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Sometime later, the view gives way to a picturesque landscape of woods and meadows. It truly is a marvel. The Surrey countryside is a jubilee of natural beauty filled with old churches, stately homes and quaint little hamlets that give one the sense of entering a world from days gone by.
As nice as the view is, I can’t help feeling a little nauseous. I often get travel sick plus my stomach keeps growling as I haven’t eaten since this morning and forgot to bring my sandwiches when I switched handbags. Worst of all, the chilly vibes coming from Mrs Kingswood are growing unbearable and I cannot wait to reach our destination, if only to break the sombre atmosphere. I just don’t get it. We’re supposed to be going to her son Alex’s birthday party, which should be a cause for celebration, but she acts as if someone’s died. It’s so peculiar. This is a birthday party not a funeral for God’s sake.
After what seems forever, we finally pass a sign that reads: ‘Welcome to Grimschurch.’ Hobbs takes us off the main road and we enter a charming village comprised of cobbled streets, independent shops and pretty chocolate-box cottages. Then we ascend a hill and after about ten minutes, cruise through a pair of tall entrance gates and up a sweeping driveway, where a beautiful eighteenth-century manor house set in rolling Surrey parkland comes into view.
“Just to let you know, Jessica,” Mrs Kingswood says suddenly, breaking the deadlock. “If Alex asks, you are the daughter of my old friend Douglas who works for a large oil company. For the past few years, you have been living abroad and only recently returned to the U.K. having spent time travelling around Africa. If Alex asks about your education, tell him you went to various international schools because your family moved around a lot. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes of course,” I reply. “I lived in Africa, went to international school, father is called Douglas. Got it.”Fuck, I hope I’ll be able to remember all of this. I hate telling lies and this all just seems so…so shady.Poor Alex. What kind of a mother would do this to her son? For a moment, I contemplate turning back and going home. This is all so weird, I am not sure I want to be part of this deception anymore; it seems so cruel. If you’re going to hire a working girl for your son’s pleasure at least have the decency to tell him the truth so that he knows what he’s getting into. Why all the secrecy?
I have so many questions I want to ask but know it wouldn’t be appropriate. So I just stay bitterly silent with my arms folded. My head is telling me something isn’t right, to get out this car right now and run for the hills. But then I think of my mother and how great it will be to have that £50,000 for her medical treatment, and I force myself to go on.
Five minutes later, Hobbs pulls up in front of the grand main entrance and we get out. As I follow Mrs Kingswood up the magnificent stone steps, I gaze upwards at the sprawling property and marvel at its size and the beauty of the architecture. It’s so big, my God, you could fit three Terrapin Road estates in there. I can’t believe this is home to just one family or that they own this much land. Rich people certainly live in a different world, requiring enormous rooms and huge swathes of space whilst consigning the rest of us to live in matchboxes by comparison.
And then an odd thing strikes me.
From the second I stepped out the Rolls, something didn’t sit right with me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Now I realise what it is. Everywhere is oddly silent. No sound of life anywhere. We are in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by a thick belt of trees, yet there are no rustling leaves, no wind, no nothing. There’s not even birdsong, let alone the patter of a rabbit or squirrel. It’s like someone has turned down the volume on everything, like we have vacated the world of the living and entered some bizarre parallel universe of silence. It’s an eerie sensation, almost uncanny, and I’m not sure I like it.
Nevertheless, against my better judgement, I continue following Mrs Kingswood up the steps into the house where we are met in the hall by an old woman who is introduced to me as Mrs Bullivant, the housekeeper. With her gaunt face and hunted eyes, she too has the peculiar air of one who has survived some cataclysmic event that has left its indelible mark on her. It’s as if Mrs Kingswood and her staff are living in purgatory, or like they are in constant fear of some hidden, unnameable foe.
After taking our coats, the housekeeper leads us silently through the house towards the dining room and I take the opportunity to admire the stunning interiors. Gold leaf adorns every high doorway; crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings and the walls are covered with High Renaissance art that must be worth a fortune. Each room is enormous and contain exquisite, oversized furniture covered with sculptures of gilded bronze, reminding me of the sort of thing you might find in the palace of King Louis XIV. Claremont Hall is without doubt the loveliest house I have ever seen, yet just below the surface, I sense a dark atmosphere, like a shark waiting to strike beneath a sea of tranquil waters.
At last, we enter a spectacular dining room and the housekeeper seats Mrs Kingswood and I together at one end of a long table. Staring down the never-ending expanse of oak, I notice far at the head is an empty high-backed chair. I wonder briefly if this is meant for the Birthday Boy to give him a sense of being king for the day.
“Are you hungry?” Mrs Kingswood asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Mrs Bullivant, please could we have some soup?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Once the old woman has gone, the two of us slip into the uncomfortable silence of strangers. My mind goes completely blank, and I struggle to strike up a conversation. It doesn’t help that Mrs Kingswood seems totally disinterested in me. She doesn’t want to make small talk or get to know me. Clearly, this is strictly about business and very little else.
“What time are the other guests getting here?” I venture. “What time does the party start?”
She cocks an eyebrow. “What other guests?”
“Jane, that is, Miss Waters from the agency told me that this is your son Alex’s 21stbirthday party, so I assumed there would be other people coming.”
“No, there are no other guests,” Mrs Kingswood clarifies brusquely. “It’s just you and me and Alex. That’s it. No one else is coming unless you want to include the domestic help.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Er, no, not really. It’s just I was told one thing and it’s turned out not to be what I thought. But like I said, it’s fine.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause. I can hear a distant clock ticking somewhere in the house.Jesus, I can’t wait for this night to be over.Everything is just so weird and creepy, the truth is I really don’t want to be here anymore. I mean, who has a birthday party with three people in attendance, one of whom is paid to be here? Dammit, I thought I was strange but even I can see how odd this set-up is.
And that’s when I feel it. A sudden drop in temperature; an icy burst of air that seems to come out of nowhere and soon the room is so cold my breath is visible. It’s like someone has opened a massive fridge and let all the heat out.
Then I notice Mrs Kingswood’s hands are shaking. Nervously, she glances up and I follow her gaze to where an enormous man dressed in black is standing in the doorway. The blood freezes in my veins. Every hair on my neck stands up. My jaw drops and for a moment, my body is gripped by almost indescribable terror.
He is extremely tall and powerfully built, with tanned skin, black, shoulder-length hair and designer clothes that are well-tailored and clearly expensive. But hisface—my God, his face is absolutely terrifying. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s hard to put your finger on one specific thing that’s wrong, because it’s pretty much everything. I can only describe it as the personification of evil.
His forehead is deeply furrowed and etched in a constant frown, punctuated by thick, bushy eyebrows. He has high cheekbones, an imposing hooked nose with large nostrils and a chiselled angular chin textured with dry, leathery skin. His thick extruding lips barely contain a mouthful of discoloured teeth and his eyes—Jesus, his eyes are the most chilling—an intense blue-green that seem to glow with malevolent intensity, reaching into the depths of your soul. Ostensibly he’s hideous, yet at the same time his features possess a certain brutal ruggedness that I find bizarrely fascinating. It’s not a face you can stare at for long. No. One glimpse is like a shock to the system; a sucker punch that makes your heart seize up and sends you reeling.
Almost instantly, I’m forced to avert my gaze and focus back on the table, so violent is my reaction to him. It’s not just his physical appearance that disturbs me, it’s the dark atmosphere that follows him, sucking all the air from the room. It’s overwhelming to the point of being almost suffocating.
