The Dark Corner

The room was white like the inside of a plaster. Liz sat at the laminate table, the three investors opposite, their suits near matching and faces forced into renderings of sympathy. Liz quietly typed the prompt ‘concerned venture capitalists’ into her phone, the image that popped up more or less identical to the one in front of her. She let herself laugh. She looked unhinged, but she always did these days. 

“To begin,” said the chief investor, Mr Rashid, his eyes trained firmly on the far wall, “we just want to share our deepest condolences for what happened at Forest Bank Mill. George’s loss is a huge blow to the founder community.” 

The others nodded, mouthing words of condolence.  

“We know you’ve spoken to the police and insurers and the news and just about everyone else,” Mr Rashid said. “But we just want to hear from you exactly what occurred at the Mill. So we can avoid something like this happening again in the future.” 

“I can’t tell you exactly what occurred, because I don’t know” Liz said.  

“You know more than any of us,” Mr Rashid said.  

“And you won’t believe any of it.” 

Mr Rashid shrugged. “We haven’t heard it yet. Just tell us what happened. We can worry about whether we believe you or not afterwards.”  

Liz looked at each of the investors in turn. Their hands clasped on the desks in front of them, their unblinking eyeballs glistening under the migraine lights.  

“Alright,” Liz said. “But don’t ask me which one it was.” 

Mr Rashid frowned. “Which one…?” 

“Just listen.” 

*** 

This was a passion project. A new Commonplace site in Barham, a coworking space for the community George grew up in, bringing space to work and collaborate to a place that needed it.  He wanted to give something back to his roots, and reviving Forest Bank Mill, this landmark of his hometown, was his way of doing that. George said the area needed the investment, the growth, needed fresh thinking and ideas. He left Barham in the first place because the whole town was ‘out of ideas’.  

With so many professionals having moved out of the cities since the pandemic, the business case was bulletproof. Somewhere for remote workers to come together, to share ideas, to build something as a collective. That was the whole idea of Commonplace. Some people didn’t like it, the sort that hated change purely because it was change. We were bringing new life into somewhere that had been left to rot, since the Mill had sat dead and decaying for four years, but some locals made out like we were turning a church into a kink club.  

That first afternoon we got there it was cold and sunny, the sky cloudless blue. The Mill sat on a thin river that weaved its way through the open valley and into the thick woods beyond. I saw its sooty brown bricks and rows of white-latticed windows and imagined the great water wheel, somewhere within, unturning. I pictured the workers of days long gone arriving at dawn, some chattering and joking together, others still half asleep, perhaps half-carrying their friends or sisters so they could snatch a few more minutes of sleep. I was getting ideas right away. George and I always said a good Commonplace site was supposed to be an ‘ideas mill’.  

The excitement faltered when we stepped inside and saw the state of the place. The main entrance took us straight into what used to be the main work floor. It was a huge room, its ceilings high, the brick walls painted white, the daylight struggling to push through the grime-caked windows. The old milling machines stood in rows, looms and spinners, big wooden and metal contraptions that would’ve made a deafening drone of clattering and hammering when working, now silent and rotting in the years since the museum funding ran dry and the place had fallen to ruin. Though Neville, the volunteer caretaker, had done his best to keep the place swept over the years, his lone efforts had not been enough to stop the walls from crumbling, the machines from decaying, the windows from turning opaque with grime. Rats had taken over the walls, based on the pellets scattered about everywhere.   

“Lots to do,” George said, with a click of the tongue. “But we’ve had worse. Remember that old warehouse in Hackney? Or the derelict hotel in Long Beach. The one with the squatters… the needles…”  

I wondered how he was even awake. There was loads to finalise with the new LA branch right as things kicked off with the Mill. George was still working LA hours, sleeping until twelve or so, overseeing things at the Mill for a few hours, working from about four, then crawling into bed sometime around five or six. George swore he had the energy – “sleep is for the unproductive!” – but it was a rough schedule even for a workaholic like George.  

The man prided himself on always being the ‘happiest guy in the room’. Always smiling, always laughing. He loved turtlenecks and craft beer. He loved his blonde manbun. ‘Build smart, build happy, build openly,’ was the motto he put all over his social media, on the Commonplace website, on all pitches and proposals. His only rule for the social media team was that he had to be smiling or laughing in all posts and pictures that included him.  

“Definitely some plastering work needs doing, but we’ll see what Ste says when he gets here… If he gets here,” George said, frowning, checking his watch. “It’s five past.”  

“It’s fine,” I said. “He’s a bit of a dope but he knows how important Commonplace is to us. He’ll turn up.”  

George’s eyes were stuck to the entrance. He always had high expectations of the people he hired and Ste, it seemed, would be no exception. He was trying to hide his impatience. He gripped his phone, checking it every thirty seconds, then going right back to watching the entrance. I’d arrived excited to explore this old bit of history. George was sort of ruining things.  

“Neville from the Barham Historical Society has sent over a bunch of stuff about the Mill,” I said, to distract him. “Diaries, old deeds, incident reports. Said we should ‘know a thing or two about the place before we rip it apart’.” 

George gestured around at the mess bewilderedly. “They prefer it like this?” 

I shrugged. “They think we should make it a museum again. But the papers look interesting. I’ll leave some on the bedside for you. Might give us some ideas when it comes to giving the site some personality.” 

“Alright.” 

Heavy footsteps outside on the stairs. Grunting, cursing. It could only be Ste. He appeared in the doorway, blocking out all the daylight. Ste had always been a big lad and he’d grown even more in the couple of years since I’d last seen him.  

“I’ll have to build a bigger doorway, eh?” he laughed as he squeezed inside and made his way over. “Alright, big man?” Ste pulled George into a bear hug. George stiffened slightly, his fingers clawing up, but he forced out a hearty laugh. 

“Ste,” George said, extracting himself from the hug. “Good to see you.”  

Ste looked around. His round face was reddened, his dirty blonde hair matted slightly with sweat. “Proper tip in here, eh?”  

“It is. But I believe in you.” George said. “What’s the plan, then?”  

Ste wobbled his head. “I’ll have a look around first, see what needs doing, then I’ll get a list together and get my team round.” 

George frowned. “I thought you’d already done the survey?” 

“Been busy, I’ve- Liz!” Ste caught sight of me and lurched over. I took a deep breath, ready for the hug. I struggled for breath, but immediately regretted doing so. He smelled like he washed his clothes with cigarette ends.  

“How are you, Ste?” I asked, upon being released.  

“Can’t complain. Can’t believe George still hasn’t scared you off. Got you here shifting bricks, has he?” 

“Well, I’m Creative Director now. And co-owner, in a few months. Business partners and actual partners. Excited to crack on!” I said, hoping to spur Ste to action.  

“On it, let’s have a look around.” Ste made for the walls. His ‘survey’ consisted of him slowly walking back and forth, nodding and muttering to himself. “Big job, this. I’ll see who’s about to get started on this.” 

“You don’t have a crew?” George asked. 

“Got a few lads I can text, but no full timers, nah. Can’t afford it at the min.”  

George caught my eye. He mouthed some presumably unhappy words.  

“What can we do?” I whispered.  

He scoffed.  

* 

I took some time to walk around the grounds and the woods. I had some ideas for what to do with the gardens. They were a great bonus. Commonplace sites were usually in the middle of city centres, so grounds and gardens were a rarity. Here, we could hire real gardeners and landscape architects. Maybe build some pergodas, benches, so people could work outdoors in the summers. Ice cream vans, maybe, or even catering trucks. Yogas classes on sunny mornings. Dog meets.  

A path worked through the valley, over the bridge by the Mill and up one of the hills, where I saw a shelf of flat land dug into the hillside, partway up. The Mill’s documentation had mentioned some old garden that the owners used to keep, where they could sit and look over the grounds and the workers on summer afternoons. None of the workers allowed up there, of course. It was all for the owners, for the Pembrokes. Obviously, I had to head up there and take a look.  

It was like happening across a forgotten cemetery. Blue wildflowers and weeds had taken over the beds, spilling into the overgrown lawn. Thick bushes and privets, once probably well trimmed, now sprawled out in all directions, many having collapsed under their own weight. The flagstone pathway was growing thick moss in its gaps, the stones half sunk into the earth. The path led to the back of the garden where, half-swallowed by a massive horseshoe hedge, stood an old brass statue, ensnared with moss and tendrils of ivy. In front of the statue was a wooden bench.  

I made my way over. Unlike the rest of the garden, the bench was spotless, not a patch of moss or splodge of lichen on it. I made to sit, but a sudden voice inside my suddenly shouted to stop. It could be rotten on the inside. Or maybe just not meant for me. Instead, I looked up at the statue. It was decked out in frock coat and cravat, his severe gaze fixed firmly on the Mill down in the valley. It was tall, unusually tall for a statue.  

Uninterested in gawping at statues of dead men, I headed back over to the edge of the garden, to look over the valley and the Mill. It was getting toward afternoon, and the sun was high. The first shoots of spring were showing across the valley, white dapples of snowdrops in the grass and buds of green on the trees.  

It was good to get a full view of the Mill. A part of the walling on the waterfront was boarded up with white plywood, looking awkwardly modern beside the dirty bricks of the mill. The water wheel, I quickly realised. Probably blocked off to stop kids from getting inside and wrecking things. I wondered if we could save the wheel, bring it back to life even. It would be a really nice effect to have a turning water wheel. Maybe we could even hook it up, use it as a source of green energy for the site. George would probably tell me why that wouldn’t be possible, but I usually found a way to prove him wrong.  

I watched George make his way out of the Mill and towards the car park, on the phone. A few minutes later, Ste stepped out, furtively lighting a cigarette. He seemed stiff, his movements jerky. A few times he half stepped inside, then out again. He threw his cigarette into the river and hesitantly stepped back inside.   

I made a note to ask him what he was planning to do with the old wheel. I had the image of it turning, working, in my head now, and it was an image that I knew wouldn’t go away. 

* 

“It was a slow start, but they finally got to work,” George said as he typed away on his laptop. He frowned at the screen, something real or online clearly annoying him.  

“Ste?”  

“Yeah.” He typed harder. “It’s gonna be like pulling teeth, I can tell.” 

“Just be clear about what you expect. You said you’d treat him like any other contractor. You never struggle to tell other contractors what you want from them.”  

I went to bed. George took up in the room next door, working as usual into the small hours. Before sleeping, I decided to read through some of the papers sent to us by the Barham Historical Society. It was a disorganised miscellany of official records, a history of the Mill written by some local aficionado, tatty old rotas and logs, and workers’ diaries donated by family over the years. The Mill had been owned by a married couple (and rumoured first cousins), John and Mary Pembroke. There was an old photo of the two staring sternly, soullessly into the camera. It clicked that the statue up in the old garden was John.  

When the Pembrokes first arrived in the area, Barham was little more than a hamlet, a waypoint for journeys to more important places. With the establishment of the Mill, Barham expanded rapidly as workers moved in from around the region for work. Some people at the time decried the desecration of the green fields and woodlands to build a dirty grey town.  

I drifted off. Something woke me up. George’s voice. George was always an animated talker, and he really projected his voice during work calls. From the bouncy cadence of his speech and excessive use of buzzwords, I could tell it was an investors’ call. I’ve always been a heavy sleeper, so his booming away in the other room never usually bothered me. I shut my eyes. Something stirred me again. George again. He was in the corridor, talking. Not his investor voice. He sounded confused, slow, almost like he was sleep talking. I couldn’t make out his words but he was certainly irritated. Probably sending a voice note to Ste. I ignored it and went back to sleep. I dreamed of turning wheels.  

* 

George was making his morning smoothie. Banana, chia seeds, oat milk, spinach. The whole process usually took around fifteen minutes. At one stage I worked out what fifteen minutes of George’s time was worth, but Commonplace’s stock value tripled shortly after and he negotiated himself a massive pay rise.  

“Who were you talking to last night?” I asked.  

“Work people.” George was off. Grumpy. Maybe things weren’t going well with the setup in LA.  

“You sounded a bit different. Like you were drunk or asleep or something.” 

“What do you mean?” George turned to look at me, still slicing the banana. “Different, how? Like I wasn’t on form? Don’t make me doubt myself, Liz. This is a really big moment for the LA development. I need you to be on Team George.” 

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is something off with LA? If something’s up, you need to tell me.” 

“Nothing’s up with LA,” George said. “It’s all fine in LA, because we hired real professionals in LA. It’s here that’s the problem. It’s Ste. I knew I shouldn’t have hired him. I hate nepotism. Nepotism’s blocked me all the way through my career. People less effective than me getting ahead because of who their mum or dad is. So why did I do it? Why did I let you talk me into it?” 

“Because this is different,” I said. “This is a pet project. You’re allowed to do things like this with pet projects. You do them how you want, yeah?” 

George grunted and turned back to his banana.  

“And don’t blame me for this. You had the idea to hire Ste. I just said it’d be a nice thing to do. He’s your mate and he’s struggling.” 

He just grunted again.  

* 

He was waiting for us in front of the gates. Neville was Chair and President of the Barham Historical Society, a group of amateur historians devoted to the Mill, because the Mill was basically the entirety of Barham’s history. He was a sprightly seventy-something, his face defined by a single, strong eyebrow that zigzagged from one side of his face to the other. He had kind eyes that probably twinkled for those he cared about. He was holding a thick brown envelope. I told George I would handle it, not wanting another showdown. 

“More history for you,” he said, holding out the envelope. “In case you wanted to know more about what you’re ruining.” 

“Ruin… Neville, we’re making it into something useful.” 

“For people like you. This is our heritage. Can a local brickie bring his kids here at the weekend to learn about their hometown?” 

“Yeah, if they wanted…” 

“It’s not useful for the town. It’s useful for you, and people like you.” 

“It wasn’t viable as a museum, Neville,” I said. “It went under, remember?” 

“You lot could keep it open a hundred years without charging a penny,” Neville said. “If you wanted to.” 

“I’m not arguing this again,” I said. “Now please move out of the way.”  

Neville scoffed, but made to leave. 

“Neville,” I suddenly said. 

“What?” he said, pausing.   

“Is there something wrong with the Mill? Gas leaks, black fungus, something like that?” 

“Asking for my help? Really?” 

“You were looking after the place before us. If there’s something you’ve not told us that becomes a problem, you could be on the hook for it. Some of us have been having mood swings. Getting irritable, acting different. The Mill is the only thing different.” 

Neville shook his head. “No, nothing wrong with the Mill. Just the history it’s full of. Maybe it doesn’t like you.” 

George did not look up from his phone as Neville passed, ignoring the old man’s cold ‘good morning’ to focus on whatever was going on elsewhere.   

As we walked through the grounds, down into the valley, I readied myself for another day of slow work from Ste and frustration from George. I stopped on the walkway that led over the river onto the work floor, wanting a moment before stepping into the tension. George didn’t even listen to the half-excuse I mumbled.  

I rested my elbows on the balustrade, watching the river rippling over the pebbles on the waterbed. I took a deep breath in, then looked up for a slow exhale, breathing out the tension and unpleasant vibes and taking in the lovely green jumble of trees and grass of the valley.  

He glared from the high garden. The remaining breath jolted out like I’d fallen on my back. Then I laughed. It was just the statue, the head and shoulder peaking over the edge of the garden. It was weird that I hadn’t spotted him before, and I couldn’t quite add up how he was visible from here, given how far back in the garden he was. Probably some quirk of the landscape. It gave me a fun idea. We could give him a different hat each month. A sunhat in the summer, a beanie in the winter. It would brighten up his leer.  

* 

I flicked through the folders that evening, feeling for some reason like I needed to appease Neville. The Pembrokes sounded like horrendous bosses, even for that time of horrendous bosses. John Pembroke in particular seemed to delight in cruelty, beating workers, giving daily addresses about how he built Forest Bank with his own two hands, how his hard work meant all of the workers could afford food, afford housing, afford to live. At the end of the working day he would stand at the gates so that the employees could thank him as they filed out. I wondered if he told his employees that he needed them to be on Team John. 

According to the journals, John would fly into hours-long rages at the slightest hint of insubordination or somebody questioning his authority. One day, when a landowner from near Manchester came by to float the idea of purchasing the Mill, John chased the man from the grounds with a cane, shouting, ‘it is mine, it will always be mine!’. A bit of a sadist, apparently turning red with laughter when the would-be buyer tripped and fell on his front as he hurried away from the property.  

But John Pembroke just sounded like any other evil man from history. I was more interested in one of the workers, Lucy Whittle. She was nineteen, and, according to one of the recovered diaries, a bit of a rebel. She was known for laughing, for constant jokes that kept people amused during the grinding shifts. She liked spreading rumours about the Pembrokes, specifically about their bedroom habits. But she was also given to complaining about almost everything – the pay, the lighting, the long hours, the back of the workers’ heads from the row in front, the smell, the noise of the machines, the lack of breaks, the dull conversations. The passage about Lucy ended with the diary’s author saying that the girl should ‘keep her thoughts to herself,’ in case she really annoyed the Pembrokes.  

I decided I was Team Lucy. It sounded like the Pembrokes deserved a good ribbing. 

* 

George was on his phone, typing something very quickly and forcefully. I hadn’t pushed the issue any further, but something was definitely up, definitely off. One of his nostrils was flaring as he wrote, his jaw clenching firmly in a way that hurt my teeth to watch. He pocketed his phone and looked around, as if dazed, then looked at me. 

“What were you gonna say?” he asked. 

“I was saying a few of these machines could look nice dotted about the site,” I said, gesturing around the work floor. “Like bits of the place’s history.” 

George glanced over the old machines. A frown flickered on his face. “They’re a bit greasy. Is greasy the vibe we’re going for?”  

“We’ll clean them up, obviously.”  

George went back to his phone.  

Ste came in. He stank of cigarettes and was muttering into the phone about some brackets being late. “Can’t do the walls without the brackets,” he kept saying.  

“Then what can you do?” George asked.  

“Got some lads coming over to start dragging all this old machinery out.”  

“Can you keep hold of some of the cleaner ones?” I asked. “We might use them as decorations.” 

Ste shrugged. “Alright. I’m gonna go down the basement in a bit, check the guts of the place are all fine.”  

“You’ve still not done the full survey?”  

“I survey as I go.” Ste took his packet of tobacco out of his pocket and set about rolling another cigarette.  

“Ste…” George’s voice cracked slightly. “Can you maybe stop smoking every ten minutes?”  

“Helps me think. It’s all in the mind at this stage.” 

“Helps you think about what? You’ve literally just been out for one.” George, the guy who was always smiling, always laughing, was scowling. “You’re out ten minutes every hour. That’s more than an hour a day where I’m paying you to smoke.” 

“Jeez, feels like I’m back flipping burgers,” Ste said. “Listen, big man. I’m in charge on my own sites. I decide how things move and who does what and who does it when. You’re paying me for the work, not by the hour. It’ll get done if you let me do it.”  

“I know, but it’s holding things up and we’re already behind schedule. Can’t you vape? That’s what everyone else does. I’ll let you do that in here.” 

Ste went out for his cigarette.  

I started checking over the old looms. They were huge, clunky things, of thick metal bars and wooden beams and jagged wheels, reminding me of old medieval torture devices. They must’ve been ridiculously loud, clattering and rattling all day every day. It would have driven me mad. Lots of the workers lost their hearing in later life. I thought of the tablet I used. Light as a feather, silent, with blue light reduction. Not great for the posture, to be fair.   

Some of the looms were rusted beyond saving, their wooden parts rotten to softness. Others were okay, definitely salvageable with some restorative work. 

“Still on about them?” Ste mumbled as he passed, some tool in his hand.  

“Yeah,” I said. “Some of them are alright. They could be cleaned up pretty well.” 

Ste scoffed, kept walking.  

“You were arguing with George, not me,” I said, not looking up from the spindle I was inspecting. “You don’t need to be off with me. I’m his partner, not his minion.”  

Ste halted. “What you on about? You were yelling down the stairs at me just twenty seconds ago. Calling me… I dunno what you were calling me. Didn’t sound nice, though.” 

“No I wasn’t?” 

Ste scoffed.  

“Ste, really, I wasn’t shouting at you.”  

“Whatever,” he said, turning to leave. “Gonna be here until midnight as it is, don’t need extra shit from you.” 

He left. I went back to the machine I’d been inspecting, a fairly rust-free spinner with all its bobbins in place. It would’ve looked good in the entrance hall, maybe a small plaque by it to explain what it was for, when it was from. It was as if someone had been taking care of it, keeping it in shape while allowing all the others to rust and decay. The metal, though tarnished, was in good condition, and the wood had not rotted. I reached out to touch the wood, to see if it was damp.  

Something popped in my head. I felt angry, angrier than I’ve ever felt, and I felt sick, while also terrified and indignant. It was an anger redder than any I had felt, a nausea that bulged in my midriff, a terror that made my hands shake. Familiar feelings, but not in the way I usually felt them. It was strange, like I was borrowing somebody else’s rage. I wanted to punch the machine, and also to throw up on the machine, and to run as far away from the machine as I physically could.  

I felt Ste was back in the room, like he was moving past me, almost running.  

“Ste, could you grab me a glass of water?” I asked, half retching, saliva pooling around my tongue.  

He didn’t reply.  

“Ste, seriously, I’m feeling really weird. Please just get me some water.” 

I managed to open my eyes and look around. Nobody was there.  

* 

I felt fine the next day and got to the Mill early. I was worried that Ste was going to scrap all the machinery before I had a chance to figure out what to do with it. He had a spiteful streak, so I had no doubt he’d dismantle the machines just because he thought I’d been insulting him. I got to the work floor and flicked on the lighting rig. The machines were, thankfully, untouched. I was happy, but it also suggested a general lack of progress. George would not be pleased.  

I don’t know what I felt as I walked up the steps. It’s probably hindsight speaking now, but something was definitely off. I told myself it was just some lingering malaise from the weird turn I had the day before, or from the arguments Ste and George had been having. I stepped onto the mill floor. Something about the rows of silent machinery instantly struck me. Something different. I looked over them and noticed the clean one, the one that sent me strange when I touched it. It was near the other end of the room. It was on its side. 

The smell, like rich meat and metal. I got closer and saw around the other side. I saw boots. The laces were untied but pulled tight, as if the feet were trying to squeeze their way out. They were spread apart, facing dead up. Above them, grubby jeans, white with building site dust. Then a sheepskin jacket. Then dark red, spreading out like a rough star from under the machine. Like the machine had been smashed down with unbelievable force. George was approaching the doorway as I was running out to throw up into the river.  

Through my vomiting, I heard him step inside and start shouting. 

“For fuck’s sake! He’s not even made a start on clearing it out.” He went further into the room, ranting, grumbling. Then it stopped and I knew he’d seen the machine and the lower half of Ste.  

“Oh, what the…” 

George didn’t like blood. I heard him retching, and it made me retch even more.  

* 

George was passed out at the kitchen table, his head resting on the surface. I decided to let him sleep and went to read as a distraction. I wanted to find out what I could about the garden dug into the hill. I wanted to get the sight of red splatters out of my mind. If there was a description of the garden, or better yet, a drawing, then maybe I could recreate it. I tried to stop myself imagining what it would’ve looked like under that machine. I thought that, if I had a clear plan for what to do next, it’d give George a sense of progress. Something to distract him from Ste. Progress was George’s lodestar, the feeling of things moving, of getting there. It got him through other tough times.  

Many of the records from the time were of workers complaining about Lucy Whittle. Around the summer of 1848 she had acquired a habit for rabble rousing, inspired by the Chartists and other strikes going on around the country. She was often heard spreading her discontent to other workers, pushing for better pay, or shorter hours, or whatever came to mind that week. One of the workers, Irene, clearly considered her an idiot. Irene’s diary was replete with attacks on Lucy. A stupid girl, Irene thought, as childish and mean as she was dim. It was all because she hated the bosses, hated the Pembrokes, Irene wrote. ‘Ungrateful girl. One of these days the owners will run out of patience with her, with all of us.’  

I was rooting for Lucy, hating Irene’s ‘keep your head down’ approach. The Lucys of history were why things moved forwards; the Irenes tried to hold history like a dog on a leash, fearing change even if it meant things could improve for them. Lucy felt like one of us, an embracer of change, of newness. George came to bed early for once. I tried to show him some of the history and the characters that had inhabited our Mill, but he was tired. I wondered how that machine could’ve crushed a huge man so thoroughly. I read more. 

* 

“Coroner said he died from immense physical trauma,” George said, with a dark laugh. Like we needed a coroner to know that. “But no idea how. Or why. Maybe an accident. He had a habit for lifting stuff without proper kit.” 

George carried on talking, I think, but I drifted out. I was trying to figure how the hell that could have happened accidentally. I thought maybe he’d been trying to move it, and I bit down a pang of guilt when I realised that was the loom I’d asked him to keep hold of. But then, if he’d been moving it, maybe he was getting rid of it. Then I didn’t feel as guilty.   

“… but the upshot is that the Mill’s going to be off limits for a bit,” George said. “Police and all that.” 

“For how long?”  

He shrugged. “Maybe a week. But this is good. Means I can get back over to LA and sort out the mess over there.” 

“You said LA was fine,” I said.  

“It’s… yeah, mostly.” 

“What’s happening?” 

“Nothing you need to worry about.” 

“It is though, isn’t it?” I said, in disbelief. “We’ll be joint owners in six months. I need to know if there’s issues like this.” 

George gave me something vague about zoning issues. He flew that evening, as if he couldn’t wait to get away. Left alone in Barham, with my main project on pause, I had pretty much nothing to do. So I read.  

* 

More diaries from the old millhand, Irene. It annoyed me that the Mill’s most narrowminded and cowardly employee was also its most prolific diarist. But I guessed Lucy Whittle was too busy making trouble to bother writing things down.  

This entry actually interested me, though. Amid tedious chronicling of shifts and meals and gossip, Irene suddenly confessed that she felt like John Pembroke was always watching. If he was not patrolling the work floors then he was glaring down on them from the high hill. Perhaps they meant the statue. Irene said she even felt him watching them even when they were at home, as if he were planted on the far hill with a telescope, peering in. Even when he was away, in London or Edinburgh on business, he watched. Somehow, he watched.  

While the Pembrokes were away, Lucy organised an impromptu workers’ picnic up in the high garden, insisting they were now legally entitled to meal breaks, thanks to the Factory Act, no matter what the Pembrokes said. She led a small band of fellow troublemakers up the hillside pathway, where they sat for almost fifteen minutes eating, drinking, and even dancing. It was wild and sinful to Irene’s eyes. She was sure Lucy and the others had lost their minds, even turned to devilry, so impertinent were their actions and loose their dancing.  

Irene was sure John Pembroke would know. He always watched, she wrote repeatedly. He would sack, possibly even kill, Lucy for this. He was always watching, of course. It ended on a note that was just typical Irene: ‘I only hope he does not come after anybody else’.  

* 

George had a new crew lined up on the old work floor. He stood in front of them, a crisp black turtleneck on, his hands clasped in front of him, as he made clear his expectations. The crew seemed bemused at his lecturing, but nodded along vaguely.  

“Commonplace is the world’s premier coworking space. And we do that by never compromising on standards. We build smart, build happy, build openly. Agreed?” 

“Agreed,” the workmen mouthed and mumbled, before their foreman resumed charge to focus on the actual work.  

“Oh,” I said, raising a hand as they began to disperse. “If you could try to spruce up a couple of the old milling machines, that’d be great. We want to keep a couple around as decorations.” 

They shrugged in assent and then got down to work. They were methodical, quick, professional, everything Ste (bless him) hadn’t been. I headed toward the door, thinking to go and sketch up some concepts for the outside, when George grabbed my arm.  

“Why are you making all these plans?” he said quietly. His face was ugly with anger, in a way I hadn’t seen before. Maybe it was the jet lag. Maybe it was LA. Maybe it was the Mill. “Using the old machines as decorations, that’s so… on the nose. All these ideas. What are you doing?”  

I shook my head at him. “What do you mean? I do this for all of our sites.” 

“Sorry, ‘our’ sites?” 

I stared into his face. “Yes, George. ‘Our’ sites. I put time into Commonplace. Time and money, just like you, George. And I’ll be a joint owner in six months, as we’ve agreed in writing.” 

“So you’re the one who took a massive gamble on that first rat-ridden warehouse in Hackney? You’re the one who struggled through years of debt, learned everything from construction to marketing, to make this happen? You’re the one listed as Founder and CEO on the Commonplace website?” 

“No, but-” 

“It’s mine,” George said. “It’s all mine. Commonplace is mine. This Mill is mine. It’s not yours. Not ours. It’s mine.”  

“What are you talking about?” I shouted. The workers politely pretended not to notice. “I’ve helped you, been with you, every step of the way. I did your branding and social strategy. I find the damn places to renovate. I make them into places people actually wanna spend time in. I’ve put just as much time, just as much of myself into this as you have.” 

“Yeah?” He laughed, almost spitting. “What time did you go to sleep last night, Liz? Were you up until god-knows-when, dealing with every hiccup and pissed pair of pants over in America, like I’ve been every night over the past month? How about working on the overnight flight back from LA, Liz? Were you doing that?”  

“Fuck off, George.” I turned to leave.  

“Really? You’re leaving?  

“Yeah,” I said. “I know it’s hard and I know Ste’s dead and you’re not sleeping much. But you don’t take your little paddies out on me. I’ve been with you every step of the way.” 

“Paddies…” George’s face flashed with white hot anger, then he stopped, reining himself in, remembering the workers. “Sorry, guys,” he said with a forced laugh. “Been a bit of a headache, all this.” 

They ignored him. I left.   

* 

One afternoon John Pembroke lost his temper with Lucy Whittle and caned her out in front of the Mill, making all of the workers watch. He reminded them that he was in charge, that he would tolerate no upstarts or insubordination, then sent Lucy home, never to return.  

Lucy, mischievous on a good day, was vengeful and violent on a bad one. She grabbed John Pembroke with surprising strength and drove him over the balustrades and into the river, where the turning wheel sucked him in and ground him to pieces. She fled, suddenly sober and horrified, as the workers watched speechless, with the diary’s author concluding that she would no doubt be hanged for murdering a landed gentleman.  

I read all evening. The Mill, its history, its people, polluted all my thoughts. It was such a foul time to have lived, full of cruel bosses, backbiting workers, noisy machines and thick, dirty air. It seemed like a time to be forgotten, to be paved over and replaced with something new. I thought maybe it wasn’t a good idea to preserve and display those spinning machines. Better to throw them in the river, or to landfill, or anywhere else out of mind. Let the Mill become modern. Let these diaries with their memories of people like John Pembroke and Lucy Whittle be filed away with all the other things rightfully stamped out of history.  

I drifted off. I woke up. George wasn’t doing his usual calls. The house was silent. I got up, walked around, looked outside. His car wasn’t there. I leaned against the kitchen counter, wondering, but his parents had moved away from Barham and he wouldn’t have driven to our place in London because he got migraines if he drove too long. I sent him a text. It reached his phone, but he didn’t read or reply. I didn’t like to, but I checked his location. I got into my car and drove over to the Mill.  

The walk from the carpark to the site was pitch dark. My phone torch scanned the way ahead like a spotlight. I felt like I was heading into something bad, like something was really off, but told myself it was just the darkness and the wind, and all the negativity of the recent weeks. George had just worked himself to the bone and then fallen asleep somewhere, giving in to the jet lag. 

I crossed the bridge over the thin river. I looked down. The white plyboard that concealed the water wheel was almost luminescent in the darkness. As I looked, I felt fleeting traces of that wild mix of hate and nausea and shame that had doused me when I touched the loom. A long ellipses of dread followed, dread that set my shoulders shaking and my throat pinching. The door open, I stepped onto the work floor and ran my light back and forth, hoping to see him curled up in a patch somewhere, fast asleep. The far doorway was thick with shadow. I made the long walk across the work floor. The machines were still there, still rotting where they sat, only a gap where Ste’s remains and the well-kept machine had been removed. Through the far doorway, I knew to look left. A door hung open, and I knew before even stepping through that it led down.  

The air was viscous with damp, the smell of metal and rotting wood hanging heavy all around me. Drips dropped constantly around, one shooting freezingly down the back of my top and sending my whole body recoiling. I went slowly, one foot at a time. The steps were soaking and one slip could kill me. I finally reached the bottom.  

Something ahead was flashing. I knew what it was before I reached it. It was George’s phone, on the wet stone floor, lighting up with notifications and then going dark again. I heard the sloshing of the water around, and went deeper into the thick darkness, down more stone steps, right to the edge of the water. There, in the black, the wheel. I lifted the light, spoke by spoke, until it hit the top.  

George was wedged in. He was at a steep angle, up to his waist. There would be no room for his legs to extend upward, so they could only be bent backwards, the wrong way. His eyes bolted open under the light, as if he were shocked awake from a terrible dream. He looked around frantically, with the wild panic of something hunted.  

“Fuck,” he gasped, groping about for his midriff, only to slap the metal plating above the wheel. “Fuck.” 

“George!” I yelled.  

I called an ambulance.  

“George, just wait there. They’re on the way. They’re on the way.” 

“I’m not gonna fucking die,” George gargled. He looked about frantically, as if furious at the walls. “Not gonna die, not gonna leave, you hear? You hear?!” 

“Who are you talking to? What happened?”  

“It’ll never be yours,” George hissed as blood tinted his lips. He was yelling at me. And at the room, somebody he thought was in the room. “I built it. I made it. Bought it. Mine. Mine. None of yours.” 

He shouted and thrashed about until he went limp. In the silence, I realised I felt something, in the room, standing right next to me. And it was laughing.  

*** 

“And that’s it,” Liz said. “No explanation, no answers. Just a man lodged in an old water wheel, raving at nothing.” 

“So what do you think?” asked Mr Rashid. 

“What do I think?” 

“It felt like you were describing a haunting.” Mr Rashid spoke softly, non-judgementally. “Is that what you think? Some vengeful spirit killed Ste and injured George?”  

Liz shrugged. “I described what I saw and felt.” She stood. “In nearly six months of investigations, nobody’s been able to answer a thing. It’s just a bunch of freak accidents. People messing around where they shouldn’t have been.” She stood. “Anything else?” 

Mr Rashid looked to the other investors. “Well, we obviously have a million questions, but you seem like you want to leave.” 

“I do,” Liz said. “Told this story so many times, I’m sick of it. It’s like I’m reading it off a script by now. I’ve got more interesting stuff to deal with.” 

“So we hear. You’ll be taking the reins at Commonplace?” 

Liz shrugged. “The joint ownership agreement is still in place, yeah, so I’ll have a controlling stake in George’s absence. Takes effect in exactly one week, unless George dies or changes his mind. Doesn’t seem likely he’ll be doing either of those. He’s just hanging around.” 

“Maybe we’ll be in touch then,” Mr Rashid said. “We do love working with Commonplace. And we’re still interested in the Mill.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Liz said. “I’ll have to see what the deal is over there.”  

* 

He was still just hanging around when she got home. Staring at the wall, silently defying rational explanation. His legs had broken in the wheel, but would heal fine, according to the doctors. The shattered ribs and internal bleeding had healed up beyond expectation. There was nothing different about him neurologically. No head wounds, and all scans and tests had shown typical brain function (he would have hated being described that way).  

George had not said a single word since he went cold in the water wheel. He sat in his chair, smiling weakly, only the occasional breathy laugh to pop his silences. Liz prepared his afternoon meal of pulverised veg and protein. Some gravy too. She mixed the whole thing together in a pot, making a brown-grey paste. 

“One week,” she said, sitting opposite George, staring into his smiling eyes, lifting the first spoonful of his liquid meal to his lips.  

Chris Lyon is a British writer originally from Warrington, usually in London, and currently in Taipei. His writing has appeared in various publications including Dark Lane and Cabinet of Heed.