was a Labradoodle,’ she said. ‘A cockerpoo.’

  ‘A sprocker.’ His smile faded. ‘It was scary, though, Megs. It was so real. So ordinary. I was showing this dim couple round a house and the lights wouldn’t come on. Then, this dog suddenly appeared and … it was friendly, then it went for my throat.’ His eyes were wide as he relived it.

  She leant forward and kissed his forehead. ‘Babe,’ she said, quietly, ‘it’s just that dream. You know, that dream you have?’

  ‘I’ve had this dream before.’ There was a slight query in his voice. Every time, she thought, every time he wakes up wild-eyed and sweating from the dream of the dog and every time he has forgotten it is the same old, same old. But it was real to him, there was no getting away from it, and when she had had a quiet word with the GP, he had just said it would go away when Chris settled down at work, when he felt more secure, when the baby was born. There was always a holy grail in view, the time when Chris would stop dreaming of the dog. But here they were. He had had two promotions, he was doing well as far as she could see at work. They had never been closer, their relationship was steady as a rock. And if the sex was less amazing, well … that’s how it went, wasn’t it? That’s what her sister had said anyway, and no one’s marriage was sounder than hers. Samantha of course said the opposite, but then, that was Sam. Always with the glossiest boyfriend, the latest clothes. But she didn’t have a three year old. Or a man who woke up sweating and babbling about a dog he could never remember seeing before …

  She kissed him again. ‘Yes, sweetie. You have had the dream before. But what do we always say?’

  He smiled, remembering. ‘It’s only a dream. And as long as it doesn’t leave poo on the carpet, no worries.’

  She tapped his nose with her finger and smiled. Eventually, he came out of it. But somehow, in the back of her mind, that black dog sat, waiting patiently, for its moment to come. She shivered.

  ‘Cold?’ he said, holding out the covers. ‘Come in for a cuddle.’

  She looked longingly at the cave, with his naked body tempting her to stay. But she had heard the stirrings that meant that Kyle was waking up and long experience had taught her that ten minutes well spent now, coaxing him out of sleep and into wakefulness instead of letting him wake on his own and fly into a panic, would be time she would never regret. So she swung her legs out of the bed with a smile and went to the door.

  ‘It’s okay, Kyle,’ he heard her say as she opened his door. ‘Mummy’s here.’

  Chris closed his eyes and listened to her voice, soothing her son, bringing him back to the world of day from the dark of night. He let her sing-song voice wash over him, sending him back to sleep. To where the black dog always lurked, ready to go for his throat.

  Breakfast was the same as always. Megan ran the house on military lines almost, routine being what kept her menfolk on what passed for the straight and narrow. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree and Kyle was like his father in almost every way, looks, temperament and the tendency to completely lose the plot if things went a little bit to the right or left of centre. So breakfast was always the same. Two Weetabix with cold milk, no sugar for the big one, Readybrek with a spoonful of jam for the little. She would have a slice of toast when Chris had gone to work and Kyle was intent on his millionth rewatch of Tree Fu Tom. One thing about having a child wedded to routine was that you knew exactly what he would want to be doing at any
second of any day. She had worried he might be on some Spectrum somewhere, but the GP had reassured her, just as he had reassured her about Chris; normal, just perhaps a little fragile. She watched them eat, in from the outside to the middle, turn the bowl round a quarter of a rotation and begin again. She sighed, but quietly so they didn’t hear. She just hoped that doctor knew what he was on about. Some days, she wondered.

  Chris Rowan sometimes wondered who he was. He also wondered whether other people had the same kind of thoughts, but he had been brought up by parents who, though very loving, had not really encouraged that kind of conversation. His father was dead, but his mother was still very much around, busy, bustling, never still for a minute. She worked tirelessly for the church of which her new husband was vicar and although Chris sometimes wondered whether her air of spirituality was perhaps a disguise she had adopted when she first met Mike, everyone else seemed to think it was genuine, so who was he to say? But he couldn’t even picture a conversation with her that began, ‘Mum, do you ever look in the mirror and ask “why am I me?”’ She would tut, smile, give him a hug which didn’t involve any more than a quick arm around the shoulder. No kiss, no understanding murmur, nothing like he had seen Megan give to Kyle a million times a day. And Megan – the dreams were bad enough; if he told her he wasn’t sure who he was sometimes, she would worry even more.

  But at work, he knew who he was. No one very important or interesting and sometimes, he knew, he was ‘that bastard agent’ when he had to tell people that the landlord had chosen another would-be tenant, but by and large, he was next down in the pecking order from the boss. And if he would never actually be the boss, that was fine. It was a living. Just.

  ‘Chris!’

  ‘Dave!’

  He and Dave Stanley greeted each other exactly the same way every morning. Kyle would have approved.

  ‘Are you snowed under today?’ This was another common starter for ten and it usually meant that there was a problem house or flat to show. There was one that was hanging around like a bad smell – could it be, perhaps, that rather unusual odour in the kitchen, that mixture of very old kipper and brussels sprouts? Chris and almost everyone else in the office had shown the house to what seemed like every DINK couple in town, but no dice. The desperation was beginning to show. The last time it had been shared with anyone it was by the office junior and she had come up with the great idea of the coffee bean under the grill. She had nearly burned the house down and now the kitchen smelt of old kipper, brussels sprouts, coffee grounds and burning. But the question had to be answered.

  ‘I was going to catch up on some calls later this morning. I have a viewing at nine thirty,’ he glanced at his watch and grimaced; time was whizzing by this morning, ‘and then I’m showing a couple round about four properties in the afternoon. If they fall in love with the first one, I will be free later.’

  ‘Brilliant! That sounds as if it might work. Unless you want to add forty-three to their list.’ No one even bothered to use the road name any more. Forty-three was all it needed to move a cloud over anyone’s sun. ‘The landord’s getting a bit testy.’

  ‘Dave. Do me a favour. This is a top of the range couple. They won't want to have anything to do with forty-three. And if the landlord’s getting testy, he should do something about that smell.’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t told him that, Chris, about a hundred times.’ Dave was getting on his dignity, never a good place for everyone else in the office. ‘If you’re too busy, I can always …’

  ‘No, no.’ It was always a good idea to head Dave off at the pass when he went all hangdog. If he went out on a gig himself two things would happen – it wouldn’t get let and no one would be allowed to forget it for the next six months. ‘I can do it. Do you have someone in mind for it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not ideal, to be honest. It’s a woman on her own, but earning well as far as I can tell from the application. She intends to live there herself at first, then take on a housemate. She’s from here originally but has only just moved back after years away, apparently. Abroad. Somewhere, dunno.’ Dave was riffling through papers on his desk. Although it was only five past nine on a Monday morning, it already looked like a bombsite. ‘What if you show the couple number forty-three if they don’t plump for anything else? If all else fails, it might make them feel more kindly towards one of the others. Then, if they hate it …’

  ‘Which they will,’ Chris couldn’t help adding.

  ‘Show it to this woman. Shall I tell her five o’clock?’

  That would mean getting home late. Kyle’s tea would be late. His bath would be late. Bedtime would be never …

  ‘Chris? Five?’

  He snapped to. ‘Sorry, Dave. Just restructuring my evening. Yes, tell her five. But also tell her someone else is viewing it. Who knows, the Dinkies might be as mad as trees and actually like the dump.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened, sure enough.’ Dave Stanley was not an unreasonable boss and he knew he asked a lot sometimes. But the salaries here were a good bit above the other letting agents in town and he paid a decent commission on an ad hoc basis when they shifted somewhere totally crap like number forty-three. So Chris might be in for a nice surprise in his pay this month, if he pulled out all the stops. He clapped him on the back and dropped heavily into his chair, looking hopelessly at the paperwork. ‘I’ve got her mobile number somewhere.’

  From his left, an arm stretched out and his secretary’s hand, conveniently placed on the end of it, twitched a file to one side. A scarlet-tipped finger pointed silently.

  ‘Oh, there it is. Thanks, Jacintha. I knew it was somewhere.’

  The girl shook her head, her asymmetric bob swinging. Chris could never really balance her looks – ditzy as all get out with always at least one eye hidden behind bizarre hair – with her efficiency. She looked as if she didn’t know what was going on yet in fact she knew everything. Gossip in the office said she was a girl with a mission and that mission was to be running the office inside a year. And sometimes it was true she had the look of someone who might be planning a palace coup – but nothing to worry about, surely. Chris ignored his gut feeling and picked up his day’s folders. He wouldn’t be back in the office now until tomorrow with any luck, so Jacintha and her plotting needn’t bother him overmuch.

  The door was still swinging and he didn’t hear her say to the room in general, ‘Is Chris all right? He looks a little stressed, don’t you think?’

  No one answered; she hadn’t expected them to. But, in her experience, little seeds just occasionally grew into the bindweed that brought the tall poppy to its knees.

  The viewing at nine thirty turned into a viewing at almost ten. Chris had planned his timing to allow for walking there and the walk had ended up as a trot. The day was warm and humid and he could feel the sweat pooling and cooling in the small of his back as he approached the rather acid-faced couple waiting for him outside the house they were due to view. They had had all the time in the world to spot the negatives – too near the road; within yelling distance of the local primary; weeds on the drive. Chris thanked his lucky stars the neighbours were away – their camper van was often parked outside and did little to enhance the view. Nevertheless, he pinned on his best smile and walked the last few paces with his hand extended.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Pugh,’ he said, stifling a grin as it suddenly dawned on him that with a name like that, they would probably love number forty-three. ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. I …’

  The husband spoke. His voice sounded as though it cost him either extreme effort or a lot of money he was unwilling to spend. ‘Mr Rowling, I presume?’

  ‘Rowan.’

  The woman looked at him, disbelievingly. ‘I’m sure the letter said Rowling.’

  He widened his smile. ‘A typo, perhaps,’ he said. He extended an arm up the short drive of ‘Dunroamin’. ‘Shall we?’

  The woman looked mulish and stood firm on the pavement. ‘Do you have id
entification?’ she asked. ‘One hears such things. Malcolm?’

  Her husband looked hard at Chris, as though with more attention he might discover his real identity. When that failed, he nodded. ‘My wife is quite right, Mr Rowling,’ he said. ‘Do you have any identification?’

  ‘Rowan,’ Chris said, tiredly, reaching for his wallet. His driving licence said Christopher Rowan, so what good would it be? He handed it over and husband and wife bent their heads over it as though it were holy writ. The woman raised her head sharply and Chris would later swear he saw whiskers twitch around her shrewish mouth.

  ‘It says here you are Christopher Rowan,’ she accused him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, still just about smiling. ‘That’s who I am.’

  ‘But the letter said Rowling. Because Malcolm and I laughed about it, didn’t we, Malcolm, saying I wonder if he’s any relation to that JRR Rowling.’

  ‘JK. JK Rowling.’ This was getting very surreal.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Chris decided on a change of plan. ‘Do you have the letter with you?’ he asked, politely.

  ‘Of course.’ Malcolm Pugh brandished a file he had had clamped under his arm. ‘Maureen always files and keeps all correspondence. We don’t have E Mail or any of that nonsense. Good old paper and ink always does for us, doesn’t it, Maureen?’

  She nodded, setting a fat curl on the top of her head bouncing. Chris knew he would have to keep his eyes off it or he would become mesmerised. Things were odd enough without him going into a hypnotic trance. ‘Good old paper and ink, always does for us, yes.’ She tapped the file. ‘It’s all in here.’

  ‘May I see the letter?’ he asked.

  Malcolm Pugh leaned the file on the garden wall and flicked the catches. Inside, all was filed in alphabetical order, little tags separating the pages. He muttered as he walked his fingers through the categories. ‘Complaints … hmm … legal action … hmm … here we are, Lettings. Let me see … yes, here it is.’ He held it out, but didn’t let go. Chris craned round to read it.