Norman's House

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious context. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any events is entirely coincidental.

Copyright notice

Smashwords Edition

© H. K. Hillman, 2019.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author, other than brief quotes used in reviews.

Cover image: The Sixth Pentacle of Mars from Clavicula Salomonis.

Redrawn by H. K. Hillman.

https://legironbooks.co.uk/

Contents

Copyright

Norman’s House

About the Author

Leg Iron Books

Chapter 1

The car slid a little on the icy road. Lying across the back seat, Norman belched and tasted the heat of too many whiskies in his throat. It had been a great New Year party and he was lucky to get a lift home from Stan. Taxis were impossible to find at this hour, even for the wealthy, and Norman had not relished the idea of walking six miles home in this blizzard.

He swallowed and sat up just enough to see through the windscreen. Snow radiated from the darkness like one of those old star field screensavers. Whichever way Norman looked, that’s where the snow appeared to come from. The windscreen wipers were inch-wide white bars moving hypnotically back and forth. Norman closed his eyes to fight his rising nausea but that just made his head spin. He lay back and stared at the car’s roof.

The front passenger seat was occupied by Mandy, Stan’s wife. A spoiled bitch, Norman thought. He covered his mouth with his hand. When drunk, his thoughts had a tendency to spill, unedited, from his mouth. Even if they had, Mandy’s shrill voice would have drowned them out.

Do you have any idea at all where we are? The tension in her neck and shoulders betrayed her anger. Norman sank deeper into the seat and stayed quiet. If he made a sarcastic remark, she’d just take it out on Stan later.

Stan’s shoulders hunched. No. His head remained fixed forward.

Oh, fantastic. Mandy banged her fist against the door.

The car accelerated. Norman gripped the seat. This was not a good time for Mandy to get Stan worked up.

Stan, for Christ's sake slow down. We have to find a house, a street sign, something that'll give us a clue where we are. Mandy said.

Oh, hell, woman, we have to get home—or somewhere—before this gets too deep for the car. Look at those drifts. We soon won't be able to move. Stan’s voice sounded like it was filtered through clenched teeth.

Sure, but if you crash in this, we're all dead.

She’s right, Norman thought, but what can I say that won’t make things worse?

I've never had an accident in my life. You know I can drive this thing. The tension in Stan’s voice hung in the air like a waiting scythe.

In the daytime. In fine weather. On roads you know. None of those apply here.

Happy New Flaming Year to you too, dearest. Stan’s narrow shoulders contracted. The car moved faster.

Norman took a deep breath. He had to defuse this fight. Hey Mandy, better just let Stan concentrate here. We're all tired and probably a little drunk.

What do you know, you pissed-up rich git? Mandy twisted in her seat, and Norman thanked whatever God there might be that her face was in shadow. She was spoiling for a fight now, and she didn't much care who with. At least Norman could take the flak for a while and let Stan concentrate on driving.

I know where we are. Roughly. Norman's voice came out a little slurred.

Well why the hell didn't you say something? Where in God's name are we? Mandy turned back to peer through the windscreen.

We're in the industrial estate, Norman said, near the river. No houses here, just factories and warehouses. And no, before you ask, I don't know the way out. Our best bet is to find somewhere with a night-watchman who'll let us in for the night.

Mandy turned to Stan. This trip is just like our marriage. When it started, I thought you were going somewhere, but you just end up wandering around without a clue.

Norman held his breath. Stan was the most placid man he knew, but he could lose his temper if pushed too far. If anyone could push that far, it was Mandy. The engine roared.

Mandy grabbed the dashboard. Stan! Stop. You'll kill us.

Norman pushed himself into a half-sitting position. The car hurtled towards a rise in the road, but it was more than that. Not tarmac, not a snowdrift, it was a flatbed trailer parked on the curve, with its back ramps down. The snow had drifted against its sides so that it looked like a small white hill.

Stan, Norman said, Watch out for that truck.

Stan hit the brakes. On the snow, the wheels stopped turning but it made no difference.

The car hit the ramps at speed and shot into the air, clearing the retaining wall of the elevated road and sailing into the dark void beyond.

Norman lay flat on the seat and sunk his fingers into the material. Weightlessness, accompanied by the scream of the engine, brought his nausea back to the surface. There was time for Norman to regret lying across the back seats instead of sitting up and wearing a seat belt. Time to remember Stan’s insistence on driving despite his beer consumption. Time to consider that, despite all his money, Norman could not buy his way out of this.

The car pitched forward. Norman rolled off the seat and wedged himself into the footwell. He bit his lip then let go of it. When they hit the ground, he’d bite right through. Should he close his teeth or open them? Which was best?

The weightlessness became a feeling of immense weight. The whine of the engine stopped among screams of torn metal. Whether Mandy and Stan screamed, Norman could not be certain. He was not even sure if he screamed himself.

Even though he lay against the backs of Stan and Mandy’s seats, the impact gave Norman the impression they had been fired at him from some distance away and at great speed. Air fled his lungs, nausea wrenched at his stomach and something, somewhere, cracked. Pain beyond anything he had ever imagined tore through his body. Loss of consciousness came as a blessed relief.

Chapter 2

Voices drifted through the cold haze surrounding Norman’s mind.

Are they broken? A deep voice, quiet and emotionless.

I can fix them, but not completely. There will be some pain. A woman’s voice, calm and gentle.

We’re being rescued. Taking comfort in the thought, Norman let his tenuous grip on consciousness slip away. Something cold slapped hard at his face. His eyes opened and he shifted his weight, causing a bolt of pain to shoot through his ribcage. Another lump of snow slid through the broken rear screen of the car and landed on his neck. Above that there was nothing but a white-speckled darkness. No lights, no ambulance, no rescuers. It had been a dream.

Norman lay still, wondering how much damage had been done to himself and to his friends. There were no sounds from the front of the car, apart from a hissing and a steady drip. With care, Norman tested the movement of his limbs. They were stiff and they ached, but everything worked as far as he could tell. He tried to sit up. Shards of pain shot through his chest. Norman inhaled, an action cut short by the icy air that flowed into his lungs and by the pain of movement.

Might have cracked a rib or two.

With slow movements, Norman positioned himself so that he could see between the seats. Through holes in the shattered windscreen, the crumpled bonnet and oil-strewn ground steamed in the night air. Mandy's curly blonde hair lay on a white sheet. Norman forced his eyes to focus. The white sheet was a deflated airbag. It hurt to think, but it was clear that the car stood vertical, nose down.

One arm clamped over his ribs, Norman managed to kick open the distorted rear door and half jumped, half fell to the snow-cushioned ground. Shaking, he struggled to his feet. The cold soaked into every bone, and with numb fingers he pulled at the passenger door above him. It opened with a rush that knocked him back into the snow. Mandy, still unconscious, fell on top of him.

For a moment, Norman relaxed in the warmth of Mandy’s body, and imagined himself drifting into sleep, but Mandy's groans prodded at his consciousness.

Get up. Get up or you'll die here.

He pushed her limp form to one side and sat up. A small trickle of blood marked a minor cut on Mandy’s forehead, but she seemed okay otherwise.

With her face relaxed in sleep, Mandy looked as attractive as she had when Stan first introduced her to Norman. Despite being only twenty-seven, her permanent scowl covered her face in lines that made her look much older. In the light reflected from the snow, Mandy’s face shone. Norman admired her full lips, the wave in her blonde hair, and thought of the time he had considered wooing her away from his friend. Norman had put friendship above lust then. Besides, Norman had been a discount-supermarket manager, Stan a real-estate agent on his way up. Mandy had chosen what she saw as the better prospect.

It was after Stan and Mandy’s wedding that Norman’s luck had changed, and he had become wealthy on the turn of the stock-market. Lucky Norman had been his nickname ever since, courtesy of Stan.

Lucky indeed. Norman’s teeth chattered when he spoke aloud. If he stayed out in this weather much longer, his lucky streak would come to an abrupt end. Norman grabbed Mandy’s shoulders.

He shook her. She groaned. He slapped her. She groaned again. He slapped her harder and her eyes snapped open in fury. Lines formed into a familiar pattern on the skin of her face.

Just what the hell do you think you're doing? she said.

Norman said nothing, but moved aside to let her see the scene. He watched her expression change from anger, through confusion to terror, then turned back to the wreckage. The car was nose-down in the snow, its metal entrails spread like some predator's leavings and steaming in the freezing air. The rear was propped against a sheer concrete wall, the parapet of the road some thirty feet above them. When Norman moved to climb into the vehicle, Mandy found her voice.

Stan! she screamed, Where's my Stan?

Hold on, Mandy, calm down. We've crashed. Stan is still in the car.

She fought to get past him, crying and shouting incoherently, trying to get back into the car.

Wait, he said, holding her back with one arm. You stay here. I'll get him out.

Norman climbed onto the creaking passenger door and looked inside. This close to the wall, the streetlights were obscured by the parapet above. There was almost no light at all, but he could make out the dark shape of Stan slumped over the airbag-draped steering wheel, hanging from his seat belt, his head resting on the mosaic that had once been a windscreen. He thought of striking his lighter, but the smell of petrol seeped through his alcohol-fuzzed brain and some lingering trace of common-sense stopped him. Norman stepped into the car and something crunched under his foot. He shifted his weight to avoid twisting his ankle. He pressed the release on the seat belt and the shattered windscreen collapsed under Stan's weight, sending a shower of sparkles into the snow below. Mandy screamed again. Stan was now resting on his chest on the steering wheel, his red hair dangling over the folded bonnet.

Whoops.

Balanced on the door pillar, with the remains of the car shifting under his weight, Norman pulled Stan inch by inch from the wreckage, while Mandy shouted alternate encouragement and obscenities behind him. Once Stan was out and lying on the snow it became clear that his condition was not good. His left leg twisted at a strange angle from his knee, blood ran from cuts on his face and he remained unconscious despite Norman's attempts to rouse him. He stayed unconscious through Mandy's shaking him and holding him.

Perhaps it's better if he stays asleep for now, Norman said, his hand on Mandy's shoulder. When he wakes up, he's going to feel a lot of pain. He tightened his grip on her shoulder. Hey, don't you have a cell phone?

Mandy looked up at him, her eyes filled with hope. It's in my handbag. On the floor, in front of the passenger seat.

I'll get it. Norman released her shoulder and returned to the car. He climbed onto the door and felt around inside. He yelped as his fingers connected with broken glass. He tried again, more cautiously, probing until he felt a leather strap. Grabbing it, Norman pulled it clear of the shattered glass and jumped to the ground. He brought the bag to Mandy, reluctant to rummage inside such a personal item.

Mandy grabbed the bag with one hand and delved inside with the other.

Yow! There's glass in here. She pulled the bag wide open and looked in, then reached for her tiny silver phone. Mandy groaned as she drew it from the bag. The phone’s cracked casing and exposed circuitry showed its condition.

It's wrecked. She handed it to Norman.

A large part of the casing had broken away, the screen was cracked and the keypad had come loose. Norman pressed a few buttons.

It's dead. He dropped it back into Mandy's bag. We're on our own. Norman checked his own pockets in case his memory was wrong. It wasn’t. His own phone was in his flat, plugged into its charger.

What do we do? Mandy sobbed with fear and shook with cold. Stan will die out here. We all will.

Norman couldn't argue. The industrial estate was deserted over the holiday, so there was no chance of getting help until the morning at least, and even then it would take some luck. They were on waste ground, a rough triangle of long yellow grass and dead nettles. On one side was the wall they had plummeted over, on another was a similar blank wall, just as tall. The dark shapes of low buildings made up the third side of the triangle.

Let's go. I'll carry Stan. We'll see if we can get any shelter in those buildings. Perhaps there's a security guard, or at least a phone.

The black outline of the building Norman had seen turned out to be no more than a derelict greenhouse. They stepped over broken glass and crumbling brick and entered anyway. Anything was better than staying out in the snow. Not much, the glass panes of the roof were mostly missing and the cold was only marginally less biting inside. Norman nodded towards a door at one end of the greenhouse. Mandy opened it and went through - into another greenhouse. This one had most of its roof and wasn't filled with snow. Norman laid Stan down on a dry patch of floor and looked around.

Strange, Norman said, straining his eyes in the dim light. Must be some abandoned garden centre. I didn’t know there was ever one here. I thought it was all storage and wholesale premises.

Who gives a damn? Mandy spat. I'm freezing, Stan's dying, and you're looking at real estate? What are we going to do?

Norman shot Mandy a sharp glance, but decided against confrontation. The greenhouse gave no impression of recent occupancy, not even by vagrants. Old furniture, papers and plant pots were scattered around the concrete floor. Norman picked out some crumbling yellow newspapers that felt dry and, using his lighter, managed to get them burning. Breaking up the rotting wood of the shelving that ran along the sides of the building proved easy, so it wasn't long before he had a fire burning. He used the leg of one chair and some twine from the dead planters to splint Stan's leg. More old newspapers and melted snow wiped the blood from Mandy's head and Stan's face. Those cuts weren't deep. They would heal. There was a blanket in the car, which Norman brought through to the greenhouse along with the deflated airbags, torn from their mountings. The material was thin but better than nothing.

Wrapped in one of the airbags, Norman lit a cigarette and looked at his watch - the first time he had thought to do so. It was 4:45, at least four hours till the sun came up. The alcohol in his system stroked his brain with warm fingers until he fell asleep, hoping to find some comfort in his dreams.

Chapter 3

Norman woke up shaking with cold. His head felt as though his brain had come loose and rattled against the inside of his skull. In his chest, something hurt when he moved.

Jesus, what a hangover! That must have been some New Year party. Where in Hell did I spend the night?

He opened his eyes and tried to make sense of the blurred scene before him. White surrounded him and coated his body. He lay on something hard, wrapped in what appeared to be a shroud.

I’m not dead.

His situation cast doubt on that conclusion. Cold, white silence. A mortuary? Norman fought free of the shroud and clambered to his feet. A low sun filtered through dirty glass to illuminate a concrete floor, broken shelving and a black patch where last night’s fire had burned. Another shrouded figure curled beside a third, wrapped in a tartan blanket.

Not a mortuary. The derelict greenhouse they had sheltered in after the crash. Norman’s relief was short-lived. They were still lost and freezing, and Stan’s leg was still broken. Through the windows, the silence of New Year’s morning covered the world. A silence shattered by Stan’s hacking cough.

Norman knelt beside his friend. Stan tried to sit up, gasped and fell back. His head thudded into the pile of paper Mandy had placed beneath it the previous night.

My leg. Christ, it hurts.

It’s broken. Norman held Stan’s shoulders. Keep still. I’ve put a splint on it but it’s an amateur job. You can’t put pressure on it.

Broken? Stan’s eyes opened wide. What happened?

We crashed. Over the wall into this place. Before you ask, I don’t know where we are but it’s a building, so it must have a door to the street somewhere.

Mandy. Is she—

She’s right here. Norman reached over and prodded Mandy. She groaned and pulled her torn airbag around herself. She’s fine.

The car?

Norman pursed his lips. The car was Stan’s pride and joy. He had spent years restoring it.

It’s finished. Not even you could rebuild it this time.

Stan tried to sit up again. Norman helped him shuffle back against the end wall of the building without moving his damaged leg more than necessary.

So what do we do? Did you call for help? Stan said.

Mandy’s phone is broken. I left mine at home.

So did I. I didn’t think I’d need it. Stan lifted the blanket to examine his leg.

Norman winced at the unnatural bend below Stan’s knee. Last night, in the dark and with alcohol hazing his senses, Norman had acted with careless haste in applying the rough splint. In daylight, the leg looked far worse than Norman first thought. The bone would need to be straightened before it healed in the wrong position. Norman had no idea how long that would take, how much time they had before Stan’s leg ended up permanently deformed.

It’ll be fine. I’ll look for a way out of here, then come back with some help. Norman rose to his feet.

Mandy pushed herself up on her elbows. Strands of blonde hair hung across her face.

Oh, no you don’t. We’re coming with you.

Don’t be silly. Stan can’t walk like this, Norman said.

He’s right, Mandy. Stan held the blanket away from his leg, so Mandy could see the damage.

Then you can carry him. Mandy struggled to her feet, still holding the airbag around herself. She held up one hand to stop Norman’s next words.

Look, she said. This is a greenhouse. You said it was some kind of garden centre. Whatever it is, it must have an office, or a shop attached to it somewhere. Some kind of building that doesn’t have holes in it. Somewhere warm, or at least less cold than this.

It made sense. Norman had no idea how long it would take to find a phone, and both Stan and Mandy might freeze to death before he came back.

Okay. Let’s find an office or something. You two can wait there while I go for help. Norman put his hand on the brass door-handle and winced at the cold that bit his fingers. He pulled the door open and sighed. Another greenhouse, with another door at the far end.

Wait. I want to see my car first. Stan pressed his hands to the wall and tried to rise. Norman released the door and moved to help Stan.

Are you sure? Norman lifted the smaller man easily. Stan put his arm over Norman’s shoulders to take the weight from his broken leg. Mandy wrapped the blanket over Stan’s shoulders. After a few shuddering breaths, Stan spoke.

Yes. I want to see how bad it is.

After wrapping herself in both of the airbags, Mandy opened the door they had come through last night and held it while Norman manoeuvred Stan through the opening. The air moved in a cold breeze while the three of them stared at the remains of Stan’s car. Snow obscured much of the buckled bodywork and the scattered parts of the car’s front end, but there could be no doubt the vehicle was a write-off.

How did we get out of there alive? Mandy shook her head slowly. We should at least have been much more seriously hurt.

Just lucky, I suppose. Norman thought of the voices in his dream, but it could only have been a dream. Nobody would heal them and just leave them there. It was luck and Stan’s well-built car that had saved them. That’s all it was.

Stan sighed. At least I didn’t get breathalysed. I was probably over the limit last night.

Probably. Norman wondered about climbing the wreckage to get back to the road, but it looked to be at least twenty feet from the end of the car to the top of the bridge. Anyway, they couldn't get Stan up there in his condition.

Norman supported Stan back to the greenhouse where they had spent the night. The narrow doors made passage difficult, but soon they stood at the end of the third greenhouse. Mandy opened the door.

Oh, shit. Norman sagged at the sight of yet another greenhouse. How many of these things are there?

Mandy rubbed at the frost-covered glass and peered through. It looks like they’re built on a curve. I can’t see too well, it’s pretty overgrown outside.

Can you see any other buildings? Norman shifted Stan’s arm to a more comfortable position. Stan grunted.

No, just long grass and some bushes or trees. The window’s dirty on the outside.

Okay, let’s try the next door. Norman and Stan moved into the next greenhouse and waited for Mandy to catch up.

Here goes nothing. Mandy turned the handle. Norman drew a deep breath. This must have been quite some garden centre.

Any of those windows broken? Norman nodded to the inner curve of the building.

None. Mandy tried again to see through the glass. It’s odd. Last night I could have sworn there was no roof on the one we came in through. Yet this morning it was dry inside.

I thought the place where we slept had a few holes last night too. It was intact this morning. Norman’s words came between gasps. Stan’s weight pressed into his shoulder.

Five greenhouses. Stan stared around himself. This one’s not in bad shape, and the others could be fixed up. I bet I could sell this place no bother.

How will you show a buyer around? In a wheelchair? Mandy strode to the next door and pulled it open. Six. Just your luck, Stan. You’d get a fat commission off this one, but you’re in no state to do anything about it.

At the eighth greenhouse, Norman called a halt. Sweat poured from him, despite the cold, and his chest burned.

How are you doing, Norm? Concern showed in Stan’s eyes as Norman lowered him to the ground. I always thought you were pretty fit.

I lift weights. Norman stood with his hands on his knees. They build strength, not endurance. I’ll have to take up running or something. Norman thought it best to keep quiet about the pain in his ribs. There was nothing anyone could do about it, and a cracked rib or two seemed trivial compared to the state of Stan’s leg. He straightened and stretched his arms above his head. How many bloody greenhouses does this place have?

Mandy opened the next door. At least nine.

Norman closed his eyes for a moment. They all curve to the right. We’re in some kind of glass circle.

The curve is shallow, so if it is a circle, it’s a big one. Stan rested on his elbows on the floor, his legs outstretched. A very big one.

"There must be an