111 West End

Chapter Sixteen: The Agent

Fifteen Years Earlier,

Ben held a copy of the 1801 census in one hand and a coffee in the other, waiting for Natalie to open the door.

After the second ring, the door opened. "Ben." She frowned. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Hello Natalie, I owe you an apology," Ben said, smiling. "I bring you a peace offering." He held out the coffee wondering if she'd tell him where to go. He'd behaved like an arrogant arsehole the last time they had spoken.

"Erm... Sure, come in." She took the coffee and let him in.

They walked in awkward silence to the lounge. In his head, Ben rehearsed his apology. 'Natalie, I'm a prick!' No, that wouldn't work. 'Natalie, I believe you!' That was better. What he actually said barely made sense.

"You were right... I'm a fool... I see now... Oh, shit! I don't know where to start..." He rubbed his temples. He wasn't used to being wrong. He couldn't remember the last time he'd apologised.

"Ben, take a breath." Natalie looked at him with pity, making his skin crawl.

"Can I sit?" He fidgeted nervously.

"Yes." She gestured to the sofa facing the window, and the orangery, and that fucking painting.

Ben took a deep breath and attempted to put a cohesive sentence together.

"I need to apologise for making you feel as though you were delusional. It was wrong. I should've listened to what you were telling me, because, Natalie, you were right."

"What made you change your mind?" She squinted at him as though reading his mind.

"I saw him. The man in your painting."

"Where?"

Ben pointed to the ceiling. "In the master bedroom, by the window."

Natalie flopped into the armchair opposite him.

"Now you believe me, what do we do?"

"I've been doing some research. I searched the parish census, and I found him." Ben passed Natalie his copy of the census and waited while she read.

"I told you, Ben. He never left."

"Is he here now?"

"No."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No, Ben, I don't know where he is! I don't go looking for him. He shows up when he feels like it, and I wish he didn't. He is in my room at night or he is sitting in this armchair. Or lurking in the cellar, while I'm sorting the laundry. He's a creeper. I hear his footsteps outside my bedroom door, and tapping in the bathroom. And... and he whispers."

Now she had opened up to him, she couldn't stop.

"What does he say?"

"He tells me to leave."