The Safe House

If walls could talk, humans would never again look upon their homes as protective, defensible places. If I could have spoken, would I have warned them? Or would I have stayed silent and had my fun? Honestly, this is the best thriller I’ve ever watched. And, oh, the utter irony. You see, they use me as a safe house, but I know better. And with whom would my allegiance lie?—With Mikhail Sergej Slavkov, the man who brought me into existence, but who is also a violent drugs kingpin they sent to prison for life? Or with the innocent family of five, brought here to live under the state witness protection programme?

I’ve endured the whole sorry tale, from my birth—thirty years ago when they laid the first brick—through Slavkov starting a family, and that whole sorry affair, to the tragedy which plays out now before me. I know where all the bodies are buried. And more besides.

Outside, a blizzard rages, and icy fingers grope for the slightest crack in the old bones of my mortar. My windows chatter and rattle with every abusive gust of the frigid gale. Within my body, my timbers creak and groan, but I’m warm. Due to my unusual insulation.

As well as bricks and mortar, my walls are built out of cash. Bundles of banknotes are stuffed between the timber studs, boarded and plastered over. So, I’m a safe house in more ways than one. I’m a strongbox, a depository, and a veritable vault of *spondulicks and secrets.

When the police service commandeered this seized property and put me to use as a refuge for snitches, it didn’t know about the cash in the walls. Neither did the Fischer family when the wife, Caroline, decided to put them all in danger by turning state’s witness against her former employer. Apparently, Phillip Randall, of Randall Law Associates, ran a quite different side business outside the law, which employed assassins for the right amount of incentive.

Indoors, a cheery log fire blazes in the grate and sends plumes of smoke up the throat of my chimney. In front of the homely hearth, Glenn and Caroline Fischer shiver and tremble on the floor—my hard boards rough on their skinny knees. Their three children, Shayla, Lily-Mae, and Elliot, snivel and whimper in a similar awkward posture. Both adults and children kneel with ankles bound together and wrists tied behind their backs. A brute of a man sits in a huge, overstuffed leather armchair and glowers at them. For Mikhail is back, and he wants his money.

Already, my thuggish creator has done more damage to me than any storm has ever managed, and gouges and deep holes mar my walls where greedy, angry hammer blows have ripped once-smooth plaster to ragged shreds. Annoyed, I spit dust and spider carcasses from my gaping wounds. From one such dark maw, the ashy-white fingers of a skeletal hand dangles, and desiccated flesh hangs on thin threads of ancient skin and sinew. How dare he do this to me? Even though I’m not what you’d call house proud, I have my limits.

Notably absent from all of my inner walls are the thickly-wadded stacks of cash. No wonder Mikhail is so pissed. His relentless attack on my body, my vital organs, with neither remorse nor mercy, leaves me angry enough to find his frustration and confusion amusing. Oh, my … do I have daddy issues?

Sergej—as his friends call him—thrusts up from the chair, designed to dominate, and paces. His eyes show me the calculations he attempts to make. Who stole from him? Was it the Feds who seized the property in the first place? The police, who later repurposed the remote rural property into a safe house? One of his old crew, who’d helped stash the cash? Or this hapless family, who’ve stumbled from one nightmare into another? My whole being rumbles as over-piled snow avalanches from my steeply-angled head—the roof tiles too slippery and sheer to hold the wet white stuff for long—and you could be forgiven for taking the sound as laughter. I won’t argue.

The only person absent from Mikhail’s suspect list is his wife, may God bless her soul. Hers is the skeletal hand which now dangles in such an indecorous fashion from the lounge wall. In life, Vessela lived up to her namesake. However, after becoming Mrs Slavkov, her days were anything but happy. In a mere twenty months, she had borne him two heirs—Mikhail junior and Rose. My timbers swelled with pride—not from dampness, I assure you—when I watched each babe take their first steps, and listened as they uttered their first words. My area rugs also soaked up the many tears and spilt blood of their adoring mother, who tried her best. Her undoing came in the form of her driver … read also minder, bodyguard, and husband’s spy. Not one excursion or utterance could Vessela make without him reporting it to Sergej.

To this day, I cannot feel sure what drove her into David’s arms. Desperation? Infatuation? Neglect? Whichever, naivete proved her undoing. Had she imagined her liaison with her driver would offer her protection from her husband? Truth be told, I believe she knew they were all doomed from the start. So, was it revenge? The only true way to hurt the older man who’d taken her for his wife in payment of some debt or other? A direct jab at his dignity and masculinity? If only I could have warned Vessela about the new camera system Slavkov had installed throughout the property. Perhaps, in that case, she may still be alive instead of propping up my walls and stinking them out with slow decay. Later, once he’d learnt a few tricks of the trade, her murderer employed lye and spread the reduced remains over his vast acreage of land. Many a time, I’ve endured his boasts of the hundreds of bodies mixed with the soil.

So, now to my quandary: do I allow five more—innocents at that—to join the morbid tally? When the Fischers first arrived, I resented their presence and disruption and noise. For I’d grown used to the quieter, less obtrusive occupation of spiders and mice. The many cobwebs fascinated me with their intricacy. The small holes chewed and nests made impressed me with their maker’s industry. For my part, I offered shelter, which gave me purpose in my empty existence. In short, we learnt to live together in peace and symbiosis.

All of a sudden, Slavkov ceases his ceaseless pacing and strides up to Glenn Fischer. With one fist, he grabs the father’s short hair and pulls back his head, which stretches his throat taut and ready for the slaughterer’s knife, which Mikhail holds in his other hand. No! My every stud and board heave in horror and revulsion. A well-alight log rolls from the fireplace, hissing sparks and smoke. The burning wood smacks into Sergej’s ankle and ignites the cheap nylon of his stolen slacks. The cotton of his prison jumpsuit would have served him better. As you’ve no doubt discerned, I do love a good bit of irony.

With a yelp of surprise and pain, Slavkov leaps sideways and backwards and shakes his leg, but the hungry flames have taken hold. Panicked, the once-powerful drug lord drops both hair and knife and dances the funniest of jigs while bending and slapping at the burning fabric. The hot, voracious tongues race up the traitorous pants and torture his thigh, his groin. Meanwhile, the Fischer family kneels and gasps and sobs. I’d like to be able to tell you it is over quickly, but it takes a long time for the bad man to die. His screams go on forever, or so it seems. Bound as they are, the hostages can do nothing. And, of course, being a mere house, I can't intervene.

Or can I?

Inexplicably—honestly, I say—at the moment the fire gets ready to move from man to rug, a fall of snow chutes down the chimney and douses the flames. In the quiet moments of aftermath, little Lily-Mae wriggles over to the fallen knife and grasps it in her tiny hands. Though terrified and wailing and shaking, she shimmies to her mother and saws through the duct tape at the woman’s wrists. Caroline takes the knife, cuts the bonds at her ankles, frees her daughter, and kisses her long and long on her forehead. Next, she liberates Elliot and Shayla and Glenn. For minutes, which could have been hours in emotional time, the family holds tight together.

Finally, they pull apart and appraise one another. Shayla, the eldest child, gives each parent a scathing glance. ‘It’s time to disappear.’ Her fierce face brooks no argument.

Little Lily-Mae nods in all solemnity. ‘We did it,’ she says and sucks her thumb.

Elliot nods and whispers, ‘When Daddy punched the wall …’ A sob stops him from continuing on.

If walls could talk, I could tell you a tale. Of an angry couple in midst of a row. A fist through a kitchen wall, and a mummy who pulls Daddy away and into the bedroom, and out of sight and sound of the little ones. Which works two ways.

A lone banknote flutters to the floor. Three children, curious as cats, explore the hole in the wall. A quick confab of co-conspirators follows. After all, they can’t trust the grownups to make the best choices. As Shayla points out, they’ve lost their friends, had to leave school, and are forced to live in the middle of nowhere in this creepy old house—hey, less of the old, you! I may have a few wrinkles and cracks, and perhaps a bit of peeling paint, but there’s life in me yet.

Small fingers make a handhole big and discover the stash. Little bodies heave and shove until a kitchen unit hides the hidey place. Over the ensuing months, Mum and Dad take lots of country walks for heated and secret talks, and Shayla volunteers—eagerly—to babysit. Bit by bit the walls empty of paper and fill with books. Not being readers of any fashion, the adults fail to notice the depletion of the library’s stocks. While I may have groaned and moaned at the desecration, fascination held me in check. All I could think was what the heck?

As to the problem of repair, Shayla finds surplus plaster boards and paint in one of the numerous outbuildings. A distant shed comes in handy for hiding the cash. As do the numerous plastic tarps—whose intended morbid use died with Slavkov’s incarceration.

With a decisive nod, Shayla confesses, ‘We took the money and hid it. Now it’s time to go.’

At last, and full of joy, I give this family my last bit of aid and fling open all the doors. The storm invades with ferocity and steals any semblance of sanctuary. To cement my message, more snow falls down the chimney and douses the fire. Walls and floorboards creak and groan, while I help the wind make my windows whistle and moan. From a hidden nook, a set of keys skids across the floor, propelled by an upturned floorboard. Elliot beams. ‘The snowplough,’ he yells with glee. ‘Can I drive?’

Glenn grins and shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’ He bends to retrieve the keys. ‘But I’ll let you sit on my knee.’

Without a backward glance, the Fischers hustle from the house. Only little Lily-Mae stops to give me a smile and a wave. This time, I will admit, it isn’t snow but tears that run down my window panes. It’s always the youngest that sees and connects. Such a shame that as we grow, we lose the ability to use our senses to the full, and intuition becomes something rare rather than a thing we all share.

With a happy heart, I let them leave. But please, for your sake, make no mistake, I have a choice. Although I have no tongue with which to speak, and walls can’t actually talk, I do have eyes and ears and physicality. Like a sponge, I soak in everything. And, if I so choose, I can make my feelings known.

You see, houses aren’t as inanimate as you humans assume. Those disturbing creaks and groans in the night aren’t always the house settling.

Sometimes, we come alive.

[*Spondulicks is a British slang term for 'money'.]