This Would Never Happen at Vanessa’s House by E.A. Griffin (Shortlisted)

It was the middle of the night and Lizzie was on her way to get some water when she saw the dead man.
“Jesus,” she said to herself through the darkness.
She crept towards the spare bedroom and switched on the light, which illuminated the room in an unsuitably cheerful glow. The man lay motionless on the twin bed beside an overflowing basket of laundry. There was a nice artificial orchid on the windowsill, alongside a box of tissues for any guests that might be staying, but he wouldn’t be needing those.

It was her Uncle Pat.
“Uncle Pat,” she said, bewildered.
She turned the light off to save on electricity and tiptoed back to her bedroom. “Matthew,” she whispered, giving her new husband a poke through the duvet. “Matthew, wake up.”
“What?” he mumbled sleepily.
“My Uncle Pat is dead inside in the spare bedroom.”
“You fuckin’ what?”
“Come and see.”

And so the two of them went next door to the spare bedroom and turned the light back on. There, they stood looking at Uncle Pat on top of the neatly made bed with puzzled looks on their faces.
“What’ll we do?” asked Lizzie.

“Call an ambulance?”
“It’s a bit late for that.”
The two of them stood there, each waiting for the other to say something helpful. It was a shame, really, because Uncle Pat would have known exactly what to do: he was a quantity surveyor.
“I’ll call me dad,” Lizzie said finally.
“Lizzie, you’ve to help me again with the Sky box,” Dad said when he answered the phone. “Your mother is after pressing something.”
“Oh right,” said Lizzie. “I’ll call over tomorrow.”
“Grand job,” said Dad. “Any news?”
“Dad, Uncle Pat is here.”
“Oh, very good,” he said.
“No,” she explained. “He’s dead. In our spare bedroom.”
“He’s what?”
“Inside in our spare bed. He’s dead in there.”
“Oh, Jesus. We’ll call over now.”
And he hung up the phone.
Lizzie made two cups of tea for herself and Matthew while they waited for her parents to arrive. She felt awful rude not to be making one for Uncle Pat, but Matthew said that was irrational. They sat on the sofa and took sips of the tea while it was still too hot because they didn’t know what to say to each other. Lizzie supposed that they were in shock. Or maybe there was just nothing to say, because Uncle Pat would be staying up there dead either way, whether someone said something clever or not.
Eventually, the Avensis pulled up outside, and through the living room window she could hear her parents bustling up the driveway to the door, where they rang the doorbell.

“I’d better get that,” she said to Matthew, and she placed her cup on the coffee table and left him on the sofa with his Wallace and Gromit mug in his hand.
“How in the name of God did he get inside in here?” Dad demanded once she had unlocked the front door and swung it open. “‘Tis like Fort Knox.”

“I don’t know,” Lizzie replied, as he pushed past her into the hallway.
Only Mam stood on the doorstep now, wide and prim and imposing, seeming to take up the whole driveway with her big Coach handbag propped upon her shoulder. She regarded Lizzie with such scrutiny that her face forgot not to twist into a grimace. “Ah, love,” she winced. “Are you after putting on a bit of weight?”
“No,” said Lizzie. “Are you coming in?” But Mam was already fussing past her, taking off her coat and saying something persnickety about the leaves on the doormat. “Vanessa was after making a lovely pavlova when we called round the other day,” she announced. “She made her own lemon curd to go with it. Would you ever do any baking? You’re too busy I suppose. Did you ever get that hot water tank seen to?” “Mam, Uncle Pat is dead inside in our spare bedroom,” Lizzie reminded her.
“Ah, isn’t it desperate.” Her mother hung up her coat on the end of the bannister and turned towards her. “Wouldn’t you think of starting to watch what you’re eat-”
“Well, where is he?” Dad enquired.
“He’s inside in the spare bedroom, Dad, I told you.”

“Not him,” said Dad. “Himself.”
“Oh,” said Lizzie, after realising. “Matthew. He’s in the living room, drinking tea.” “Will you have a tea, Michael?” asked Mam, who was now hurrying down to the kitchen, and Lizzie wondered how the woman always managed to be in a fluster even when she wasn’t busy, in a constant state of commotion over making tea. “I’m making one for myself.”
“I’ll have two sugars,” Dad said broodingly. “For the shock.”
Just then, Matthew appeared in the living room doorway. “I’ll have one too, Maura,” he called down to the kitchen. “I’m after finishing mine.”
“Would you not have put on a bit of tea, Lizzie?” complained Mam, her voice rolling down the hallway. “It was you asked us over.”
Lizzie ignored her. “Will I show you Uncle Pat?” she prompted her father, jerking her head towards the staircase.
“He’s upstairs, Michael,” said Matthew helpfully.
Dad agreed, so the three of them went upstairs, leaving behind the hallway light and emerging one by one into the darkness above.
“The spare bedroom is it?” asked Dad, who was at the front, in a hushed voice. “Yes,” whispered Lizzie, who was behind him.
They crept gingerly into the spare bedroom as though they were afraid of waking someone, but when Matthew snapped on the light, they could all see that that had been gratuitous. There lay Uncle Pat, just where Lizzie had said he would be, on top of the spare bed with the covers neat and undisturbed beneath him. His hands were folded restfully across his stomach, his interlaced fingers long and pale and still as a mannequin. He wasn’t exactly out of place where he was lying, but he had of course taken everyone by surprise.

“The poor auld fella,” sighed Dad.
“How’d you think he got in here, Michael?” Matthew asked.
“Well, you know Pat,” said Dad by way of explanation.
“I do,” said Matthew, nodding. Then he corrected himself: “I did.”
“What do you think he died of?” asked Lizzie.
“Well,” Dad said reflectively. “He wasn’t himself lately ... You know yourself.”
The curtains in the spare bedroom were open because Lizzie hadn’t expected anyone to be sleeping in there, which in fairness to her, they weren’t. In the bright light, their three faces were reflected in the black square of the window like they were actors on TV. Lizzie’s face was white as a sheet: not a scrap of make up to be seen. Usually, Mam would make a comment that she was done up like a dog’s dinner. Lizzie supposed that if she really were an actor, she would know what to say next because someone would have written it down for her in a script. But as it happened, she stood there without much to say in response.
“Sure look,” said Matthew.
“I’ve the tea made,” announced Mam, appearing in the doorway and holding a tray with four cups.
“I didn’t want one, Mam,” said Lizzie. ‘I’ve already had one. It’s too much caffeine in the middle of the night. I’d never get back to sleep.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” hissed Mam. “There’s no pleasing you! Sure if I hadn’t one made for you, you’d have complained.”
“I’d have had a chamomile,” said Lizzie defensively.
“Chamomile,” snorted Dad. “Chamomile my hole.”

So they all took their cups from the tray, including Lizzie. She resolved just to blow on hers for a while, and by the time it cooled down, maybe she would feel like a few sips.
“Vanessa has some lovely new teacups from Homefront,” reported Mam. “Hasn’t she, Michael?”

Dad made a noise that didn’t really mean anything.
“Very good,” said Lizzie.
“Did you see Pat, Maura?” asked Matthew, gesturing with his free hand towards the spare bed.
“Ah, God love him,” clucked Mam like a sad hen. “What’ll we do, Michael?” she asked. “Will we call the O’Reillys?” She turned to Matthew. “They’re our neighbours, Matthew,” she explained. “Noel and Deirdre.”
“Sure what will they do?” scoffed Lizzie.
“Well, his brother is a doctor!” protested Mam.
“He doesn’t need a doctor, Maura,’ said Matthew diplomatically.
So once again they all took sips of their tea whilst thinking about what to do, except Lizzie, who blew a bit on hers.
“Do you want her old ones, Lizzie?”
“Whose old what?”
“Vanessa’s old teacups,”
“Mam, I don’t think Vanessa’s teacups are the priority right now. Uncle Pat is dead inside in my spare bedroom and I don’t even know how he got there!”
“Would you calm down!” cried Mam. “There’s no talking to you!” She slammed her cup down on the bedside locker beside Uncle Pat’s waxy face. If he had been sleeping, he would have jolted awake, but he didn’t seem to mind, given the circumstances. “Well then, I’ll just tell your sister you don’t like her teacups. They can go in the bin.” She pursed her lips: “Grand so!”
“We did a sea swim on Sunday, Michael,” said Matthew. “And a sauna.”
“A sauna!” gasped Mam, several octaves higher than usual. She turned to glare at Lizzie. “And you complaining the house was too warm the last day! You made me turn off the heating!”

“Mam, no one has the heating on in June,” retorted Lizzie. “It must cost ye a fortune.” “Oh, but you’re happy to do a sauna!” Mam rolled her eyes to the ceiling as though she had never heard something so ludicrous. “I’ve heard it all now!”
“Have ye decided what we should do?” asked Matthew. “About ...” he motioned forlornly towards Uncle Pat on the spare bed.

“This would never happen at Vanessa’s house,” snapped Mam, and she looked at her younger daughter accusingly.
“Vanessa’s house doesn’t have a spare bedroom,” said Lizzie.
“What a thing to say!” gasped Mam. “Your sister has a lovely house!”

Dad wandered into the room like a spectre crossing over from a dream, holding a green glass bottle from the fridge. No one had noticed that he had slipped away for a moment. He took a swig from the bottle and strolled over to the spare bed, where he stood over his dead brother.
“The poor crater,” he tutted, studying the traces of familiarity in Uncle Pat’s face, now uncharacteristically ashen and drawn. “He’d know what to do about all this.”
Uncle Pat hadn’t heard any of the arguing; in fact, he looked quite tranquil. His eyes were closed and his nose pointed up towards the ceiling, as did his toes inside their brown leather shoes, which were polished and neatly laced up. The collar of an ironed blue shirt was folded precisely over the neckline of his jumper. He lay still, his head resting on the pillow, hands folded on his stomach as though he was calmly watching TV, which he had always called the television. The spare bedroom - with the artificial orchid on the windowsill, the green and white gingham duvet cover, and the motionless man who looked like he was sleeping (albeit whilst rather pale) - would have been a serene view had it not been for the four people standing around, wondering what to do and giving out to each other.

“Will we put it up on R.I.P.?” Lizzie suggested after a long pause.
Dad nodded, relieved that someone had finally made a proposal.
“That’s what we’ll do,” he agreed. He took another large gulp from the bottle.
“Will we do it in the morning?” said Matthew.
“Yes,” Mam said quickly. “We’re too tired to think straight at the moment.” She turned to frown at Lizzie. “You should have waited until the morning, Elizabeth. You knew your father would be tired and you dragging him up out of the bed!”
“It was an emergency!” Lizzie objected.
Mam tutted. “It wasn’t an emergency, Lizzie,” she huffed. “Uncle Pat would have still been there in the morning. He isn’t going anywhere.”
And so they all made their way downstairs to the front door, where Lizzie’s parents donned their coats.
“We’ll be back in the morning, so,” Dad said contentedly, as though he had resolved the great dilemma of the age.
“Did I tell you what happened to Niall Murphy?” Mam called over her shoulder, as she bustled down the hallway to put the tray of cups in the kitchen.
“No?” said Lizzie. “What happened to him?”
“He broke his leg.” Mam waddled back up the hallway, picking up her huge handbag from beside the front door. (What could she possibly have in there? A baby orca? County Louth?) She ran her finger along the hall table, evidently having seen a speck of dust that was invisible to the untrained eye of a mere mortal. Three green glass bottles had appeared there, placed in an orderly line beside the lamp. All empty. Mam sniffed pointedly and looked away from them.
“How did he do that?” Lizzie asked.
The light bounced merrily off the green glass.
“He fell off the roof at work,” Mam explained knowingly with a nod of her head, her eyebrows raised as she imparted her wisdom.
“Isn’t he a bus driver?”
“Yes,” Mam nodded, as she stepped out onto the doorstep and into the darkness. “Will I tell Vanessa you’ll have her old teacups?”
“Alright,” Lizzie acquiesced.
“Her new ones are lovely,” Mam reassured her.
“See you in the morning,” Dad said cheerily with a wave of his hand, and the two of them bustled back into the parked Avensis. The headlights threw two orange beams out into the blackness, and Lizzie and Matthew watched from the gleaming square of the doorway as the car drove through the estate, turned left onto the main road, and disappeared into the night.
“Poor Uncle Pat,” Lizzie said quietly.
Matthew slid his arm around her waist.
“I know,” he said.
They stood looking out at the deserted street for a few moments before they closed the front door on the shadows. The hallway was bright and the silence in the house was palpable, as though they were the only two people left in the whole world. Everything seemed very still now that her parents were gone, somehow quieter and emptier than before they had arrived. The row of green bottles stood mockingly in the glow of the lamp, all the more audacious for their careful arrangement. Lizzie wondered if Matthew had noticed them too, when a suspicious gurgle came from the hot water tank upstairs.

“We must get that seen to,” said Matthew. He yawned widely, and then, “Will I wash up the cups?” he offered.
“No,” said Lizzie. “I’ll do it in the morning.”