2. Something in the Air

Once inside, Charlie knew that he’d better look dutiful, as he shut the door behind him tight, and slipped on the light of his massive torch.

No house lights on — those were the rules. Dodgy wiring at night too much of a risk, he guessed.

Look sharp now! he thought. You’re being recorded,

He knew that above him sat another CCTV camera designed to catch anyone upon entering. But now it was seeing only Charlie, off to begin his nightly rounds.

Three times a night, same drill.

Why three times? Wouldn’t one check in the dead of night suffice?

Still, they were paying for his services, so why complain?

Not that it was such a princely sum. The funds allotted to his salary were at the same measly level as the other facilities in the house.

Like the cheap and scarce cameras.

Only four of them in the whole place. Though that fella from the Conservation Trust, Mr Jessop, had said “next year, expect the full Monty!” Cameras — linked to a security service — in each room. Maybe even motion sensors, inside and out.

All of which would most likely make Charlie’s services he imagined, redundant.

Torch light on, Charlie took a breath. The rule was always to begin on the first floor, and work his way down, following the same trail.

Through the rooms filled with Brimley’s weirdness.

And Charlie had to admit, not a night went by during that slow walk through what was dubbed “the collection” that didn’t unsettle him.

You’d have to be made of stone, he thought, not to get a little rattled.

All that old and strange junk in every room?

And that funny feeling he sometimes got that he was being … well … watched.

Impossible, he knew. Come six o’clock, all the daytime staff cleared off home, sharpish: that new girl doing the research, Clifford the gardener, the young lad helping him …

And anyway — you needed one of these fancy plastic keys to get in these days and they were like gold dust. So no way could there be anybody actually in the house at night.

Although …

Couple of times these last few months he could swear he’d seen a figure just out of the corner of his eye, disappearing down the corridor.

Or a shape — moving — reflected in one of the glass cabinets.

And once he thought he heard footsteps. Even a low voice, muttering, barely audible.

Not that he’d told anyone, mind. Only Edna.

And she’d had a good laugh about it. Tried to spook him for a week after — popping up behind him and saying “boo!”

Not worth the bother, reporting that to the Trust either. They’d only think he’d lost his marbles and get someone else for the night shift.

Maybe I have lost it? he thought, laughing to himself. I’d be the last to know, wouldn’t I?

He reached the broad staircase, the deep maroon rug only looking red where his torchlight hit it. The rest, murky black, the hand rail barely visible.

He started up, when something hit his nostrils.

Charlie was used to the various smells to be found in the old place, depending on whatever bizarre room you happened to find yourself in.

The smells of age. Of decay. Of cloth material growing sere, crumbly. Yellowed paper racing towards disintegration.

The glue of some exhibits discoloured, cracking.

Even rooms with mostly wood and metal, like the vintage bicycle room, even those smelled of age and strangeness.

But this …

He stopped.

Another sniff, deeper now.

No doubt what it was.

Smoke!

He inhaled deep again, and confirmed that it was definitely a smoky smell, coming from upstairs, but still faint here.

Right here, bottom of the stairs, barely could smell it.

But he pointed his torch up.

And while that light caught the paintings of who-knows-who and who-knows-what lining the staircase — and with one final grisly figure in a huge painting glaring down from the top — he could see, hanging ghostlike in the dark at the top of the stairs, the thinnest whisper of smoke.

Charlie, well past his prime, well past any days where speed could be summoned, did his best, hand grasping at the nearby banner, to race up the creaky stairs.

*

Charlie nearly tripped at the top, somehow missing that one last step, fumbling with the giant torch.

He stopped, scanning left, right, looking for the tell-tale trail of smoke, peering into the darkness, trying to work out where the smoke was coming from.

Again, doing exactly what he had been instructed to.

So important, he had been told, in any emergency — pipes bursting, fire, electrical problem, anything — to determine exactly where it was happening, to guide the fire team there so they wouldn’t waste their time.

Losing valuable minutes.

In fact, what Charlie really felt like doing was turning around, getting the hell out of the old place, and then alerting the fire brigade.

Let them handle it!

But now he saw wisps of the smoke to the left, in the corridor — and Charlie moved in that direction cautiously …

Passing through — as he knew he would — his least favourite room, the one filled with dolls.

Hundreds of glass and plastic eyes looking at him.

“The stuff of bloody nightmares,” he had told Edna.

Now they seemed to be waiting for him again, dead eyes all expectant as he resolutely moved through the room to a narrow chamber.

On either side of this tight hallway, built into the wall, glass cases.

Filled with thimbles!

At least, that’s what Charlie thought they were.

But in this hallway, still only the faint smell of the smoke.

Which damn room was it coming from? Could be anywhere, all these rooms such funny shapes, a right old patchwork, a proper maze.

To the next room, opening up to see a dozen chunky dress mannequins, all wearing Japanese armour from centuries ago.

Samurai, he imagined.

Breastplates. Curved, ornate swords nearly as large as the figures, strange helmets that looked far less functional than their European counterparts (with a Brimley room devoted to that medieval armour all the way on the other side of the manor house).

Slower now.

He could feel the smoke at the back of his throat.

With his free hand, he dug out his phone, to have it at the ready.

More steps, such cautious steps now, as the smoke thickened.

Until he reached another narrow hallway that led into the next room.

The music room.

Least that’s what he called it …

Filled with instruments of every kind.

Old, ancient instruments, kind of thing Charlie was sure nobody played these days.

And then in the corner of the room he saw the forked flickers of a flame.

He backed away, fast as he could, bumping into a suit of Samurai armour, sending the wobbly swordsman falling down with a loud clang, making even more noise as it bumped into another full suit of armour, that smashed backwards into a glass display case, the noise suddenly deafening in the still-quiet manor house.

Charlie had the phone out, screen glowing, even as he took more clumsy steps back, to the hallway out.

Hitting the number that was at the top of his screen.

One ring, two rings.

Then a voice — calm. Almost too calm!

“Emergency, which service do you require?”

“Fire!” Charlie yelled, as if sharing the bad news. “We got a fire.”

“Putting you through …”

“Bloody hell!” said Charlie. “Can’t you—?”

“Fire service,” came a new voice. “What’s your location, caller?”

“Brimley Manor, Cherringham. Fire! There’s a fire. A bloody fire! Upstairs! First floor,” he said, hurrying on. “I can see it now! Room to the left, past the room with Japanese armour. Smoke spreading.”’

The voice finally cut him off.

“On our way,” the voice simply said. Then, as if stating the obvious, “Sir, please leave the house now and get as far away as you can, the engine will be with you shortly.”

And with the alert sounded, Charlie turned his backward crawl into a stumbling bolt, racing back past the perhaps now-doomed dolls, to the stairs.

Take care here … don’t want a nasty trip … tumble down. House going up in flames! That would be bad …

So, the steps, one at a time, hand on the bannister as if locked on.

To the door.

Always so wedged into the frame, needing a real hard yank to open.

Remembering now, even in his panicked dash, to press his key card against the plastic square with the small illuminated red dot near the doorknob.

Quick thought: What if electricity in the house is damaged, and the door doesn’t open?

What then?

But he heard a click, saw the small red dot turn green and, with as strong a tug as he could, pulled open the door.

The night air had never...