Cuckoo: A haunting psychological thriller you need to read this Christmas. Sophie Draper
okay down here, where the rooms were familiar, where the outside was easily accessed. But at night, upstairs was something else. Even my old room. Unexplored rooms that hadn’t been used for all those years, their memories struggling under a thick layer of dust.
There it went again, louder and more persistent. The noise. I couldn’t ignore it.
I climbed the stairs, one step at a time, one hand sliding on the banister. It was a long way down, the grand height of the building soaring over my head and beneath too. The wood was smooth beneath my touch and as I reached the first floor, the point where my stepmother had fallen, I gave a small cry and snatched my hand away. A large splinter stuck out from the fleshy part of my palm. I stared down at the banister. I hadn’t noticed before that it was scratched. I pulled the splinter out and sucked my hand. But now the bare wood jarred against the finely polished surface. Had that been something to do with Elizabeth’s accident?
My other hand reached for the wall switch, flicking it on/off, on/off … the electricity still wasn’t working. It seemed deliberate, vengeful – why would I think that?
Clack, clack. Don’t be ridiculous, I thought. It’s only a noise, a branch against a window, a pipe knocking in the wall. Suddenly, the hall flooded with light, the power back on, and I blinked. I looked down. Even from the first-floor landing, the drop to the hall below seemed dizzying. There was the front door, the table by the wall, the space on the floor where the rug had been, the ground still bearing a faint tell-tale stain of red.
Then I heard a different sound. The familiar ping of an incoming Skype call, my laptop in the kitchen. I almost skipped down the stairs, dashing into the kitchen, grabbing for the mouse to answer the call, cursing as my mug of tea crashed to the ground.
‘Hi, Sis.’ It was Steph. ‘Sorry it’s so early.’ Her face quivered into focus on the screen.
I didn’t reply. I looked at the clock. It was almost seven in the morning. Dawn wasn’t far off. It would be two am in New York.
‘Caro? Are you there? I saw you were online – I’ve just got in from a night out. Thought I’d see if the connection worked. Are you okay?’
‘Yes … no, really I’m fine.’
I spoke too quickly, actually not sure that I was. But I was pleased to hear her voice. The electricity coming back on must have triggered a reconnection to Skype. Blood welled slowly from my palm and I was unsettled.
‘How’s it going?’ she said.
‘Okay – well sort of. There was this guy in Ashbourne who was a bit nasty.’
‘Nasty? Oh Caro, what happened?’
I gave her a potted history of the incident outside of the artists’ shop.
‘That’s horrible, some people are prats. Don’t let it get to you. But this man who tried to help, he sounds nice – what did you say his name was?’
‘Craig something. He said he’s my neighbour, the cottage down the road.’
‘Oh, I think I know that name.’
‘You know him?’
‘Sort of. That sounds like Craig Atherton.’
I waited, expecting to hear more. ‘And?’
‘Well, there’s not much to say. I remember him from school. He was cool. You won’t have known him, he’d have been in the older class. I heard he’s a carpenter now, he’s on Facebook.’
The village school had been tiny, only two classes, that much I did remember. And Steph was right, I had no memory of a Craig Atherton. I tried to picture the man as a boy, kicking a ball around in the playground with his mates … No, it didn’t gel – I couldn’t remember him at all. But that didn’t surprise me, most of the kids had kept their distance, I’d always been the outsider.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Steph was before me.
‘Look Caro, I’ve gotta go, it’s really late over here. I just rang to check in with you. I wanted to know that you’re alright.’
I felt the warmth of her voice enclose me. Only Steph could have understood how I must be feeling, back here in this house.
‘I’ll call again, if you like, tomorrow evening, your time. Take care of yourself. Bye!’
‘Bye!’ I said.
I felt unexpectedly bereft. But Steph had already signed off.
As the morning progressed, the weather didn’t improve. The sky was heavy and grey and whirling with large snowflakes. The house was like a fridge and I went to find another jumper. When I got back to the kitchen my mobile rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Miss Crowther? Is that Miss Caroline Crowther?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hello, Gareth Briscoe here, from Briscoe, Williams and Patterson.’
‘Oh, hi.’
I gripped the phone and sat down. It was the lawyers, the ones who were handling probate. They were Elizabeth’s lawyers really and it had been Briscoe who’d organised everything. His voice was low and deep. I imagined a portly fellow, propping up the bar at his gentleman’s club, cracking open another bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
‘I understand you’re now at the house.’
‘Yes.’
‘And all is well, you have what you need to settle in?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you. Everything’s fine.’ Sort of.
‘Wonderful.’
Briscoe sounded uncomfortable, I wasn’t sure why.
‘I’m glad you felt able to move in for a while,’ he carried on. ‘And deal with the contents, it’s not an easy job after losing a loved one.’
Loved one – didn’t he realise? Probably not and why would he? I’d never met him, and it didn’t seem likely that Elizabeth would have ever discussed with him the exact nature of our relationship.
‘It’s a big old house and not in the best of condition. It’s been a bit neglected over the years too. And I don’t know to what extent the funeral directors …’ he gave a cough ‘… cleaned up.’
After Elizabeth’s fall – that’s what he meant, didn’t he?
‘I’m sorry, I’ve no wish to distress you,’ he said.
I began to warm to the man; did he have a family, grandchildren? He sounded genuinely concerned.
‘No, it’s okay – I’m fine.’
I thought of the rug that had been in the hallway, the stain underneath. Briscoe, with the best of intentions, was serving only to remind me of what had taken place. Elizabeth lying dead in the house. I suddenly wondered who had found her. How long had her body been lying there? A few hours, a day, longer? Slowly decomposing in this house? No one had said. Had that been the reason for the musty smell? It hadn’t occurred to me when I’d agreed to come that I would be living in an isolated empty house where someone had recently died. Or that there would be visible evidence of her death. I shifted on my feet, straightening my back. I wasn’t superstitious about that, was I?
Briscoe coughed again.
‘Good. Don’t worry about the bills, heating, et cetera, they’ll be charged to the estate whilst probate is still pending. Just send me any invoices and statements that you find, or anything that comes through the post, and I’ll deal with them. It’s all in hand, but I have to warn you, in a case like this, probate can take a while.’
‘A case like this?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh well, only that the property in the estate can take time to value and unravel. Everything has to