The House on Cold Hill

56

The woman with the baby turned and went back into the house. As she did so, Ollie heard her say, ‘There was a man standing there, Kev, I promise! I saw him! He told me his name — Oliver Harcourt. He said he lived up the lane in that big house, Cold Hill House.’

‘Mel, there was no one there,’ her husband replied.

‘I didn’t imagine it!’

‘Your postnatal depression. Maybe it’s playing tricks on your mind?’

The door closed behind her.

Ollie stood still for some moments. What the hell was going on? Was he trapped in the middle of some elaborate conspiracy to drive him insane? Annie Porter dead?

Impossible.

‘I think she’s buried in the village churchyard.’

He climbed back on his bike. The sirens had all stopped. There was complete almost ethereal silence, just the last twitters of birds as darkness fell. His head spinning, he rode on down into the village. He passed the cottage that always displayed the ‘Bed & Breakfast’ sign. The sign was gone. Then he braked hard as he reached the smithy. It was no longer a smithy. Instead a large sign outside proclaimed: YE OLDE TEA SHOPPE.

When had that happened? It must have been in the past few days, because he’d not seen that earlier in the week.

Moments later, as he pedalled on, something struck him as different about the front of the pub. It had been spruced up, painted a lighter colour that was hard to make out in this light — white or cream — and ‘The Crown’ pub sign had gone. In its place was a larger sign, in elegant script.

He braked hard, locking up the back wheel, and stared, blinking in confusion. Several smart cars were in the car park; the place looked expensive and rather precious.

He rode on, pedalling urgently to increase his speed, as if trying to ride back into sanity. As he saw the lychgate of the church ahead of him he dismounted and propped the bike up against the flint wall.

Moments later, as went in through the gate, a short, very serious-looking man in a tweed jacket and dog collar came out of the church and headed down the path towards him. As they crossed, Ollie asked him, ‘Excuse me, do you know by chance where I can find the grave of a lady called Annie Porter?’

The clergyman walked straight past him without any hint of acknowledgement, as if he had not seen him.

Ollie turned. ‘Excuse me!’ he called out. ‘Excuse me!’

The man went out through the lychgate and turned left towards the vicarage.

Rude bastard, Ollie thought.

The more recent graves were towards the rear, behind the church, he recalled. That was where he had found the O’Hare family, and there had been quite a bit of open ground beyond them, no doubt to accommodate more graves in the future. He hurried up the path, anxiously, and although it was steep, he was pleased that neither the exertion of the cycling, nor of this fast walking, was giving him the breathlessness and tightness in his chest he’d been experiencing just recently.

He reached the grand marble headstone of the O’Hare family, then saw a further row of headstones beyond it that he didn’t recall from his previous visit here.

He shone his phone torch along the newer headstones and then stopped, in disbelief, as he read the inscription.

2016? Ollie thought. This was not — not possible. Somehow, whatever was going on inside his messed-up brain, he was seeing into the future, or at least imagining he was. But suddenly, it no longer seemed to matter. It didn’t bother him, he was just mildly curious — as if he had become aware in a dream that he was dreaming. He would wake up in a few moments and everything would be fine. Back to normal.

Out of curiosity he moved along to the next headstone. It was a similar size to Annie Porter’s, but it looked more expensive, a fine white marble.

Then, as he read the carved inscriptions, he felt the ground suddenly dropping beneath his feet, as if he was in a plunging elevator.

He stared, rooted to the spot. The twenty-first of September was today.