Dark House Walk

Chapter One

I walk this way day after day. It's the route from my office to the rail station, part of a brisk 15-minute walk along the Thames path, between Southwark Bridge and the Tower of London. It sounds very impressive doesn't it? I suppose in its way it is. I even walk under London Bridge every day, and it has never once fallen down. That's a bit of luck…

I walk at one with the River Thames, keeping it company for a fraction of its slow crawl between its tributaries and the wide estuary, where I actually live. I feel an affinity with this great old river. I was born a stone's throw away from its shores, and for most of my life I have either lived, or worked within its view. Even so, it is curious to watch it on its journey to the sea. I sometimes wonder if it gets there any faster than I do of an evening.

A tidal river never really flows in a straight line though. There are eddies, little vortices, the ebb and flow of the tides. I could stand and watch the old river for hours. This was the river that flowed past as London burned, giving of itself to help quench the blaze. This water is heavy with the passing of ages, a grand venerable old river, and I was privileged to share its journey each day.

Walking gives one time to think and reflect, and, of course, to lose some weight. This daily routine started out for that one reason, the opportunity to make getting fitter part of my journey home. Tonight as every night, I cross Southwark Bridge, from Bankside towards Cannon Street, the wind whipping at my hair. To my right and looking back to the South Bank is Shakespeare's Globe, a replica of the original theatre, and beyond that, the silver thread of the Millennium Bridge. To my left, and upriver, Tower Bridge dominates the skyline, with the Dome of St Paul's Cathedral ahead and to the right.

I cross the road during a break in the traffic and descend the worn stone steps to the Thames Path. As usual there are few people along here. The path winds in and out of walkways, under buildings and past modern offices. Although this is one long path, it bears a number of different street names. I call them street names, as parts of the Thames wall bear the ubiquitous London street signs. "Watermans Walk EC4", "Sugar Quay Walk EC3" "Custom House Walk EC3", names reminiscent of London's magnificent old trading heritage.

And then, there is "Dark House Walk". The name is fascinating. I know of no "Dark House" around here, and an internet search only found one match, a rather dull local authority plan for the area…but the name…the name is thick with possibilities. I have never walked it in daylight. This office only opened in November, and the short winter days were already bringing forth an early dusk. Here and now, in early February, things are little better. Although the place is quite ordinary, my solitary perambulations and contemplations populate it with a black and fearsome past. The "Walk" itself is unremarkable, a length of paved thoroughfare, the Thames wall on one side, and a huge Georgian edifice on the other, bristling with architectural features that I couldn't even begin to describe without knowing the correct terms. There were even gargoyles of a sort - odd, almost cartoonish fish, all huge eyes and gaping mouths. Even though these are not your run of the mill gargoyles, they are somewhat… disturbing. The lower half of the building is an arcade; the series of fine stone arches now glassed in and protected by black painted wrought iron railings. Almost as an afterthought, someone has placed a raised arrangement of borders and bushes, bounded by chest height walls, in front of the building. As with the other buildings along this path, I have no idea of its purpose. Maybe this was the Dark House? Was Lady Susan really imprisoned in Dark House by her wicked uncle who wanted the fortune she inherited? Was Peggy the barmaid murdered by Will the potboy in a fit of jealous rage at the Dark House Inn in 1741? Do their vengeful spirits even now haunt this place? But…it's an unremarkable 50-metre stretch of path, so it doesn't seem likely.

It's cold tonight. There has been a late winter snowfall, and the air is sharp. Being London, the snow has lasted barely a day on the ground, but as night has fallen, the bitter cold still bites at the face, and the path is icy.

I keep to my usual pace, the faintly ridiculous looking march, the "power walk", that I adopt in order to work up to a level of breathlessness which all the authorities tell us means you are getting some beneficial exercise. The river is alive at night; all the buildings on the opposite bank lit up in blues, yellows and greens. I can just make out the flag fluttering atop Southwark Cathedral, the dark shape of Sir Francis Drake's ship, the Golden Hinde, in permanent dry dock just past Clink Street. Tower Bridge glows in the middle distance as ever.

The history flows past as I march resolutely on, and then in front of me…a metal barrier, plain and simple, the kind that picks out a building site or some sort of works. Before it, a yellow sign, diverting pedestrians to the right. It looks as if they are re-paving Dark House Walk. The set of steps down to the pathway along the river is barred and the path winds down a gentle slope, around to the imposing edifice. It basks in the glow of the yellow spotlights that are dotted around at ground level, beaming up in adoration at the building like worshippers of a graven image. As with the South Bank, many of the buildings along here are similarly illuminated and the entire effect could be regarded as either "theme park" tacky, or just as a very simple yet very beautiful modern addition which ensures that the magnificence of these architectural treasures is emphasised, both night and day.

I make my way on down the pathway into the scrubby gardens. As the bedding parts are raised above the path, and bounded by those walls, it feels as if they are looming up around me as I descend the ramp. I'm sure they must be beautiful and bursting with flowers in summer, but on this dark winter's night they are rank and barren, the small box hedges just a tangle of bare branches. The upward angle of the sulphurous yellow lights leaves the gardens and path, in contrast, all the darker. The lights on the Thames wall are usually quite adequate, but do not seem to penetrate that dark knot of branches, or is that just my imagination?

I hurry on along the path, past the gnarled and bent branches on one side, and the bulk of the building on the other. And then, even in my haste to leave this gloom behind, I notice it. I am accustomed to the glassed-in arches being lit up from within at this time, but they too are dark, blank. But, I'm a commuter; I don't have that much time to wonder about these little anomalies and certainly not enough to let my imagination play tricks on me. I might think about it later, but now…I've got five minutes to get to Fenchurch Street Station. No time for fancies.

I reach the end of the diversion, the sound of my shoes clicking against the stone slabs of the path, and make to turn back onto the main path when , out of the corner of my eye, there it was…

My breath catches in my throat. My heart, already pumping at a trot due to the rapid pace, quickens momentarily. One of the arches is illuminated. No…no…it isn't. But there *is* light. I stop in my tracks, breathing heavily, whether from my normal exertions or not, I'm not certain. I turn slowly. This isn't right… in the everyday life of a commuter, you always see some odd sights, but the trick is to keep going, and just gawk at them in passing without making yourself any later than you are already. This is because, given the unique nature of the south east of England's public transportation system, constantly teetering on the edge of chaos, you are virtually always late for something. Yet, I know, I am certain, that I cannot take one more step, not if my life depends on it. For I see before me…a ghost.

It has to be a ghost. It is translucent, it glows, a glow like phosphorescence on a cave wall, a quiet greenish light. Against the blank background of the arch, she is a photographic negative. She. Yes, it is a woman.

I stare. She stares back. My mouth is dry, and I am finding difficulty in swallowing. What does one say to a ghost?

"Hello?" The word sounds stupid, but "begone foul shade" seems a bit inappropriate in 21st century London.

There is no reply, yet, in the time it takes my eyelids to blink, there is a change. She is distinct. She is solid. A flesh, bone and blood woman, yet all around, the building, the gardens, the river…they fade, they soften. Like a photograph focussing exclusively on its subject, the background is a blur.

She smiles then. A slightly crooked smile, with just a hint of white teeth, peeping from behind the lips. I suppose I should be surprised to be able to make out such detail, but, despite all sanity, she still…glows. Maybe "glow" is the wrong description. She…radiates. She is brighter and more distinct than the world around.

"Come here."

I start, my body feeling a jolt of shock. Do ghosts talk? Do they not waft ethereally about and look sad and vanish? Don't they moan? They don't talk, and they certainly don't have such a note of command, In a voice so rich and deep. Involuntarily, my left foot lifts off the ground and steps forward. My heart quickens again. I don't want to do this. I am suddenly no longer curious, I am scared. Deep down scared. I can't help myself though. Even as adrenaline floods my body, even as my heart races, and every muscle tenses for flight, my right foot follows my left.

I must seem like a puppet fighting its strings, as I jerkily approach this terrifying apparition, my upper body straining away, but my treacherous legs carrying me ever onwards.

I whimper, a high childish sound of distress. This is beyond belief. What on earth is going on?

"Stop."

I almost collapse on the spot, at the blessed relief that the command brings. I am so close to her now, I can see every detail. And, despite my fear, despite the unreality of this encounter, I cannot stop myself cataloguing those details. She is tall, almost as tall as I am, and dark featured. That is not to say her skin is dark. It is very pale, yet her dark eyebrows and her deep-set eyes give her an almost Mediterranean, or even Romany, appearance. Full lips are set below a slightly prominent nose. She has a strong jaw, the chin almost square. She is not by any means ugly, but one of those women who you could at best describe as "handsome". I place her in her early forties or late thirties at best. Her hair is dark, black or very dark brown, so it seems to me. I can imagine her as one of those fiery flashing eyed Latin girls that the pulp romances sometimes throw up.

Yet she is not dressed in scarlets and frills with a low bodice revealing hints of heaving bosom, nor in the fine white lawn, high waisted dresses seen in Jane Austen TV adaptations, which would be perhaps more suitable for a ghost in these surroundings. No, she has on a three-quarter length black coat, and a skirt or dress that hangs to just below the knee. Upon her feet are calf length boots with a small heel and pointed toe. In effect, this is the garb of a modern woman, not a Georgian shade. But how could this be? That she is supernatural I have no doubt, but she looks as if she has just stepped off the Tube at Cannon Street. Am I dreaming? Hallucinating?

My confused thoughts are interrupted. She is speaking again. That deep, slightly husky voice, slow and measured, as if she were controlling the production and utterance of every syllable. "Put the bag down."

My arm muscles spasm of their own accord and I feel my bag slide off my shoulder, to be lowered gently to the pavement, yet it is as if I am a passenger in my own body. I have the helpless feeling that the driver is standing before me…

"You are doing very well. Don't be afraid. I have waited such a long time for this, and really, so have you."

I don't understand. Waited for what? What on earth is going to happen? My heart skips a beat and I let out an involuntary gasp.

The voice cracks like a whip. "Stop it!"

And I do.

A frown creases her forehead. "You have just perfectly illustrated the reason I am here. You have no control, little self-discipline, no plans, no aims, and no goals. I am going to give you these. Take off your coat."

I am already bridling at this snap assessment of my life, true or not, but my anger is still flavoured with fear. I am way out of my depth here and the coat has already been unbuttoned and is slipping off my shoulders before I even realise. I am shivering in the cold night air, my coat in a heap at my feet. My shallow breath streams in a cloud of vapour into the night air. Hers, I realise, does not.

"I want to see more."

I grit my teeth and try to fight, but it is as if my body is no longer my own. My fingers fumble at buttons, and in short order I am exposed to her scrutiny.

A chuckle. "Very very good indeed. This shows me all I need…for now. You are mine, you will become that which I desire. You will become that which you desire. We will be…one."

I am calm…why am I calm? Why am I standing here on a freezing February night where anyone can pass by and see me, with my coat off and half-undressed, subject to every command of this unearthly apparition?

"Go home. Go…you'll be late…but don't worry, this is only the first time. There will be others"

In a haze, I refasten the buttons and reach down to pull on my coat, hardly noticing the welcome warmth of the thick garment as I stare into those dark eyes. My left hand reaches down to pick up the bag and I abruptly turn on my heel and start to walk away.

And then the sights sounds and smells of London flood back in and I am almost overwhelmed. Traffic roars by on London Bridge, petrol fumes assaulting my nostrils as if I had never smelled them before. The waves lap the shore, a chilly breeze blows over the river. With a jerk, my body is my own again, and I twist round, fearful yet almost eager to see her again. There is nothing. The arcade is dark; she is gone.