Nowthatwas some fine recovery-positioning.
By the time he’d fetched the duvet from the bedroom, Mr Murray was already snoozing it up, snorks and grunts echoing off the uncleaned tiles.
Like a sleepy warthog.
Tufty draped the duvet over him, then tiptoed away.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to do alittlemore investigating, you know, while he was here?
There was another bedroom on the first floor, but it was even more empty than Mr Murray’s – no bed or mattress, just dust and arachnids.
Then a single bedroom – but the only way to tell was a tatty Kylie Minogue poster curling away from the ancient zoo-animal wallpaper; not a single bit of furniture.
Then a sewing room – going by the bobbins and grey-furred reels scattered about the untreated floorboards, because even the carpet was missing.
Then a big family bathroom – just as swanky as Mr Murray’s en suite, but it clearly hadn’t been used or cleaned in years. A thick drift of flies littered the grimy windowsill, and a weird, meaty-sewagey stink slithered out of the drains and toilet pan.
Moving on...
Tufty climbed up to the top floor, with its sloped ceilings and dormer windows.
First up: a box room. You could tell, because that’s what it was full of. Cardboard ones of all shapes and sizes, looking tired and brittle. Like Mr Murray.
Then the home gym. Or, at least, it had a rusty exercise bike sitting in the middle of the empty space. Being slowly consumed by cobwebs and teeny-weeny flakes of neglect.
Tufty opened the last door.
Blinked at the contents.
Then closed it again.
Nah.
OK: one more go.
It was a child’s bedroom, and unlike every other room in the house, it was still fully furnished. A bed, a wardrobe, a toy box, a Mr Men duvet, an orange teddy bear, a rocking horse,a desk and chair, a bookcase full of well-thumbed paperbacks.Winnie-the-Poohand Narnia,Alice in WonderlandandThe Wizard of Oz...All the classics.
But Mr Murray complained about being ‘Aaaaaaaall ’lone.’
And there wasno waySocial Services would let a kid live here. Mr Murray was probably a lovely bloke, but he could barely look after himself, never mind a wee boy or girl.
Tufty ran a finger along the windowsill.
Clean.
Not so much as a spiff of dirt.
Now thatwasweird. And sort of creepy. But mostly sad.
From up here, you could see right into the burnt-out skeleton of Balmain House Hotel. Hard not to imagine flames screaming up into the sky as the poor sods staying there coughed and spluttered for the exits...
Back downstairs, Tufty wandered into the drawing room again, making for the mantelpiece with its dead flowers and facedown frame.
He turned the picture over.
A much younger Mr Murray grinned up at him, hugging a cheery, slightly chubby blonde woman. She had a fair-haired toddler on her hip, an orange teddy clutched in his wee sausage fingers.
Tufty frowned at the photo for a bit. Then up at the ceiling.
