The Recluse | ONC 2023

Chapter Two

The heat rose from the pavement in rippling ribbons under my trainers as I walked the distance of Highland Row toward Ironwood Lane. The sun had dipped its toes into the horizon and remained visible only as a smear of orange behind the houses, but the heat was a different beast entirely. It couldn't be held back, didn't abate. The weatherman was calling this summer a "Record breaker!" I only hoped the rolling blackouts didn't return.

The plastic bag hanging from my wrist swayed with every step, and the sweating pint of milk inside bounced against my knee. The spearmint gum behind my teeth gave a feeble snap, and I swept my fringe back from my eyes, watching the darkening street. Like clockwork, as soon as I came to the corner of Ironwood Lane, I could hear the tyres on the tarmac behind me, and when I stopped at the signpost, the car pulled past, turning left.

I let my sunglasses slide along my damp nose as I peered at the black sedan, the windows too dark to see the driver.

Fecking weirdo, I thought to myself, quickly followed by, You know what they say about idiots in glass houses throwing stones.

Mr. Barnes turned, blinker flickering, and kept going. I followed, gum snapping.

I was almost to my house when I heard a shout, and Zach came out of his garden farther down the way, polishing off a can of Fosters' he was quick to leave on his wall. "Hey, Ophelia!"

"Alright?" I replied, lifting my free hand to wave. "Work treat you right today?"

"As well as any other day," Zach sighed as we met in front of my garden gate, the front of his t-shirt wet with sweat, though he smelled of freshly mowed grass. "Just finished off a bit of maintenance outside. Bloody awful way to complete the day. Work had me crawling up into a couple of attics to change old wires and I thought I was going to melt. Why people choose to upgrade their cable in the height of summer, I'll never know."

"Because they're stuck inside watching telly?"

"No one asked you to go and make sense now."

I snorted, flipping the latch on the gate. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"So long as the milk's not gone sour this time. Blegh!"

"I just bought some, smart arse." I opened the gate and let Zach pass through—though I lingered a moment longer, staring down the street in the direction he'd come. At the end of the lane, the garage door of Number Thirteen was just closing. I glanced around at the flat stone faces of the other houses, the lights just coming on, and retreated inside.

Zach took a tentative sniff as I closed the front door. "Ah, smells nice in here today." At my look, he shrugged, grinning. I dropped my keys and sunglasses on the sideboard by the door. "Your house either stinks of new flowers or manure, and there's no in-between."

We kept on into the kitchen, where I put on the kettle and Zach sat at the counter with the fan pointed at his face. As I readied the tea and inspected the cuttings on my window sill, conversation turned to Zach's girlfriend, Molly, who was away on an extended business trip, and other bits of gossip filtering through the village.

Naturally, the topic eventually settled on the neighborhood's newest curiosity.

"So," Zach said as he popped a digestive biscuit into his mouth, chewing. We'd drifted into the sitting room, and the tea had dwindled to the dregs. The evening pressed itself against the front window, thick as violet curtains. "I heard from Millie that Diane Brimsey stopped by Number Thirteen. Apparently, she invited Barnes to her garden party next week."

I groaned aloud. "Not you too."

"What do you mean?"

"Obsessing over the new neighbor." I tipped my gaze toward the wall, lit by the harsh, white glow of grow lamps left on over damp beds of soil. On the framed diploma hanging there, I could just read the words "Ophelia Thomson" and "Agriculture, Land Management and Production." The light glared on the side of orange prescription bottles. "Can he even be considered a new neighbor? It's been a month, hasn't it?"

"It's not obsessing. It's being curious." He polished off the last of his biscuits. "And you can't say you're not curious. Tarnsdale isn't a popular place for newcomers to move to, as far out from London as we are. Add to that, he's handsome, apparently unattached, and of some means. Of course everyone's going to want to know where he earns his living, or if he's married, or why he chose to come here."

I muttered under my breath, a jumbled mess of small, frustrated noises I was too tired to give voice to. The lights buzzed—a low, constant source of noise in the house, a perpetual hum in my ears. I pulled at the edge of my brown hair and picked at the split ends. "You don't...well. You don't find him odd?"

"No odder than any of the other blokes in the village," he replied. Zach folded his tan arms on the table's vinyl top, and I studied his features, his black hair rumpled by sweat, but his dark eyes otherwise alert. "Why don't you like him?"

"I don't feel any specific way about him," I argued, shaking my head. It'd be silly to have a firm opinion about someone I didn't know. "Can you honestly say he hasn't behaved strangely?"

"Not really."

"He moved in overnight."

"Perhaps he's efficient and doesn't keep a lot of rubbish. Not like the Trays. Have you seen their garage? More boxes than a box factory."

I huffed. "He barely leaves the house."

Zach laughed. "Look who's talking!"

"I mean—don't laugh! I leave the house to take out the bins or get the post. I step out to check the garden, tend the grass, take in any deliveries, and I leave the property to go to the corner shop at least twice a week." I waved a hand. "I'm saying I'm seen outside. Barnes isn't."

"That's not really odd. Everything can be delivered now, and seeing the state of the place, it's obvious he tends to it. Maybe he's a night owl—like you." Zach leaned back into the sofa, stretching. "You know what they said about you when you moved in."

That's true.

I pursed my lips, and my gaze toward the rear door, half-hidden behind the blinds. I stood.

"Just—come here and look."

"What are you on about?"

"Just, c'mon!"

I led him out into the garden, the space between the house and the converted shed enclosed by the high stone wall and a row of trimmed privet hedges. I brought Zach to stand on the flagstone in the middle of the yard, minding the damp, mossy Soleirolia soleirolii fringing the path, and turned him. I pointed to the top of Number Thirteen visible over the wall's capped top.

"What am I meant to be looking at?" Zach asked.

"That window there. Any minute now, the light will come on, and he stands there for hours watching the street."

"Oh, very ominous," Zach deadpanned.

"Just watch."

But, as we stood there, the summer air still warm and filled with the buzz of insects, the window remained dark.

"I swear it'll happen. It happens every night I walk out here."

The window remained unlit, and I let out a hot, irritated breath as Zach chuckled.

"Are you sure you aren't growing anything of the green variety in that greenhouse? Something you might roll up in some papers, perhaps?"

"Oh, shut up." I scratched at my head. "I swear I'm not being paranoid. I swear."

I'm not crazy. I'm not. It happened. It really happened. I heard—.

Zach went back inside, laughing, the screen coming closed with a loud creak of aging hinges. Number Thirteen remained quiet. I stayed in the garden, staring, until I forced my feet to move, and I followed him into the house.