Free The Unquiet House by Alison Littlewood

who wasn’t real.
    By the time she caught up with him he was standing on the gravel by the door. He too had his back turned. She stepped outside, the air cool but pressing in damply, like clammy hands. The man with the stick had gone.
    ‘He must have been passing by,’ Charlie said without turning. ‘I missed him.’ He made to walk towards the lane, but Emma reached out and caught his arm. She didn’t want him treading across that soft grass. She thought she could see a faint trace of her own footprints from the day she’d moved in, but there was nothing else, no other footprints, not even an imprint to show where he’d punched his stick into the ground.
    She looked up. The signs of the failing day were already written in the sky; the top of the clouds were smeared with grey even as their undersides were turning to gold. It was cooler now and she remembered the night before, the way the chill had sunk into her. She shuddered, and she felt Charlie’s hand on her shoulder. That too felt cold.
    ‘You know, you don’t need to leave,’ she said.
    He didn’t answer, and the words hung in the air between them.
    ‘There’s no rush, is there?’ She cleared her throat. ‘You could always stay here a little longer.’
    *
    Later, she opened a bottle of wine. They drank it sitting on the floor in the drawing room. Everything was quiet. She leaned back and Mire House enveloped her. She felt warm, even though the temperature was falling again, and she smiled at Charlie.
    The wine was such a deep red it was almost black, and it was rich, dulling her thoughts. She liked the way Charlie looked, his muscles loose, everything so effortless. He hadn’t mentioned the man they’d seen in the garden again; perhaps he was right, it had been a passer-by, and she
had
only been dreaming the other night.
    ‘A penny for them,’ Charlie said.
    She shook her head and pushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘I like this,’ she replied.
    ‘It is nice. But – well, I can’t stay forever, Emma.’
    ‘I know that. But for now – you’re okay here, aren’t you?’
    He took a sip of his drink, his lips marking the top of the glass.
    ‘I know the room isn’t— Maybe we could sort out a better place for you to sleep.’ He didn’t answer, just kept looking at her with a steady gaze, and she looked away. ‘I mean—’
    ‘Why did we never meet before, Emma? Since we were kids, I mean.’ He frowned. ‘I suppose if my dad and yours didn’t get along …’
    Emma stared down into her glass, peering at the murky fluid. The moment – the warmth – had gone and instead there was an empty space, waiting. It was always waiting; it was just that sometimes she managed to forget it was there.
    ‘I didn’t mean to remind you of anything.’
    ‘No, it’s all right.’ She couldn’t look up from the glass. Her eyes were stinging, as if tears were going to come. Thinking about it made everything worse.
    She still didn’t look up as he sat at her side and put his arm around her. She closed her eyes. It felt good;
too
good. It would be easy to sink into him, to rest her head against his chest, as if he could take it all away, fix everything,
rescue
her, for God’s sake.
    No. She wasn’t there to be rescued. Soon he’d be gone and she would get on with her life. She couldn’t start to rely on him – not on
anyone
– or one day she’d turn around and they wouldn’t be there any longer. People did that: they died or they left and she would be alone again. She needed to learn tobe comfortable with it. Still, even as she thought it, she felt hollow inside.
    He rested his head on hers and she found herself leaning against him. Her flesh was tightening, as if in anticipation. Then he shifted away and the moment passed, like so many other moments had, each small possibility fading away into nothing.
    Then they turned and leaned in towards each other, and their lips met. Even as they kissed she thought, it was only
now
, but it felt