Walking with Ghosts

nothing.
    ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We’ll go. I’ll take you home and come back later.’
    Marie looked up through the gloom at him. She narrowed her eyes. ‘We’re going up these fucking stairs,’ she whispered, her voice shaking but betraying an inner calm and determination. ‘Both of us. Now.’
    Sam flicked on his torch and eyed the staircase. There were parts of the wall where the plaster had been gouged out and left in lumps on the treads. It looked as though someone with a grudge against walls had come up with a revenge scenario involving an axe. Near the top there was one strip of burgundy-coloured flocked wallpaper which hung from the ceiling down to the stairs. It was patterned with Chinese dragons, and on either side of it the wall was covered in infantile graffiti which wouldn’t have been out of place in a secondary school bog.
    As they made their way up the stairs their shoes crunched on loose plaster, and Sam was aware of the taste of grit on his lips. There was an aura of decay and neglect about the house, but it wasn’t like a house that was unoccupied. It was occupied by someone who didn’t care. By someone who didn’t care about anything except a half-buried driving force, a fanatical and twisted urge to survive in a world which was alien and inhospitable.
    The house had something of the feel of those derelict, futuristic and wasted cityscapes that fascinated Ridley Scott in Blade Runner. Sam wouldn’t have been surprised to see Rutger Hauer or Sean Young pass along the upper landing.
    At the top of the first flight of stairs there were three rooms, all with closed doors. Sam hesitated, wondering if he should check them or continue up to the attic. It briefly crossed his mind that Marie could check these rooms while he went on up to the attic alone. But he didn’t suggest it, because he suspected Marie might not manage on her own, and he knew he wouldn’t. He remembered the flickering light in the attic room which was always visible from outside.
    With Marie close behind, he began the ascent of the final flight. There was a thin carpet on these stairs, and the nearside wall had been painted once, a long time ago. Apart from their own breathing and the muffled whisper of their feet on the carpet there was no hint of movement.
    The upper door was fastened with a wooden latch. Sam lifted it and let the door open into the room. Marie moved over to Sam’s right, so she could see whatever might be in there. The light from the single candle was not very bright, but it was enough to disorient their eyes for a moment. When they adjusted to the changed light Sam moved into the room. Marie stayed behind in the doorway.
    ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘He isn’t here.’
    Sam picked up the candle from a low table and surveyed the room. It was a den. The floor was carpeted with several rugs. Billy had let some of the rugs run up the walls, and there were cushions scattered over the floor. There was a shelf on one wall, but nothing on the shelf, apart from the remains of a take-away meal. There was a coatrack with two shirts and a jacket suspended from it. And underneath them an assortment of clothes. Socks, underwear, a bright red sweater. An ironing-board was folded and stacked against the wall.
    Marie stepped into the room and drew in her breath sharply. Sam watched as she moved over to the room’s only chair. Draped over it was a long black cape. He watched her finger it, and caught her eyes as she looked towards him.
    ‘That what he was wearing?’
    She nodded. She lifted the hood, and looked back at Sam. ‘Yes. That’s why we couldn’t see his face.’
    ‘He’s been back, then.’
    Marie glanced around the room. ‘But where’s he gone now?’
    ‘I don’t know. We’ll wait for him. Might as well see the rest of the house while we’re waiting.’
    He led her back to the first landing, Marie carrying the torch and, like Sam, only flicking it on occasionally. There was a bathroom sandwiched between two other rooms, with the bath full of dirty water, though the plug didn’t appear to be the cause of the blockage. There was a bathroom cabinet with a razor, a bar of soap, and a face towel from hell.
    The back room had bare boards and was unfurnished. Sam turned to leave but stopped when he caught sight of a long chest behind the door. Marie had entered the room behind Sam and walked over to the window, where she was looking out on the back yard.
    ‘Jesus,’ said Sam. He had lifted the