In-between visitors

There is no light, that I can find, in my father’s study – so last night I could only see from the light of the hallway – and half of what was lit was hidden by my own shadow.

I found the desk in the middle of the room, and could see bookshelves all around me, and there's a mirror that I thought was a ghost, and there were other things on the shelves I couldn’t make out or get to. The floor is covered in things to stumble over, and there's a smell in there – like a rotten lunch box.

The hunt for the torch was interrupted by my friends arriving: they brought buckets and boxes and drink, having met in advance to plan how to deal with me. I liked it that they were awkward – that they weren’t sure if A-level homework was important enough to talk about. They’re the only people I’ve spoken to that don’t deal matter of factly with death. I could see them mapping out sentences in advance so not to upset me - which of course they can’t.

The only other person I’ve talked to is you – but you don’t count, since you won’t talk back.

I wanted to find the torch and get back to the room. I wanted them all to go as much as stay. And I’m glad they kept making jokes, even though no one was laughing, but they didn’t leave until this morning.

The torch is from the emergency breakdown kit in dad’s car. It’s only the size of a bottle of red sauce – and it’s weak, because it’s old and dad hardly ever drove.

I found my way to the middle of the room, and to the desk. It’s covered in papers, and what looks like a tree root, and a rat stabbed through with a long needle. It is the rat that’s a big part of the smell in there. There are more of them – live ones – in a cage at the side of the room. And there are bottles and jars in amongst the books that give off a funky odour of their own – a few of them. None of them are labelled.

There are more books and loose papers on the floor, although most of the room is neat and ordered. There is no dust. The only cobwebs are in a glass box of spiders he was keeping like pets. The floor is covered in massive stone slabs.

There’s not a single thing in there that runs on electricity.

I sat for a while, just searching out corners with the torch – or bouncing the light off the mirror. I'm still trying not to work out what the rat means.

No wonder the window’s bricked over – there isn’t a free inch of wall anywhere. In-between two sets of shelves is a huge version of those things you get in furniture catalogues with all the tiny drawers and tinier drawers.

When dad was in the house but I couldn’t find him, I never thought it was odd. And then there he was.

The books looked like they were going to be the most understandable stuff in the whole room. I’d expect a book to make a lot more sense than a rat stabbed with a needle – but I’d be stupid.

So far I’ve found three types of book amongst what looks like a thousand.

A lot of them are blank – which might make sense except they look old. They’re leather bound and well worn. The bindings are broken.

A few of them are notebooks or journals, all handwritten, but it’s encrypted into a mix of geometry and hieroglyphics.

And the majority of them, also old, leather bound and well used, are full of English words that I know, but they make the least sense of all – since the words are just strung together randomly, not into sentences, more like lists, or like someone trying to think of a word. They can go on for pages without a break, and not even a fluke of grammar.

And then my uncle arrived around eight. He didn’t stay here – he was booked into a hotel already. He said he’d come back tomorrow, to go over stuff.

Uncle Gordon is my mum’s older brother, so I’ve not seen him since she died, but I expected him to be younger. He must be in his sixties.

He hasn’t heard of you either. When I asked him he said Ilford Dyson sounds like a type of hoover.

I didn’t tell him about the room. I haven’t told anyone about that except you.