The Girl Downstairs Read online

  The Girl Downstairs

  Iain Maitland

  Published by Inkubator Books

  www.inkubatorbooks.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Iain Maitland

  ISBN (eBook) 978-1-7398132-3-9

  ISBN (Paperback) 978-1-7398132-4-6

  Iain Maitland has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  THE GIRL DOWNSTAIRS is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Praise For Iain Maitland’s Books

  The Girl Downstairs

  “No-one does uncanny like Iain Maitland. The Girl Downstairs, a tale of poignant grief, explodes into unimaginable horror.” -Barbara Nadel

  The Scribbler

  “One seriously weird killer and an engaging cop-partnership dynamic. Exciting.” -Sunday Times

  “The Scribbler is well-paced, engaging and punctuated by … unexpected humour, leading to a compelling and incredibly satisfying crime read. Highly recommended.” -Raven Crime Reads

  “I feel like I have just made one of the greatest discoveries on earth … What a mind this author has … a fantastic … dark, gripping, creepy and tense read.” -A Lover of Books Blog

  “The Scribbler is a slow burning, tense and downright creepy thriller.” -Suze Reviews

  “A creepy read with an explosive ending, I was engrossed from start to finish.” -Jera’s Jamboree

  “Brilliantly creepy.” -Scots Magazine

  "A brilliant read [on] LGBTQ+ crimes that traditionally were underreported. Thankfully, times have changed." - Neil Boast MBE, former LGBT Liaison Officer, Suffolk Constabulary, and former head of task force on sexual exploitation and trafficking

  "Iain Maitland has a delicious and dark style of writing, he tricks you into thinking you are just meandering along nicely … then he jumps out behind you and knocks you sideways as he delivers some dark and deadly punches, then lets you breathe before he does it all over again." - Chapter In My Life Blog

  Mr Todd’s Reckoning

  “Splendidly creepy.” -Geoffrey Wansell, Daily Mail

  “Iain Maitland has pulled off a masterstroke. Combining the ingenuity of an Agatha Christie, the horror of Rillington Place and the wit of the best of British, the story keeps you on your toes, fills you with dread and makes you laugh out loud.” -Martin Carr, Abbottvision

  “Maitland conjures madness from the inside, looking out … a brave book.” -Jeff Noon, Spectator

  “Truly scary … a fabulous dive into the mind of a classic, self-justifying psychopath … A fantastic book.” -Barbara Nadel

  “Iain Maitland’s Mr Todd lures us into his moral abyss. The banality of evil … drip feeds us its shockingly tense story of unending horror … Riveting, terrifying.” -Paul Ritter

  “Superbly crafted ... spellbinding and gripping ... brilliantly observed ... The setting of an ordinary two-bedroomed bungalow in suburbia is genius ….” -Linda Hill, Linda’s Book Blog

  "From page one Iain Maitland hurls you through the secret underground tunnels of an insane mind bent on destruction. Cleverly conceived, what begins as quite touching drives relentlessly onwards into furious criminality. Mr Todd’s Reckoning is phenomenally dark and utterly compelling." - Chris Dolan

  ‘This novel grabbed me from the very first page and refused to let go … wonderfully quirky yet frightening … The atmosphere that Iain Maitland creates with his writing is incredible … he is a master of suspense." Bookaholic Confessions

  Sweet William

  “A breathless journey through fear and love that explores how interdependent those two extreme emotions are.” -Ewan Morrison

  “A dark, rocket-paced thriller.” -Jon Wise, Sunday Sport

  “Taut, darkly humorous and heartbreaking, with an unforgettable narrator, Sweet William packs a real emotional punch.” -Lisa Gray, Daily Record

  “A compassionate novel imbued with a deep knowledge of mental health issues … Tense and insightful … A heart-stopping thriller with a powerful denouement.” -Paul Burke, Nudge Books

  Out of the Madhouse

  “An excellent exploration of the phenomenology of mental illness and its wider impact.” -Joshua Fletcher, psychotherapist

  “I love this book; profoundly moving, beautifully written … incredibly important … wonderfully hopeful.” -James Withey, Founder, The Recovery Letters project

  “Confronts the shocking bleakness of mental illness head on.” -Charlie Mortimer, author, Dear Lupin

  “The overriding ingredients … are the warmth of his connections, … and the power of communication.” -Dr Nihara Krause, Stem4 Founder & CEO

  Dear Michael, Love Dad

  “A wonderfully entertaining and moving book, with lessons for every parent.” -Daily Mail

  “A moving read - honest, funny and sad.” -Woman and Home

  “Raising the issue of men’s mental health is important and Dear Michael, Love Dad is to be praised for that … [a] loving and well-meant mix of letters and commentary.” -Daily Express

  “By turns acidly funny, exasperating and poignant, painting a moving portrait both of mental illness and of a father in denial. But paternal love … shines through.” -Caroline Sanderson, Sunday Express

  Contents

  Inkubator Books

  Prologue

  I. The Pier

  1. Monday, 18 November, 8.42 Pm

  2. Tuesday, 19 November, 4.57 Am

  3. Wednesday, 20 November, 2.23 Am

  4. Wednesday, 20 November, 11.17 Am

  5. Thursday, 21 November, 11.57 Am

  6. Friday, 22 November, 5.22 Pm

  II. The Nookery

  7. Saturday, 23 November, 12.32 Am

  8. Saturday, 23 November, 6.42 Am

  9. Sunday, 24 November, 7.35 Am

  10. Monday, 25 November, 7.46 Am

  III. The Lump

  11. Tuesday, 26 November, 7.32 Am

  12. Wednesday, 27 November 1.17 Am

  13. Thursday, 28 November, 7.10 Am

  IV. The Cottage

  14. Friday, 29 November, 1.25 Am

  15. Saturday, 30 November, 7.35 Am

  16. Friday, 29 November, 1.01 Pm

  17. Saturday, 30 November, 7.33 Am

  18. Sunday, 1 December, 2.23 Am

  V. The Farm

  19. Sunday, 1 December, 9.36 Am

  20. Sunday, 1 December, 10.04 Am

  21. Sunday, 1 December, 10.45 Am

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Author’s Notes

  Inkubator Newsletter

  Author’s Acknowledgements

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  For my family – Tracey, Michael, Georgia and Jonah, Sophie, Glyn, Halley and Zack, Adam and Sophie and Dolly.

  Prologue

  Dusk is falling as I walk towards the pier. The BBC weatherman says snow is coming soon, and it certainly feels like it.

  I stop as I see her. And catch my breath. It’s my daughter.

  She is huddled by a beach hut, sheltering from the wind.

  But, of course, it is not my daughter. It cannot be. My family, such as it was, has gone. Wife. Daughter. Both dead. And I am all alone.

  Other than my dog, Fluffy. I call him Fluffy because he is a smooth-coated Jack Russell. This means he is not fluffy at all. The name is just my little joke. />
  Today, my family has been on my mind. The eighteenth of November is – was – my wife’s birthday. We had birthdays in October, November and December. Mine is in October. My wife’s November. My daughter’s was in December.

  I am standing still. Staring into space.

  The sight of the young girl. My mind full of terrible memories.

  Fluffy pulls on his lead. He wants to walk on.

  She reaches out her hand towards Fluffy as we pass by. He stops and sniffs. She puts her hand inside her hooded fleece, a threadbare thing, more of a cardigan really. Too thin for this weather. Fluffy moves forward to eat whatever it is she’s offering to him. Her last scrap of food.

  She then looks up at me and smiles. Although she is dirty and down on her luck, she has the prettiest eyes I have ever seen. The kindest, friendliest face. She does look a little like my daughter. At first glance, anyway.

  I know I should keep walking. Be ruled by my head, not by my heart.

  But I do not. It has always been my weakness. Instead, I rummage in my pocket and drop a few coins into her third-full paper cup.

  She smiles at me again as she takes them and says, “Thank you,” in a soft and gentle lilt of a voice. I can’t place the accent. Northern, I think. Or Welsh. I am not sure. I am not good at that sort of thing.

  I hesitate. I wonder if I should say something encouraging to her. “Good luck” perhaps. Maybe “all the best”. But these phrases have a finality about them, as if I am saying I will never see her again.

  I know that will not be so.

  That I will be drawn back.

  As I have been before.

  I will walk this way tomorrow evening, give her more change, perhaps a five-pound note. And the next time, the night after, with the snow almost upon us, a blanket to keep warm. The wind is always strong on the seafront, and now temperatures are falling fast. I may give the girl one of my daughter’s coats still hanging up in the wardrobe. There is a nice one left there. From Topshop in Oxford Street.

  Fluffy is away and pulling on his lead towards the pier. To the smells and the cast-away fast food. As I reach the slow incline up to the pier, I look back, expecting to see her head bowed, crushed by her homeless life. But she is sitting up and smiling at me, one more time. It is that smile that does for me.

  Yes, that is the one that strikes at my heart.

  I should not have looked back. Just kept on walking.

  I wonder where this will now take me. And her. To heaven. Or to hell, most probably.

  Part I

  The Pier

  1

  Monday, 18 November, 8.42 Pm

  She is on my mind all evening. The girl. As I make my tea. Eating it on a tray in front of the television in the living room with Fluffy by my feet. Watching some soap or other full of identical, angry young people. “Yeah?” “Yeah!” is all they shout back and forth into each other’s gormless faces.

  As I finish, giving Fluffy the last piece of sausage and putting the tray to one side, I lean back and shut my eyes. I go back over everything that has happened to bring me to this point in my life. I relive it all, moment by moment. Every little thing.

  It does me no good. I know that. I’m driving myself mad. To the edge of insanity. If not beyond. But what else do I have to do, other than to sit here alone, night after night?

  I live in Felixstowe. It’s in Suffolk, on the east coast of England, some seventy miles north-east of London. It’s an odd kind of place. An old Victorian town centre that has seen better days. A seafront with a promenade and a shingle beach. A theatre at one end and a pier at the other. A funfair and amusements further along. The port, of course. Huge container ships coming in and going out endlessly. The usual sprawl of housing estates all around. Felixstowe has been described as a “charming seaside town” by the local tourist body.

  I suppose it is. In a way.

  If you just see what’s in front of you.

  And don’t look behind it.

  I know different, of course. I used to have a job, in marketing, in local government up the road. But I lost that. I was made redundant, as they called it.

  Afterwards, I went away for a while. Locked up. When I came out, I took a series of jobs to help make ends meet. The redundancy money, such as it was, does not go far. Not far enough, anyway. And my meagre pension is some years off.

  I worked in a supermarket in town during the day. Stacking shelves, mainly. Some till work. I stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. A man of my age, amongst teenagers, mostly. And plump middle-aged women called Sharon and Cathy. There was a nice young girl there, Frances. “Little Fran” I called her, but she left for university, and I never saw or heard from her again. I tried to stay in touch, but without success.

  I also worked evenings and weekends for a while as a cab driver. It got me out and about. Kept me busy. Took my mind off things. Bad things. And the downside of my existence, sitting at home, night after night, stewing over the past. That was an eye-opener, that was. Cab driving. To the seedier side of life.

  Not just the gangs of young men and women piling into the cab on Friday and Saturday nights.

  And the sex on the back seats. The threats of violence. The vomit. The piss. Blood once, from one of a group of girls.

  But the proper, seamier underbelly of the town. They all have it, every town everywhere, and you don’t have to look that hard. Not really.

  The drugs, a thriving business, with the constant back and forth from the nearby housing estates in Trimley St Martin and Trimley St Mary to the seafront. The county lines that had infected Ipswich, Bury St Edmunds and other Suffolk towns seemed to have bypassed Felixstowe, stuck out as it is by the sea at the end of the long A14 road. Some of the locals stepped up enthusiastically to fill the gap.

  I remember the first young girl who offered to show me her breasts rather than pay the fare. Some young girls offered more than just a look. Whatever I wanted, from a few of them. My pick-and-mix choice.

  Then there was the rat-faced man – not much more than a teenager, really – who paid me to drive him and his two holdalls to Manchester late one night. A fistful of cash. Far beyond what I’d normally get for a week of taking old ladies to and from the Marks and Spencer Food Hall over at Martlesham. I did not ask what was in the holdalls. I guessed at drugs or guns. He handed over the money as he got into the cab. A near-silent journey. His head down over his mobile phone. He left near a parade of shops on the outskirts of Manchester, with little more than a nod towards me.

  There was an incident at work. The supermarket. I felt I had to leave.

  And I stopped the cab work. It got too much for me, what with one thing and another.

  I got beaten up one night. Quite badly. Enough to make it hard to work for a while.

  And so I retreated to my house in Bluebell Lane, near the woods and fields and the farmland on the outskirts of town. Eking out my redundancy payout and most of my savings before going on benefits. I’m close to that now. The benefits. I got Fluffy, formerly known as Harold, from the Blue Cross. And settled back to live out my days as best I could.

  Without much money. And little peace of mind.

  No life at all, really. A wretched existence. Half-played games of solitaire and chess on the living room coffee table. Playing against myself. To pass the time. To keep me sane.

  Preferable to death, I suppose. But not by much.

  The madness is upon me again.

  It is close to midnight.

  And I am searching for the girl.

  I start at the hut by the pier where I saw her late this afternoon. I think she might be sheltering here. I walk around it. I try the padlock on the door. I shake it hard. To see if she might somehow have got inside the hut. But she has not.

  I am wrapped up well. It is a crisp, cold night.

  A full moon.

  I move quickly along the promenade.

  One beach hut after another. I am locked into a rhythm. I look front, sides, back. Check
the padlock. Nothing. I move to the next one. Front, sides, back. Check the padlock. Nothing. Move on. Again, again, again.

  She is nowhere to be seen.

  I fear for her. As a girl.

  I worry what might happen.

  I have seen more and more beggars lately in the town. Young men, mostly. Eastern Europeans, I think. I have no sympathy for them. They have youth and strength and vigour. There is work for them, if they wanted it. They choose a life of benefits and begging. I guess it pays more.

  If I were a young homeless man, I would go to pubs and restaurants late each evening. Offer to wash up, clean the yard, clear rubbish – anything in exchange for hot food and drink. I would keep my self-respect.