John Crowley stood in the living room of his childhood home and wished dearly he were somewhere else. Outside the French windows, the twenty-acre grounds of Crowley House were receiving the full drenching of a Yorkshire autumn, the splatter of raindrops masking the familiar and unfamiliar voices from the kitchen. John pulled his mobile phone out of his crumpled jacket and, for the eleventh time, checked for messages.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
The speaker was a girl, probably only five or six, dressed up in her Sunday best. To keep her quiet, someone had given her an ice cream, and John watched with a vague indifference as it dripped onto the royal blue carpet.
“I’m waiting for a call,” he said.
“Oh.”
The little girl walked briskly across the room, leaving a trail of white spots like breadcrumbs behind her. She watched the rain with a look of faint disapproval on her cherub-like face. Probably one of his sister’s kids, John mused. He never had kept up with how many she had.
“You’ve got a funny voice,” said the child.
“I’ve been in America for a long time. Since before you were born.”
“Did you like it there?”
“Very much.”
“Why did you come back?”
John wondered why it was that children always knew the wrong questions to ask.
“You know that your grandfather is very sick, don’t you?”
“He’s got cancer.”
The words were said without much feeling. A matter-of-fact statement of events, repeated dutifully to confound adults who might attempt to dance around the subject.
“Yes, that’s right. Well, when people are very sick it’s nice to go and visit them. It makes them feel better.”
“So now you’ve visited him, will grandfather get better?”
She looked at him over the top of her ice cream. Soft grey eyes, like pebbles on a beach. It was the Crowley family trait.
“I’m sure he will,” said John, not certain who he was trying to comfort.
Once more he checked the mobile. Still no missed calls.
“You should stay here,” said the girl.
John looked out at the sodden garden and sighed.
“I wish I could.”
“No you don’t. Otherwise you’d stay.”
Simple. Straightforward. For a moment, John wished he still lived in a world like that.
“I don’t really…” He considered his words. “Belong here anymore.”
The girl appeared to think that over as she solemnly licked her ice cream. Finally she spoke.
“You’ll always belong here,” she said. “It’s your home.”
Then she screamed. John reached out to comfort her but instead found himself covering his ears as the scream expanded in volume and skyrocketed in pitch. It reached some critical altitude then began to oscillate up and down, rising and falling like a siren, a sorrowful wailing that bruised his eardrums and broke his heart. John felt himself collapse onto his knees, bowing his head against the noise. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
John stayed crouched on the carpet as he waited for the ringing in his ears to fade, then realised it wasn’t his ears. Struggling to his feet he pulled out the phone.
“Yes?”
“John Crowley?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Bridlington Hospital. I’m afraid Lord Crowley has passed away.”
John looked round at the trail of white spots on the carpet. The little girl had vanished.
“Yes,” he said. “I know.”