Free Nyctophobia by Christopher Fowler Page B

London,’ said Celestia, delighting in spraying smoke everywhere. ‘She warned me against moving here. She said, ‘I’ll tell you what happens to people when they move to Spain. All they do is drink and read, drink and read, then they slowly fall apart. It ruins them. Drink and read. It’ll happen to you too. That’s what always happens.’’ She gave a throaty laugh. ‘God, I could think of a lot worse ways to go than that, couldn’t you? I sold up in Marylebone, had the name of a lover tattooed on my right buttock and grew my hair long, and now I sit here at Eduardo’s reading and drinking and watching the world go by.’
    I liked her instantly. I thought, if someone like her can reinvent herself, and just take off for another country without looking back, I should be fine.
    Celestia apparently had a better connection with the locals than any of the other ex-pats. Eduardo doted on her and I suspected that he undercharged her, just to make sure there was someone always sitting outside his cafe. The ladies of Gaucia acknowledged her in the scorching streets as they passed each other on the way to the bakery, even though they clearly thought she was mad. If the English wanted to live in Spain, why not choose a town caressed by Atlantic breezes, like Cadiz? Why burn up here, spending half their lives behind thick, cool walls or bobbing about in swimming pools like greased ducks?
    ‘I’d have loved to have been in London for the Diamond Jubilee,’ Celestia confided. ‘The Queen has always been in my life, right from when I was little. But I do love it here. The guiris , those ghastly straw-hatted tourists in blazers who come and sit in the square of a summer morning, rustling their out-of-date English newspapers and drinking beer all day, they don’t stay long. Mercifully the budget airline passengers are a good sixty kilometres away, frying themselves in oil at the coast. I first came here with my parents when I was ten. I never dreamed I’d one day move here.’
    I saw my new neighbour through a cloud of pale blue smoke, puffing away, filling her ashtray and topping up our glasses, and could not imagine her as a little girl. ‘You’ll have to come and visit my little house,’ Celestia instructed. ‘You can see Africa from my upstairs rooms. It’s dark and cool there, and my garden has a small pool you can use whenever you like.’
    ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I told her. ‘And you must come and visit us at Hyperion House.’
    ‘Thank you. I had a feeling I might drop dead before I ever got to be invited inside that place. Mateo, you’re a very bad boy.’ She arched an admonishing eyebrow at him. ‘You should have told me you were buying Hyperion House. I could have warned you off it.’
    ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
    Celestia airily waved the question aside. ‘Well, I suppose it’s not the house so much as the past owners. They have a bit of a history with the simple folk here.’
    I looked at Mateo. ‘Is there anything I should know about?’
    ‘No, I’m sure you’ll be a new broom. I daresay you’ll eventually hear stories though.’
    ‘What kind of stories?’
    ‘Screams in the night, bloodshed, suicides, prayers and madness. The usual sort of thing for this region.’ Celestia raised her carafe. ‘Top up?’

 
     
    CHAPTER TEN
    The Window
     
     
    T HE YELLOW TAXI got as far as the gates, but Jerardo would not allow the driver inside. I was slowly coming to realise that there was a territorial line between ‘us’ and ‘them’. I had to go down to the edge of the property and help Bobbie bring up her bags.
    ‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘I can manage.’ The red nylon holdall was almost as tall as she was. Bobbie was small and dark and had her father’s deep-set caramel eyes. I had only seen her mother that one time, at Sandy’s party, but it was clear who she took after.
    ‘Don’t be silly, let me help you.’ I grabbed the bag and lifted it. ‘What