The Sydenham Hill House job
Mark is a navvy by trade. He’ll try anything and being pretty much brainless he is almost fearless, except for things like ants, he doesn’t like them at all. At the moment Mark is trying his hand as an exterior painter, working for Mike Beaulieu of Beaulieu Builders, light building works, interior and exterior decoration. Mark is a short squat lad of about 28 to 30 years of age. For summer jobs like the Sydenham Hill House one, Mark wears sports clothes – a V-neck T-shirt, football shorts, his exposed skin is weather beaten and raw red, tanned like a cow’s hide. The whole look is offset by his socks which he likes thick, white and pulled up to the top of his calf, giving the overall impression of a Wimbledon tennis player. He’s pretty much two-dimensional.
At the start of the summer Beaulieu Builders did a job on a large house on Sydenham Hill some of the locals & estate agents describe it as being the residence of a past German Ambassador. The house is on the peak of Sydenham Hill, a ridge running through southeast London. The city of London lies in a bowl surrounded by low-lying hills that provides viewpoints of the city. Highgate to Hampstead & Muswell Hill form the northern heights with Streatham, Sydenham & Forrest Hills providing the southern side.
One feature of Sydenham Hill House is it’s commanding vistas. Look south you can see the wooded more affluent suburbs of south London and beyond them the rolling hills of north Kent. Looking back over the rim of the ridge the house has vistas of the city of London, from upstairs if the air pollution is not too bad you can just about make out on the Alexandra Palace on Muswell Hill, the Crystal Palace’s north London counterpart.
The ramshackle and sprawling property was occupied by a single man, Mr Frobenius, who is about 75 years of age. Beaulieu is a traditionalist and therefore very formal all of the time, always referring to the owner as Mr Frobenius. Mark is not so formal or good with names and referred to all the punters, including Mr Frobenius, as ‘the man’ if he was talking to the boss, or ‘mate’ when addressing the customer.
“Use your loo? Mate?” was about the likely extent of Mark’s conversation with the proprietor.
Mr Frobenius has warm hazel eyes cast in round steel rimed spectacles. He was always immaculately dressed in shirt selves and blazer, the very model of an English gent at play. Frobenius exhibited extrovert tendencies, being a straight talking conversationalist, in a friendly sort of way. Frobenius would always greet Mark each morning with cup of tea for Mark and his boss. The boss was away for much of the day, pricing up or supervising other jobs & what not. So Mark was left for much of the day unsupervised with the owner.
The wiry & energetic Frobenius processed an infectious enthusiasm for all things Victorian. While the paint was drying, which was much of the time, a highly animated Frobenius would bamboozle Mark with his Victorian stories, which Mark was unable or uninterested in linking together. Frobenius spoke to Mark at length about the Victorians & the Cult of Death. Mark had no idea who the Victorians were, thinking they were probably akin to Martians, never mind knowing the Victorians had been so industrious, inventive or busy in this part of London, rebuilding the Crystal Palace a glorified greenhouse initially constructed in Hyde Park to house the Great Exhibition of 1851 but burnt down in 1936 tragically just before it was scheduled to host a cat show. Prior to meeting Mr Frobenius, Mark had never heard of the Victorian expansion though the Crystal Palace was just the name a second rate football team.
A big problem with the Sydenham Hill House job was the immense size of the property and the amount of painting Mark was required to do, alone. Mark found the place unnerving and hated being alone there. The next issue was the amount of time Mark spent on the job, he had “people to see” as he liked say, other things like his bird he liked to do and most importantly he was moving out of the estate. In not being there he found a natural balance to being alone. Moving out meant spending much of the time he should have been working he used Frobenius’s phone to try and organise things for the move which was due to happen at the end of the week – after the Sydenham Hill House job was done. On Thursday night Mark & his bird had a great partly, to celebrate finally being shot of the place – this god forsaken estate -they pissed all over it. It was great fun! But when Friday morning came everything was just too much, especially work.
Mark turned up an hour late and because Beaulieu wasn’t around he spent the next 2 hours in café with is head in his hands painfully flirting with the waitress. He took an hour for lunch before attempting to return to the job in hand. It was still too much. He splashed paint over Frobenius’s windows and frame, letting it dry before scratching back the paint of the glass. “I gotta move. I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here,” the tennis player repeated as he worked, using the mantra to build up a frenzy of shoddy workmanship. Finally, the boss turned up and on hearing Mark’s moronic mantra sympathetically took over the job. On leaving Mark called out to Mr Frobenius “I’m done. I’ll see you around”. “Yes, I look forward to it . . .” came the reply in cut glass English tones from Frobenius’s study. As soon as the skivvy had gone Beaulieu looked around for the owner. There was no sign of him in the study or anywhere else. Beaulieu shrugged, leaving the job poorly finished he locked up & posted Frobenius’s keys back through the letterbox and before taking off. “If Frobenius can’t be bothered to take a look at the work, then too bad”, mused Beaulieu as he cut easily in to the pre-rush hour traffic on Sydenham Hill. £5K in the bank with the economy stalling is a job well done.
Careful and considerate contractors
Mr Beaulieu had agreed to tidy up and ‘make good’ the house’s main entrance hall. A large, uncarpeted wooden staircase sweeps down in to the main passageway where several paintings and other objects of art are thoughtfully arranged. A grandfather clock tick-tocks sonorously. The several of thick coats of paint and vanish on the banister and slats are worn and peeling badly in places. The overall ambience of the hallway reminds Mark of the haunted houses in American cartoons and films of his childhood.
Driven by unease, Mark sets about the job by vigorously sanding back the warn paintwork, there wasn’t time to put down dustsheets or be too careful. The series of unknown portraits studied Mark as plumes of sanding dust were thrown up, hung for a second or two before raining down on them and everything else in the hallway. The door to Frobenius’s was study quietly pulled closed. Between burst of sanding Mark kept a cautious eye on the paintings, returning their gaze. There was one painting, not a portrait, Mark really liked. It was a bit bigger than a sheet of A4 paper and much more brightly coloured than the others. It hung between the main door and the door to Frobenius’s study, opposite the strangely empty front room. It must be his best one, the one he looks at the most. Beneath the blistering paint Mark revealed a nice mahogany wood. Mark found this discovery part of the job, when it happened, quite rewarding work seeing himself as an archaeologist uncovering precious antiquities unseen by human eyes for millennia, or something like that . . . Anyway, Mr B and Mr F will be pleased, the mahogany bannister might even be Victorian. Working determinedly and lost in these thoughts Mark reached the landing of the first turn in the stair in surprisingly good time and stopped to admire the dark red wood he had uncovered. It was smooth to the touch. Despite the paint dust, which has spread surprisingly widely onto the stairs and floor the passageway below the bannister sang out, it changed the whole tone of the space.
Mark felt his heart stop for a second. Coming up the staircase, quite apart from his own marks were a series of footprints in the dust. His brain boiled as he tried to figure out where these footprints had come from. F Frobenius must have walked upstairs whilst Mark was lost in his work. Glancing across in search of an explanation he saw the door to Frobenius’s study still shut! Where the fuck was the old ct? Mate! Marooned by the dust he called out. Mate! Part relieved, part horrified Mark watched the study door open and Frobenius appeared craning his neck to make eye contact.
“Mate, you’re here!”
“I am here. Is there a problem?”
“Footsteps!”
“What’s this you’ve unearthed” Frobenius looked at the bannister. “Mahogany?”
“Footsteps” repeated Mark pointing at the stairs.
“What’s the matter old boy? You seem rather . . .”
“Footsteps!”
“. . agitated”. Frobenius finished his sentence carefully picking his way through the dust to the foot of the staircase and inspecting his newly dusted artwork.
“Footsteps in the dust” rooted to the spot Mark needlessly pointed them out.
“Yes, you have made quite a mess.”
“It’s not me!”
“You’ve been at it for an hour and a half”, Frobenius drew a finger across the head of an African standing figure carving.
“The footprints. . . I didn’t make them.”
Frobenius gently laughed. “You must have done. I’ve been in my study and there’s nobody else here”.
Mark was still, transfixed. “There must be some one else here. . . upstairs”.
“Look, you can see my prints coming from the study.”
“Look at the prints on the stairs, their different to mine and yours!”
“I can assure you there’s nobody else here. Now, do try and work more carefully and tidily. I think you should get some air this paint seems to have a rather high lead content”, Frobenius smiled.
“You’re damn right I’ll keep it tidy, mate! This won’t be happening again.”
Stimulated by adrenaline and the urge to take flight Mark began to brush up the dust, thrashing away at it from the very end of his broom but only securing a wider distribution of the sinister powder.
“Gonna lunch, mate!” the door slammed. In the study Frobenius chuckled to himself as the dust settled in the hall.
For the rest of his time on the job Mark worked in short tidy bursts, carefully brushing up any dust and always looking over his shoulder.
A proper job
Mark’s new gaffe is on the second floor of the old Harvester Pub on the South Circular was OK, more than OK but it came at price & money was tight. Mark has a devised plan of sorts to pay for it. Sitting down to a dinner and watching some cartoon capers on TV, he tells his’ bird, Tara, an eastern European girl, about his plan.South Circular Aug 16
“I got way to help finance this place”, Mark nodded at the walls & gestured at them with his knife for emphasis. Tara sighed, visibly deflating. “ I was doing this job and the geezer left the keys on the shelf of the bookcase by the front door. When I’d finished painting the front door, I’d say I was going down the shop and that I’d leave the door open for the paint to dry. This meant he wouldn’t leave his precious house & he wouldn’t go looking for his keys neither, you get me? I took the keys, went down the shoe repair shop by the station & cut him a second set which I still got, like. I’ve it given a couple of weeks so I’m gonna back one evening this week, when he ain’t in or after he’s gone to bed. He got all these crazy ornaments & shit. Like there’s this tasty painting in the hallway, it’s small – portable like – d’ ya get me? It’s gotta be worth a bit, a pretty bob or two, he even told me so.”
“I don’t like it Mark. This is stupid idea. I wish you wouldn’t. We have good jobs there is no need. Anyway who can you sell a painting too?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got it all figured out”. Mark fed his mouth and chewed starring back at the television.
On the first Friday night after telling Tara his plan, Mark waits for until she has gone to sleep before going back to rob old man of his painting & and anything else that might come to hand. Not exactly possessed of Moriarty’s cunning Mark goes to into the night to execute his plan dressed in his trademark tennis players’ look, the all white outfit.
The night was warm as Mark set off passing the Harvester pub he walked toward Cox’s Walk that climbs through Dulwich woods. Mark likes walking pretty much everywhere – what with the price of public transport and everything. The wind gently moved the trees and Mark watched the yellow lamplight playing on the path as he strode upwards. Half way up the hill he turned to look at the lights of the city of London that become visible at this height on the hill.
Frobenius’s house is one of the biggest on the ridge of Sydenham Hill. His bedroom is upstairs and Mark can easily see it and the whole of the front of the house from the bus stop a little further up the road. Mark sat & waited. Before long all the lights in Frobenius’s property went off. 10.10 pm, sweet, thought Mark just time for a quick one at the boozer. Why not? I’ll soon have a few more available readies. After a couple of beers, at The Dulwich Woodhouse pub all of two minutes away, a long chat to the lady behind the bar and despite is best efforts not to be turned back onto the streets Mark is kicked out at midnight. Remembering the job in hand the tennis player ambles back towards Sydenham Hill House, taking a bit of time to skin up and smoke a J at the bus stop. No hurry, it’ll still be there.
He waits until 2 am before crossing the road. His hollow thoughts on how spend the money are occasionally interrupted by slowing of approaching night buses before he wave them on. Not wanting to use the keypad to open the automatic gate he easily scales the boundary wall, and makes his way slowly across the gravel forecourt to the house. For the first time he uses the illicitly cut keys to enter. They work! The adrenalin is going and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears ripping through the silence. The main corridor extends away in front of him into the darkness of the house. The bookcase is on the left hand side with the Gauguin painting opposite it, just past the sitting room. Mark turns to close the door as quietly as he can, squeezing out the yellow light of the main road, the initial adrenalin rush now washing over him. Addled by the booze and spliff he tries to recall the precise details of the plan – what he’s doing here. Gently swaying in the darkness he recalls the fear he experienced on his earlier visits. He gets the sense of somebody else downstairs with him.
Looking into the sitting room he can see the outline of a person sitting in the armchair opposite. Fuck! Looking right at him is the old man. Waiting, unsurprised, expectant almost. Mark can see other shadows moving in the room, people wearing large African or American carved masks. There is the sound of a drum but the drummer is unseen in the dark carnival.Drum (3:3) 06 Mar 14
“Thanks for coming back Mark!” Frobenius is clear & surprisingly friendly as he gets to his feet. ”But, it is a bit a strange time to return my new set of keys you so kindly had cut . . . or are you after something? One of my paintings, perhaps?”
‘Eh? Mr Frobenius? Yeah your keys. I thought you’d. . .’ his voice tailed off.
‘No need to explain Mark I’ve set the whole thing up, I brought you here, manipulated your circumstances & well, you’ve struck lucky, mate! You’ve returned to pick up your fate. What a bright future you have!’
‘Eh, what? Set up how?’ Mark struggled to come to terms with what was happening.
“During our “conversations” it became apparent to me Mark that you are a completely vacuous individual, an empty vessel, a white canvass”.
“I need an assistant, no a vehicle . . . an envoy. Some new blood, somebody who looks, sounds acts and thinks like a native. A clean skin”.
‘No. . . I meant nothing by it. It’s just I found them in my bag like. I shouldn’t a come back. . .”
Frobenius cut him off’ “Stop blathering & listen! There are many unusual. . . things happening in this old town. Ancient & powerful artifacts have bought to these shores and with them came forces unseen, unknown, incomprehensible to modern humans. In the immortal words of Donny Rumsfeld ‘These are unknown unknowns.’”
“What like the Wombles?” asked Mark fortified by the alcohol. His brain, somewhat slow at the best of times, was more jumbled after the beer & weed.
“Wombles? Are you taking the piss you retarded little runt?” He paused trying to regain control “I should rip off your fucking balls for the mess you made of my windows!”
Then mocking Mark in weak, distressed tone Frobenius whined, “I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here.” Frobenius rose to his feet. Mark saw a different, older man, looking him in the eye, the same warm hazel eyes but now he exposed a naked, rat-like cruelty and sadism. Again Frobenius mouthed, “I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here,” but this time the voice was Mark’s own, mocking him. Mark’s whole body spasmed. He knew he was fucked.
Stepping back Frobenius’s cold rancid breath crystallising in front of his face as his lips tightened into a narrow smile. “You have gone pale, my friend. You have realised I am not a your average, lonely old man to be stolen from. Perhaps you have thought as far as” he paused before adding, “I am not of this time.”
What ever Frobenius was, he retained the same voice but his body was much older, darker. Mark now saw him against the yellow glow of the streetlight filtering through the window and silhouetted in the head headlights of an occasional passing car. Older, darker and colder.
“You & your feeble wits are trying to reason! Trying to find a way out. What am I, from where do I hail?” Frobenius threatened, fixing Mark in his steely gaze. “A Victorian ghost, a mere shadow on time & space? A shadow emerging from your addled mind? A demon perhaps, or something more substantial, tangible even, here to take possession of your pathetic mind, for what it is worth? Are you not curious Mark? Would you not like to know what shinny new function I have for you? Some people’s stay on Earth is short lived, what with things like diseases, accidents & neglect. But you have been chosen for a much longer stay, luck you! I can see that you’re very please with your new circumstances.”
“Whatever you’re doing. Just do it!” Mark instructed, strangely bold again but resigned to whatever fate Frobenius had lined up for him. “I’ve always fucking hated it here”.
“Not much of one for a game of cat and mouse are you? I am disappointed”. ‘I see melodrama is more your forte’. Frobenius replied in a smooth conciliatory tone, before countering. ‘I need a clean skin. I need . . . somebody who is largely unknown to the police & even better is someone like you unknown by the entire media. To them you are but a nameless arsehole”. Frobenius toyed with an object in his hands. “Why is this of importance? I need something done they can’t anticipate never mind track or trace. I need a new start’. As Frobenius said this Mark saw a flash of yellow in the dark behind him. In the shadow of the flash the masked creature rushed passed Frobenius to towards him, careering through him, he tried to scream. . .
