No one ever came to the villa. There were no calls, there was no mail. The groceries were delivered on Friday, so she had no need to go to the nearest village. She was pleased when she saw the deliveryman roar up the drive. But he seemed in a great hurry to get the receipt signed and leave. He didn’t even turn off the van’s engine. ‘Did you know the children’s mother?’ she asked, as he laid the carbon paper between the receipt and copy.
He shook his head. ‘She burned alive, up there.’ He used his chewed ballpoint pen to point to the flat roof of the villa. ‘It used to have another storey — that’s why the roof is flat.’ His face glistened with sweat as he then leaned close. ‘No one stays there now, not for more than a few days anyway. He stays away for months at a time, the father. He hates it here.’
‘But what about the children?’
The deliveryman gave her a strange look. ‘They’re the reason no one stays. It was them that started the fire they reckon. They’re... not normal.’
Later when she entered the nursery she found them lying side by side, their arms entwined around each other, whispering. They parted quickly and fell silent, as if annoyed by her intrusion.
‘This afternoon we’re going on a picnic,’ she said. ‘Which would you prefer, the beach or the heath? You choose.’
As if on cue there was a clap of thunder and heavy raindrops began to fall. The children giggled.
‘Ah, well,’ said the nanny, ‘maybe tomorrow. These storms never last long. Let’s see what’s on the television.’
She turned on the set, but it was crackly and unwatchable, so she offered to play a game with them, but none of her suggestions drew so much as a flicker of interest. The two children sat, hand in hand, dead-eyed, until she became angry with her own inability to cajole them into animation.
‘Why don’t you want to play?’ She couldn’t stop her voice rising. ‘Have you ever played like normal children? What on earth is the matter with you both? Stop looking at each other and look at me. Look at me! Now, tell me what’s the matter. You behave as if you hate me.’
The boy kicked at a chair leg. ‘We don’t hate you,’ he said. But he had a strange smile on his face.
‘No, we don’t hate you,’ piped up his sister.
The nanny took a deep breath. ‘Are you like this because of your mother? Because of what happened to her?’
The children held each other’s gaze for a long time, as if having a silent conversation. Then the boy eased away from his chair and crossed to her. Reaching for her hand, he began to stroke it. His skin felt almost silky. He pressed his body closer and closer to her as if wanting to slip his arms around her waist. She found it moving, as if he was trying to comfort her.
Apparently encouraged by her brother, the girl crossed and hugged the nanny’s knees, so tightly that she could feel the child’s hot breath against her thighs. Suddenly her joy turned to panic as she realized that this was no show of juvenile affection.
The boy was easing up her skirt, his small hands rhythmically stroking her thigh, as his sister’s hot breath centred at her crotch. Just as the boy’s hand reached for her breast she pulled away. ‘Stop this,’ cried the nanny, standing and smoothing her skirt. ‘Stop this right now.’
They looked up at her, puzzled.
‘But you said you wanted to play with us,’ said the boy petulantly. Then he punched her in the stomach while his sister sank her teeth into her hand. The nanny let out a yelp of pain. The children responded with high-pitched shrieks of delight.
‘Get away from me,’ screamed the nanny. ‘Stop this.’
She ran to her room. She put a call through to Paris, to their father. He was curt, dismissive, and did not question her reason for wanting to leave. He asked if she would please remain at the villa for that evening until he had made alternative arrangements. The nanny stayed in her room, packing her suitcases, not wanting to face either child again. She was ashamed that she couldn’t deal with them but she knew that someone far more experienced than her would have to unravel their psyches.
As dusk drew in she went into the kitchen and made up a tray of cold chicken and salad for herself, leaving the children’s food laid out on the table. She could hear no sounds from the nursery, and was unsure if they were inside the villa or not. Then she returned to her room and locked the door. The rain lashed down: the storm had returned.
Later that night she awoke to a loud bang. The thunderclaps seemed to be centred on the villa itself. She moved around the house, checking doors and windows. A light was showing beneath the nursery door. She paused to listen, then bent down to peer through a crack in the door. An eye peered back at her and she straightened up fast as a high-pitched laugh echoed across the corridor.
She made her way to the master bedroom suite. The room was in darkness. The furniture was oak, as oppressive as the night itself, and a wardrobe door hung open. She looked inside. Rows of shirts, suits, trousers, racks of ties and handmade shoes, bottles of cologne with silver-backed hairbrushes were neatly lined up in open drawers.
She jumped in fright as a loud bang came from the bathroom. The shutters had come loose. Standing in a puddle on the blue and white tiled floor, she reached out to close them. At that moment the lights went out. She groped around for the switch. It must be a power cut. She found a hand towel and knelt to mop up the water — she didn’t care that she was using a pristine white towel to dry the floor. Whoever had the misfortune to work here after her could deal with it. She was glad to be leaving. She wrung out the towel into the bath. Then she froze.
A sound came from above her, from the flat roof. It was as if something was being dragged across it, like a heavy, unwieldy sack. Frightened, she listened and, still carrying the sodden towel, she left the bedroom. On the landing outside she listened again, looking upwards. She wondered if perhaps an animal had jumped on to the roof. But as she could hear nothing, she hurried along the corridor to her own room, went in and closed the door behind her.
Then she heard the sound again, coming from directly above her room. She stepped out into the corridor again. Looking up, she inched towards the old staircase that once led up to the third floor, but now terminated at a bolted wooden trapdoor.
A sudden flash of lightning momentarily flooded the corridor with a bluish light, but the staircase to nowhere remained dark and shadowy.
‘What’s happening?’
The voice came from behind her and she spun round. Both children stood there hand in hand.
‘There’s something on the roof,’ she screamed. ‘There’s something up there on the roof.’
At that moment the lights flickered on. She felt foolish, standing barefoot in just her bra and slip. ‘Didn’t you hear it?’ she asked lamely. ‘It sounded as if someone, or something, was trapped up there.’ She looked into their impassive faces. ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you, but I was scared.’
The two children stared in silence.
‘I’m sorry. You’d better go back to your room and try and get some sleep. Your father will be here tomorrow.’
They looked at each other. ‘Why?’
The nanny wiped her face with the back of her hand. ‘Because I asked him to come. I’m leaving.’ She headed towards her room.
The children remained watching, their eyes wide.
‘I’ll be leaving in the morning, as soon as he gets here, so please just go back to bed.’
As she closed her door behind her, she was sure she heard the boy call her a stupid bitch. She looked at her watch. It was almost four in the morning. She shivered as she remembered their hands on her body. Was it possible she had been mistaken? But when she relived it, she knew she had not. Then the noise on the roof started again. She felt the draught as soon as she stepped into the corridor. The trapdoor was open. She climbed the stairs to peer out and scan the roof. What she saw froze her to the spot.