THE BACKROOM

It was a cloudless autumn day in November, along the shingle coast of Sussex. The estate agent, who smelt faintly of ketchup, showed us round number 86 Blackbury Avenue.  We entered through the Edwardian shop front. The weather peeled panes were black with gold trim, the sign above read: Manning and son.

            ‘Do you know what they sold?’ said Jane. The estate agent shrugged and began to describe the house.

            ‘Large family living room, galley kitchen in need of refurbishment, bathroom bedroom, upstairs,’ said the estate agent in a robotic phrase to phrase check list.

            After the tour of upstairs, he led us down and into the backroom opposite the kitchen. It was a large and stuffy workshop. There was an old apron sink, some thick wooden work tops, and a strange smell that was unpleasant and familiar. Jane’s eyes shone like emeralds.  

            ‘This will make a perfect studio Donny,’ said Jane. She was an artist. And now she would have the space to realise her dreams. The estate agent opened the large double doors onto a courtyard of red brick. 

            ‘Perfect space for a washing line, and potted plant garden,’ he said. I nodded. Jane’s eyes were beams. This was the house for her. It was bigger than all the others we had seen. Her inheritance was humble. All she could afford were dingy one bed flats. The house on Blackbury Avenue was big and within her budget. The added space won me over. But I didn’t understand why this particular house was so cheap. The backroom had an old feeling. It was as if the same air from the days when the shop was running remained. I sniffed it, trying to work out what the smell was. Before I could figure it, Jane had picked up her phone. Before I could say ‘it smells like death in here,’ she had put in an offer to buy.

 

            We moved in and sat on the floor. We made a table from a cardboard box, and a piece of board. All the money went on the house. We came from a furnished flat and had nothing left to spend on tables and chairs and sofas. We laughed as we ate our madras and korma.

            ‘We did it,’ said Jane. ‘We moved and this place is ours. No landlord, no rent, no stress.’

            ‘I’m happy, but I really want to know what they did in the backroom,’ I said. It gave me a feeling of dread every time I passed through to the courtyard.

            ‘You’re supposed to be tough and brave, I am the one who is supposed to scream, and run to you for safety. It’s just a room Mark.’

            ‘If it’s just a room then why does it smell like death?’

            ‘Maybe that’s where they killed them and chopped them up for meat pies,’ said Jane, and she laughed. ‘Poor little Marky, scared of the backroom.’

 

            I was an atheist. I didn’t believe in ghosts. Jane had her own beliefs of spirits and auras. I never pressed her for an explanation, and she never questioned my faithlessness. We got on, and thoughts about what happened to the dead rarely came into conversation. Still, the backroom made me uneasy. It was dark in there, even under the noon light. There were no windows in the wall. A frosted circle cut into the double door was the only source of daylight. Jane worked with the doors open until it got too cold. Then she worked under a single bulb. And when her work was done all that separated us from the studio was a thick burgundy curtain. Every time I went to the kitchen I felt the dull empty darkness waiting behind the curtain.

            Houses make strange noises, especially when they have been left dormant. Air bubbles in pipes thud in the night. Wood beams expand and contract with the changing temperatures, creaking at odd times. And then there are the unexplainable noises that steal the peace of midnight, and drive sleep from the mind.

           

I got up after an uneasy sleep. I went down to get myself a glass of water. I switched on the stair light then the kitchen light. I saw the curtain. I did not want to think about the darkness beyond. I turned the tap and heard the hammer of the pipe thud. Then it stopped and silence came back. I was half way up the stairs when I heard a bang from the backroom. It sounded like a hammer on wood. The part of me which was a coward wanted to run upstairs to Jane. But her mocking had sunk in and I was determined not to let my fear rule my actions. I drew open the curtain and saw the darkness. Jane’s easel shone under the kitchen light. There was a faint glow of the moon in the circle in the door. I turned the light on, and saw Jane’s canvases, her paints, and her overalls hung on the wall. I told myself something must have fallen off the edge of something else, but what? Nothing was out of place. I tuned the light off, turned my back on the dark. I made quick work of the stairs.

 

            The hammering noise that came from the backroom was never explained. I heard it again night after night, and always when Jane was asleep. Sometimes it came as a solitary knock, sometimes three taps. Sometimes it repeated, as if a task were being completed. And when I went to the room, I found nothing out of place.

            Jane had fallen into her yearly bought of depression. She stopped painting and took to her bed. The excitement of the move had worn off and she shrunk away from her art. I loved her through these times. I knew there was love and fire smouldering within her. I knew she would come around and get back to her work. We had enough money to eat, but not for heating. We chose to eat. And at night we wrapped up in blankets. The house got damp. And so did our spirits. The noise stopped. I forgot it.

            I found my nights without the company of Jane began to bore me. She just hid from the world. I went down the local library to get warm and to research the origins of the house. I wanted to find out what went on in the backroom. If I could find out the function, maybe the noise would be nothing more than some old obsolete mechanism. I was hopeful. Spring was about to hit the land, and Jane always perked up when the days got warmer.

            My research proved useful. I found out that Manning and Sons was a funeral parlour. The smell of death was death, with subtle hints of embalming fluid. It all made sense. I chose not to tell Jane. I would tell her when she was ready.                                                                                                        

           The thought of hundreds of corpses passing through the backroom, off carts, onto tables, and into coffins, and back out to the nearest graveyard, dug itself into my heart. The fear I felt at the sound of the hammering noise returned. And the noise itself caught me out one night.

            My sleep had been troubled. I worked nights and failed to catch up during the day. Then when I finally got a day to rest sleep did not come. I began to drink to lull the body into a false sense of rest. The beer drove my mind on to the thoughts of the dead.

            Jane lay there snoring after the prescription pills. They knocked her out. I wanted to take them myself but knew it would end with one of us losing the grip on it. I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and sat on the old sofa, the one we found on the streets. I opened a copy of Orwell’s 1984 and read.

A librarian showed me how to access the library archives on my laptop. I dug and dug at the history surrounding Manning and Sons. The search led me to a newspaper article: Murder at the Funeral parlour. Manning was murdered by his wife. The parlour closed down. After the trial, the estate went to the only surviving heir, the daughter, Miss June Manning.

           

            The morning came but the sun remained behind the shrouding clouds of night. It was so gloomy the street lamps came on at noon, by the time the sky brightened the sun was going down. It was a stinker of a day and Jane had yet to rise. I heard her calling for me.

            ‘What is it love?’ I said.

            ‘I heard a voice.’

            ‘What kind of voice.’

            ‘A woman, you haven’t brought a woman here have you?’

            ‘Of course not, it’s just me and you.’

            ‘I must have dreamt it.’

            ‘Can I get you anything?’ I said.

            ‘I want coffee. I want to get up. I feel like painting.’

I ran down the stairs put the kettle on and got things rolling. She was getting up for the first time in a month. I was happy. But the research, the murder, the funerals, the corpses, it was with me. I stared at the blue twilight through the small window in the kitchen. I heard a deep chilling rasping male voice, a soft growling voice. Was it a draft through the window, or the voice of Manning? I put it out of my mind and took the coffee up to Jane. She was out of bed and slipping on her slippers.

            ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

            ‘Nothing.’

            ‘What is it, have you heard him to?’

My heart dropped. ‘What do you mean him?’

            ‘The man who haunts this house,’ said Jane.

I was stopped by her candid words. ‘You know about Manning?’

            ‘I don’t know the name but I assume its Manning. The question is: why is he haunting us?’

            ‘He was murdered by his wife.’ I said.

            ‘That figures, and he will not rest. The question is why she murdered him and why I hear a woman humming and singing upstairs.’

            ‘You know I don’t believe in ghosts Jane.’

            ‘I know, but you have heard something you couldn’t explain, and it drove you to research.’

            ‘Yeah I have heard hammering in the backroom.’

            ‘What was Manning and Sons?’ said Jane.

            ‘It was a funeral parlour?’ I said.

            ‘You heard hammering in the parlour, where the coffins were sealed.’

I felt the shivers run down my back. The hairs on my arms tingled. Had I heard the ghostly tapping of nails into coffins? I didn’t want to believe it.

            ‘I’ve got to go to work?’ I said.

She hugged me and I left. I was glad to get out of the house.

 

            When my work was over, I strolled back in the early hours of Sunday morning. Blue rain and car fumes filled the air. I shut the door and put the kettle on. The light from the backroom was on. Jane was painting. I brought her a coffee and saw the coffin.

            ‘What the fuck is that?’ I said.

            ‘I found it in the loft,’ said Jane.

            ‘You found a coffin in the loft and brought it down?’

            ‘I am going to paint it. It will make a great piece. An empty coffin, death staring at you, calling you, evocative, dark, and humbling.’

I watched as she splashed different colours over the wood.

            ‘What about the lid?’ I said.

            ‘I won’t be using it.’

It was lent against the wall. I saw the original black paint. It was the same peeling black paint on the panes of the shop front. I imagined the rough hands of Manning closing the lid on the dead. Then I heard the hammering of nails. The night was far away. I left Jane to her coffin and went to bed.

            A dream came. One of those dreams that turn into a nightmare. The ones where spiders come at you and you can’t move. This dream had me led down in a coffin. I saw Manning, or what my mind made him look like. I was in the coffin and his heavy breathing shook the walls. His eyes were a colourless black, a hammer in his hand, and he slid the lid over me, and thud…I woke up.

            It was dark now. Jane found me shivering, sweating out the energy drinks and coffee. She had finished her work for the day. She kissed me and I got up. I smelt the turps on her hands. I went down stairs. I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and turned on the laptop.

My latest project involved tracking down the members of the Manning family. I had become fixated on the murder case. The newspaper gave only fragments. I wanted to know why Mrs Manning had murdered her husband. If I could figure it out maybe, I could bring peace to the night. I didn’t want to let a ghost ruin my life. To let supernatural unseen entities, steal the night from me was to admit that ghosts were real. The more I found out, the more I was sure the noise would be conquered. I could wander about the house at night without fear, without hearing the sound of hammering into an unseen coffin.

            My search led me to a retirement home. A lady by the name of Iris Pike, claimed to have known June Manning. I found her by tracking down the last occupant of June Manning’s house, June being the daughter of the Murdered Frank Manning. The owner of the house didn’t know what became of June. But said if anyone knew it would be Iris.

            I rang the retirement home and asked if I could visit Iris. I said I was an old family friend. But it was a lie. I didn’t think she would call back. She called me to see who I was, and I confessed my reason for tracking her down. I told her I lived at Manning and Sons. She agreed to talk but not over the phone.

 

          The retirement home was warm. It felt like an oven compared to our ice box. There were men and women sat in front of a television. They were sat in old brown chairs, the walls were light brown, the smell of piss was dulled by air fresheners. I asked the nurse for Iris. I was led to her room. Iris was bed ridden, but unusually happy to see me. Visitors seldom came to see her despite her scores of grandchildren. She offered me a warm chocolate bar, I did not refuse.

            ‘You’re the man that lives in the Manning house, aren’t you?’

            ‘Yes,’ I said.

            ‘I suppose you know about the murder?’

            ‘Mrs Manning murdered her husband. I want to know why.’

Iris winched at the word murder. She stared at the grey clouds outside.

            ‘He was a nasty man.’

            ‘What do you mean nasty?’ I said.

            ‘What goes on behind closed doors was supposed to be sacred. But when Mrs Manning left to do her shopping people saw her eyes. They were often bruised, and sometimes she would struggle to lift her shopping. A woman of her age young and full of life, well there could only be one explanation. She was beaten. And yet they had a daughter. She was a bit older than me but when we left school we became friends. You know how big the town is now, well when I was young it was small. In those days you found a husband. I found one, left home and started a family. But June was never allowed out longer than six o’clock. Even in her late twenties her father kept her locked away. When she got to her thirties the trouble started, the caged bird, we called her, the caged bird wanted freedom. And Manning hit her. He bruised her eyes like he had bruised her mothers. And one night after she had snuck out to a dance, he waited for her, with each hour after six, he must have grown more enraged at her defiance. When finally, she returned at midnight, it was said he lunged at her, but his fists didn’t land. Mrs Manning took up his coffin hammer and struck him on the back of the head. One blow was enough. She put years of rage into it and Manning fell to the floor of his parlour and never got up.

            ‘They never found the body. But she turned herself in and confessed. In those days they hung people. She was hung. And June shut herself away in the upstairs of Manning and sons. Her inheritance was large. And after a number of years she moved, but she refused to sell the parlour. I lost touch with her. I wasn’t surprised to hear she never married. The one night she let her hair down both her parents were taken from her.’

 

            Iris sipped at her lukewarm cup of tea. She stared out the window again and the grey clouds broke exposing a bit of blue.  

            ‘Thank you Iris.’

            ‘Don’t mention it. But now I have told you my story, will you do the same for me and tell me why you came looking for me. And don’t leave anything out. I didn’t get to ninety-four, without knowing when someone is pulling the wool over my eyes.’

            ‘I have heard noises, in the night. Hammering noises, and my partner, has heard voices, female voices. She is convinced we are being haunted by the ghost of Manning, and now, his wife, and maybe even June.’

            ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ said Iris.

            ‘I didn’t, but now I don’t know. I feel something in the backroom at night.’

            ‘I feel it here at night.’

            ‘What do you mean?’ I said.

            ‘This is an old people’s home. Many people have died here, some in this very room. I feel it, even if I don’t hear them or see them. They leave me alone. But Manning and Sons, has been empty for decades, you have entered their space. And maybe they don’t want you there.’

            ‘What can I do?’ I said.

            ‘I can’t help you there, I am not a priest, nor am I learned in the occult. How do you take their home for yourselves? I don’t know. Take courage boy, dead they may be but the dead can’t hurt the living. In ninety years I have never heard of a ghost hurting anyone.’

            ‘I will leave you now. Thanks again.’

            ‘Come see me again boy and bring your wife.’

I left her. I walked home by twilight.

 

            The thought of returning to the house, knowing the full story of the backroom, filled me with fear. Something was calling out, something wanted to be discovered. The pain of that night still reverberated in the backroom. The parlour where the dead were dressed for the grave gave off an essence that penetrated the skin. And I, the atheist, the logical faithless man, was questioning everything. I hadn’t slept much since I started doing nights. I had done nights before. I had never heard things I could not explain. Even though They never found the body they still sentenced her to death. There were mysteries I didn’t want to discover. I wanted to live with Jane and enjoy the house, rather than fear to tread in my own kitchen after dark.

            I stood on the doorstep. I didn’t want go inside. I opened the door and found all the lights were off. Had Jane gone to bed? I called out. She did not reply. I tried the light. It did not switch on. We must have run out of electric I thought. I didn’t know where she had gone. I checked upstairs the bed was empty. I used my phone light. It was nearly out of charge. The living room, bedroom and kitchen were empty. The only place I hadn’t checked was the backroom.

            I drew the curtain back and saw the coffin. There was no sign of Jane. Something drew me to look inside. As I did so my phone ran out of charge. I leaned over the coffin and a face stared back at me. The mouth opened. A scream released. A puncturing scream, a thousand screams of pain and suffering, layered and released as one. My ears hurt. The scream stopped. The lights came on. I looked down into the coffin, it was Jane. She sat up. She ignored me and went into the garden. She returned with a pick axe and a spade. She grabbed the coffin and slid it off the table. Then she dragged the table to one side.

            ‘What are you doing,’ I said. She ignored me and drove the pick axe into the flagstone floor.

            ‘Jane,’ I said. But my voice didn’t register. She brought the pick down again and again. Bits of stone cracked and splintered off into the room. She lifted one flagstone up then went to work on the next. There was earth under the stones. She drove the pick into the earth and it hit something. She took the spade and scraped at the earth. It was wood.

            I stood back as she hacked and dug at the floor. The shape that emerged was coffin sized. She wedged the pick into the wood. She popped the lid of the coffin buried beneath the backroom. Inside there was a corpse. It was dressed in a suit. The ring finger was missing.

            Was this the body of Manning? If it was the police would need to know. I looked at the lid. I saw scratch marks and fingernails stuck into the wood. He wasn’t dead. Whoever this was had been buried alive. I turned to Jane. She was shivering.

            ‘Call the police,’ I said. She nodded.

 

They came and did their work. They wanted to know why we decided to dig up the floor. I lied and said we were going to put under-floor heating in. They didn’t believe us. But they didn’t want to stick around.

            Years later they told us the body had been identified as Mr Manning. The noises stopped and Jane’s art began to sell. I got a job with sociable hours and after a few months of sleep. I put the haunting of the backroom to the pit of my mind. We never spoke of it.