11.2

 

Halfway down the hallway, she froze.

There was someone clanking up the fire escape from the garden below.

A shape moved in the darkness — slow, deliberate. A head appeared, followed by the back of a bomber jacket, the kind so popular in vintage shops with the wide, fur-lined collar. This was followed by a large bum and thick, stocky legs. Finally, the burglar backed into the kitchen and, once clear of the doorway, swung around to reveal a roughly wrapped object in his hands. With the light on in the kitchen and not in the hall where she was stood, he was revealed clearly which she remained cloaked in shadow.

He eased the heavy object onto the table, pushing one of the cardboard ones further toward the wall. Then the figure muttered something under his breath — something about “bloody timing” and “should’ve wrapped it better” — and straightened up. He put his hands on his hips and arched his back. His spine cracked like lake ice under a careless foot and he smiled, obvious relief flooding his face.

Roisin’s mind raced. Should she run? Wake Paul? Call someone? Her hand hovered near the banister, ready to bolt. Again, confrontation was preferable to passivity and she advanced, brandishing the paint brush. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man jolted violently, knocking something off the table. It hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud — not metal, not glass. Something else. Something that made Roisin’s skin prickle.

“Jesus—!” He spun around, eyes wide. “You scared the life out of me.”

Roisin brandished the paintbrush. “Who are you?”

He blinked at her, chest rising and falling. Then his expression softened into something sheepish. “Oh. You must be Roisin.”

She stared. “How do you know my name?”

He pointed vaguely toward the rest of the flat. “Paul mentioned you. Said you’d just moved in.”

She didn’t relax. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Right. Sorry. I’m Steve. I have the attic space here. Has Paul not told you about me?”

Roisin narrowed her eyes. “You’re the landlord’s son?”

“Yeah.” He gestured around the kitchen. “I work a lot of night shifts. Odd hours. I’m hardly ever here when normal people are awake. You probably haven’t seen me.”

Roisin’s pulse was still racing. “I thought you were breaking in.”

Steve looked genuinely offended. “Breaking in? And what? Maliciously leaving you antiques and curios?” He gestured to the boxes. “Let me just shut the door. The rain’s getting in and I’m already soaked.”

Roisin stepped further into the kitchen, squinting. The object he’d brought in last was wrapped in cloth — old cloth, frayed at the edges, stained with something dark. The shape beneath it was irregular, angular. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it made her stomach tighten.

“What is that?” she asked.

Steve hesitated. “Just… something I’m holding onto for someone.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, it’s nothing dodgy. I just… deal in things. Objects. Odds and sods. Antiquities, that kind of thing. People bring them to me. I pass them on.”

Roisin frowned. “What kind of objects?”

Steve hesitated again — a longer pause this time. “Hard to explain.”

“Try.”

He crouched and picked up the wrapped object, holding it carefully, almost reverently. “Things that don’t quite fit anywhere else,” he said. “Things people don’t want to keep, but don’t want to throw away either.”

“That sounds like a charity shop.”

He gave a small, humourless laugh. “Not exactly.”

He placed the object gently on the table. The cloth shifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of something beneath — a sliver of carved wood, dark and smooth, with a faint pattern etched into it. Roisin felt a shiver run through her.

“What is that?” she whispered.

Steve didn’t look at her. “I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

He sighed. “Fine. I know a little. Enough to be careful.”

Roisin stepped closer, drawn despite herself. “Careful of what?”

Steve finally met her eyes. His expression was serious now, the easy humour gone. “Some objects carry things with them. Not ghosts, not curses — nothing dramatic. Just… residue. Memory. Emotion. Whatever people leave behind.”

Roisin felt her breath catch. “Like the gallery.”

Steve blinked. “What gallery?”

She shook her head. “Never mind.”

He watched her for a moment, then said quietly, “You feel it, don’t you?”

Roisin swallowed. “Feel what?”

“The charge,” he said. “The wrongness. The… hum.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Steve nodded slowly staring at her. “Most people don’t notice. They just think it’s old or ugly or unsettling. But you—” He tilted his head to one side, as if her was a dog trying to understand an unfamiliar command. “You see things.”