White painted cupboards promised storage under the eaves, which was good because I had no idea where I’d put a wardrobe. Anything taller than a chest of drawers would have to take up prime real estate in the middle of the room. I reached up a hand and touched the beams ribbing the space. That was alright. I’d never been good at fashion. A few jeans and jumpers, plus a nice shirt or two, would do me fine. It’s not like I was expecting invitations to balls and fancy dinners.
The previous occupant had left a mattress behind, thank God. No bedframe, mind. Just a mattress on the floor. But at least I wouldn’t have to sleep on the bare wooden boards. I hadn’t budgeted much for furniture. Tables and sofas I could do without for now, but a missing bed would be a problem. The mattress didn’t look too old, and there were no obviously dodgy stains. I bent down to give it a cautious sniff. Maybe I wouldn’t have to replace it.
After a cursory bounce or two on the mattress, I nosed through the cupboards under the eaves, thinking about what I could fill them with. Linen, books, secret treasures. Inside one was a clotheshorse, lying on its side on the floor, spindly and at ease, completely unfolded. The last occupant must have stashed it here after putting away a load of dried washing. It was a weird choice to have it unfolded in the cupboard. God knows how they even got it inside. They would have had to fold it, then unfold it again.
Let’s not look a gift clotheshorse in the mouth, har har.
I snorted at my own joke then reached in to pull the clotheshorse out.
As I folded the mechanism, images flashed before my eyes.
Fluorescent light. Laughter. Hot pink nail polish.
The muscles in my arms tensed.
Stop it now, I scolded myself. It’s just a clotheshorse.
A normal thing. A boring thing. An inoffensive thing. A thing of chores and Sunday afternoons and ugh-I-can’t-believe-I-forgot-to-put-a-wash-on. Something not to think about. A nothing kind of thing.
But the more I tried not to think about it, that motion of folding, the more it kept coming to me.
A startled gasp.
Silence.
Then that awful scream.
I slammed the cupboard shut. The clotheshorse clanged on the other side of the door.
Look, you can’t even see it anymore, I thought. It’s just a shut door. Stop being stupid!
But behind the door I knew it was there. Its folds neatly snapped shut.
I sat on the mattress and picked at my nails. My legs bounced, the movement building into some bodily action outside of my conscious control.
I got back up.
I pulled the clotheshorse out of the cupboard, trying my best not to look at it. Then I half-jogged, half-jumped back down the stairs, yanked the front door open like a screaming mouth and exited the house. I had to get it out of my home, out of my sight. I strode down the steps, looking for somewhere to dispose of the horrid thing. Next to the driveway was a patch of bramble just before the woods. There, that would do. I threw the clotheshorse toward the trees.
My aim was off.
It slipped out of my hands and into the windscreen of my car, instantly spiderwebbing the whole thing with cracks and shards. Then it bounced lightly away, spiralled like a gymnast, like a mischievous Norse god, and disappeared into the bright May foliage, swallowed up by the countryside and all that green.
My car’s alarm broke the birdsong peace of the countryside around me.
I stared at the broken windscreen with dismay.
I checked back up at 1a. Nothing. Not even a curtain flicker.
I turned off the alarm, grabbed the rest of my bags and hurried back inside the house.
CHAPTER 3
Unfortunately, the hob was also electric. With no clue how to turn the electricity on, there was no way to cook anything. I popped the pasta and sauces, which I’d hurriedly bought at one of the big supermarkets on my escape, into the empty cupboards. Thankfully, though deeply outdated, the cupboards were clean and structurally sound. Then I sat in the middle of the living room floor and ate the crisps and grapes I’d bought as snacks for the road.
It was a poor first meal for a new home. I’d imagined a takeaway pizza and champagne in a mug. I hadn’t brought any champagne with me. Probably couldn’t have justified it, even if I had remembered to buy some. Instead, I cupped my hands under the kitchen tap and drank water from my palms.
I watched the sunlight shift around the space, a slow spotlight warming then cooling. As the room started to darken, I felt a stab of panic.
