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First job, though, is to check the floorboards and wooden panelling downstairs and see how much of it, if any, can be kept. In the dining room, I don’t even need tools, the planks are so rotten, as soon as I give one a tug, the entire wall panel comes off in a cloud of black dust.
Except it’s not dust, it’s black mould. It gets into my nose and mouth like thick, sticky black clouds that crawl down into my throat.
Coughing violently, I try to fan the air, but my hands barely make a difference. Another plank falls off bringing with it another cascade of mould. I whip off my jumper and wave it about, with my eyes scrunched shut. The air is unbreathable; it makes me cough which makes me inhale more poisonous dust. Every breath is painful all the way down my throat and deep into my chest. I take off my shirt and try to use it as a mask over my mouth and nose.
Breathing is becoming really painful, like inhaling glue.
Fuck! I can’t be choking already.
My head begins to swim. I drop down on one knee coughing so violently I think I’m going to either throw up or gag to death.
Already my vision is going, and my ears echo with a rhythmic banging. My mother’s words come back. ‘That place is unlucky, I’m afraid for you.’
If only that banging in my head would stop. I can feel my forehead landing on the dirty floor. The dirty floor which is covered in the same black mould.
Something cool touches my face, and hands pull me, hard.
“I can’t move you,” a voice echoes and balloons. “Can you crawl?”
I try but my legs won’t co-operate.
Something very wet falls over my hair and face and I’m being dragged along the floor, my feet snag on broken floorboards. Finally, someone drops me in another room and runs away.
I lie on my back and gulp air. It still tastes of horrible black fungus but it’s not choking me as before.
The person is back and wipes my face with something wet. A woman, in a blue and grey skirt.
I turn on my side and cough a bit more, but the air is now much cleaner.
She sits behind me holding my head in her lap and continues to wipe my face with the wet towel. Then she puts a bottle to my lips. “Try to wash your mouth.”
She pours a little into my mouth and I gargle to wash my throat then spit. It comes out black, a small puddle on the floor. It helps me breathe better, but my heart is still racing, and I feel weak. She continues to hold me, so I flop back into her lap, my head cushioned by her skirt. She smells nice. Anything smells nice after the mould. My arm goes round her hip, and I pull her a little closer and snuggle into her. It feels so good to be here and not choking to death.
“Do you want to drink?” She puts the bottle into my hand.
As I turn sideways and prop myself up on my elbow to wash my mouth again, she shuffles around so she’s kneeling on the floor in front of me.
Elodie LeFevre.
“You must enjoy seeing me on the ground,” I tell her. “You seem to cultivate the opportunities.”
She chuckles softly. “At least this time it wasn’t me who pushed you.”
I try to rise off the floor and after a couple of attempts, I manage to sit up, cross my legs, and look up at her.
“I knocked and rang the bell, but no one answered, I was about to leave then heard you coughing. But when I kept knocking and you didn’t come, I guessed something must be wrong and opened the door. Sorry.” Her tone wavers uncertainly on the apology.
I wave her words away. “Glad you did.”
A moment passes in silence. Her hands fiddle with the edge of her jumper. It has a blue and burgundy pattern around the top.
“My sister had a jumper just like this,” I say for no reason.
She looks down and traces the circle of blue and beige around her shoulders. “Fair Isle design.” She smiles up at me. “They’re very popular.”
Suddenly I’m aware that I’m on the floor, shirtless, in front of a woman.
“What happened?” she asks after a moment of silence.
