Henry Lion Oldie. Nobody’s House

Henry Lion Oldie
Nobody’s House

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   “There's a house with no door and I'm living there
   At nights it gets so cold and the days are hard to bear inside.
   There’s a house with no roof, so the rain creeps in,
   Falling through my head as I try to think out time…”

Peter Hammill (Van Der Graaf Generator), "House with No Door", 1970

   Interesting, who was it that thought of putting down the ties so wrong: either too close or too far away from one another, or sometimes just randomly – what I’m saying is, it’s absolutely impossible to walk on them. Or do they do it purposely, so that no one would walk on them? But people are doing it anyway.
   The sand on the embankment was wet and firmly packed, hundreds of times more comfortable than these idiotic ties. Little by little, everybody followed my example and started walking near the rails.
   “So, have we got much left to go?” asked Oleg.
   “Yes, we have,” answered Andrei indifferently. He was the only one who knew the way.
   There was silence. The sand was creaking rhythmically under the sneakers.
   “Don’t get down from the embankment, there’s a swamp down there.”
   “You’ve already said that.”
   “So what? You’ll forget it anyway…”
   There began a light, nasty rain. The girls, as if on command, opened up colourful umbrellas. I was too lazy to take out mine, so I simply put on my cap. Gleb, after some pondering, followed my example. Oleg and Andrei continued walking, paying no attention to the cold drops. The area around was gloomily hummocky, overgrown with waste vegetation, some rusty carriages were rotting in the ditch, and the glistening rails continued to the distance and hid there beyond the vague mist of the rain. Stalkers of local importance… Yeah, right, went on a trip. The area and the weather just fit.
   “Hell of a guide,” muttered Oleg while lifting up his bag, which was trying continually to slide down to his buttocks. “God damn you, if we don’t find anything there – and we won’t, – you’ll be staying to rot in this swamp here, singing about how you like to be in the Octopus’ Garden for the rest of your life.”
   “There, that’s the way down from the embankment,” said Andrei suddenly, interrupting the intended flow of Oleg’s wit. “There’s supposed to be a broken barrier there and a path. Let’s go.”
   Helping the weaker sex to get down and sliding on the wet clay, we hardly managed to avoid making appropriate comments. In front of us, at a distance of about thirty metres, we indeed could see a broken barrier, its paint peeling off.
   “Hell of a guide…” Oleg didn’t finish the sentence and moved on.
   The dirty path was indeed there. The fog was unnerving, forcing us to look around every now and then. My imagination started working extra hours, and my hand found on its own a homemade flare pistol in a pocket of my bag. It was only with a big effort that one could call it a weapon, yet I immediately squared my shoulders and glared heroically through the fog. It’s all just rubbish, nothing more…
   “It’s all just rubbish,” Oleg straggled off a little to walk abreast of me. “It’s all rubbish, Redhead! But don’t hide your gun, no need, let it be on top, ok?..”
   The fog scattered abruptly and we saw the house. Broken slates on the roof, remains of glass in the windows, stains of water running down the plaster…
   An old, abandoned, two-storeyed house.
   “Here we are,” exhaled Andrei hoarsely. So here we are.
   A little way away there sprouted ruins of some other buildings, but for these we didn’t care – we were led by the ancient instinct of treasure hunters.
   In the dim corridor prevailed the smell of moisture and mildew. Oleg pushed the other door, and we found ourselves in a room. Remnants of broken furniture on the floor, shattered glass, peeled plaster, an old stove and torn electric cables hanging atop it. That’s it.
   In the next room the outlook was the same, aside from a couple of sagged armchairs, plus a prehistoric clock on the wall, the innards of which were scattered all over the defaced parquet. From here, a decrepit staircase led to the second floor. Only kamikazes could risk climbing it. Well, and us.
   Apparently somebody had made a campfire here some time ago – all the walls were covered with almost fresh soot. The remains of the furniture were used as firewood. Only an ancient bureau on curved legs had survived, and from its drawers Oleg produced immediately a pile of various trashes and a pink elementary school notebook, made in Moscow, “Voschod” factory, price 2 kopecks. In gold coins.
   The notebook was about half full. Instead of a bookmark there’s a torn piece of a newspaper sticking out of it, dirty to illegibility.
   “Let’s rest,” announces Oleg, putting this discovery into his pocket. “Let’s get down, light a fire in the stove and read the memoirs. Come on.”
   A regular abandoned house. Nothing special. The only weird thing – why are there no bottles out of alcohol drinks lying around? In such places there should be more than enough of such stuff, to intensify the mysteriousness. Then again, what kind of a jerk would go all the way here to the swamp for drinking? I hid the flare pistol and get out a tea-filled thermos flask and some sandwiches, and if I was thinking correctly about the contents of Oleg’s bag, then a couple of empty bottles would appear in this far away place surely. The stove deigned to light up from the third attempt, the ruins gradually became warm and even comfortable, we managed to clean the armchairs from mildew – and the girls immediately took out cigarettes, to the disagreeing exclamations of the men, who preferred sandwiches.