Part 1 - Home Sweet Home

There it is. On the left. The house. Cowering beneath slate grey skies, the red brick blush of the roof set stark against the colourless backdrop of hills. The photo held tightly by nicotine yellow fingers shows the hills to be green. It was taken on another day. Taken long ago when the sun last shone. The rain continued to piss down, a steady stream. He would have to get drenched if he was to get a closer look at it.

Fuck: that he'd left his umbrella on the train; that his hat was still lying on the bench outside that cafe. He'd left abruptly as the rain swept in on the broom of a twisting eddy. Hadn't paid his bill. Embarrassment preventing the retrieval.

Meter's running mate. A voice, rough with age and cigarettes. Hand - callus, knotted - held out. Waiting.

Seven. Just a number. No denominations, no naming of the currency. Just a number. Fumbling for coins, notes, all spilling on the back seat. Tutting from the front. Fuck again. The rain continued to piss down.

Minutes later he was sheltering beneath the bulbous porch - a damned monstrosity, his lawyer had called it. But it was exactly what he wanted, had been looking for far and wide for years, decades. For ever. He breathed easy, turned to knock on the solid oak door. Patterns weaved through the grain, like lives through history. It reminded him of the taxi driver's hand. Spellbound, he stared at the door.

Stepped back, surprised, as the door opened, even though he'd known it would be. He was expected. His knock would not have come as a shock. The house was on the market, after all. The owner was in, the estate agent had said so. Assured him. The rain continued to piss down. A stream of water cascaded from a broken gutter clattered on the metal lid of the bin nestled against the house to the right-hand side of the front porch. That would have to be fixed. Another entry on the mental list he was making.

I'm Richard. Hand extended, offered. Taken and shook, Richard with some vigour. You must be Mr Abbot? Head, nod; lips, smile. Richard suggests a drink - so's we can start in the kitchen, it's the best room in the house. Richard is the guide. This way, this door, that passageway. Arms directing flow. The house seemed to be deeper than it looked from the outside. It loomed even more so. Despite the cracks in the plaster, despite the brown patches on the ceiling from the water damage. Despite everything, he thought. He: Mr Abbot, prospective buyer. That's what he was to Richard Franklin.

Richard. Franklin. He thought the names suited, so much better than his own: Gregory. Abbot. He sounded religious, pious even. At best he was agnostic, at worst heretical.

He caught a glimpse, mirror displaying profile: slack hair matted to tight, high forehead; patchy coat, dripping puddles, shivering against body; pale lips and sallow skin splashed liberally with raindrops. A slight growth of beard. This way. He was brought out of his trance. The mirror reflecting doorway again.

They were in the kitchen now. He sat at the breakfast bar while Richard pottered about, preparing tea for two. Biscuits? Sugar? Milk? He said no to them all. No thank you. Manners mattered most.

The rain continued to piss down. Coat steamed on radiator. Shivered. The tea welcome, the perfect introduction to warmth.

As Abbot had expected from looking at the decaying exterior, the house required extensive work. Plaster crumbled, ghostly white powder covering the floor; dawdling motes only disturbed by movement and breath. It gave many rooms a winter wonderland feeling. It made him feel sick. Coughed. Sneezed. They came back down the grandiose staircase; sweeping, cantilevered wooden architectural beauty. The only thing worth rescuing, he thought.

Tour complete, back in the kitchen. Time for Richard to answer some questions. Abbot needed to know certain things. He licked his lips, eyes diverting to the floor, hands in and out of pockets. He found these scenarios difficult. After all, there had been stories circulating. The taxi driver clammed up when he discovered that he hadn't known all the facts. Not my place to say. Head, shook; mouth, turned down.

Simple enough. Ask. Why are you leaving? Just that one question. He'll be honest, he'll explain. Perhaps it's a scandal, village gossips pointing, whispering, snickering? Perhaps perhaps perhaps. It comes out, blurted. Uncontrollable, the floodgates open, pouring, gushing. He felt embarrassment, he felt the shock. The question reverberated, struggled as it hung.

And then it came out, Richard spilled his secret. His reason. For there is only one reason he can't wait to move. Abbot needed to know certain things; in the end they all would.

The door, flung open. The rain continued to piss down. Umbrella, hat, embarrassment, all forgotten. He won't be buying. No money exchanged. The colour of the kitchen tiles had been too red. He'd known, suspected at the very least. It's why the taxi driver had stopped talking, become reticent to engage in conversation. It answered a lot of questions for Mr Abbot.

Richard watched him rush down the road. Another one. He knew the agent would call and offer to do the viewings. He couldn't be trusted to keep his mouth shut, to keep quiet. Maybe someone was trying to tell him something? Was he meant to stay? Was that his punishment?

Continued here...