Waiting outside Eddy’s house, Richard had the feeling that he stood on the brink of a very different, very strange world. The building itself was a huge, sprawling monstrosity of three floors. Red-bricked, austere, it could easily have formed the centrepiece for a ghoulish and grim horror film from the nineteen-thirties. An ancient, crumbling facade, windows black with grime, layers of thickly applied paint peeling from the woodwork. A sad, lonely place, a coldness emanating from every c***k and broken piece of masonry. If this was night time, he would steer well clear, but even now, in the weak sun of early evening, it sent a cold chill running through him.
“It could be described as a tribute to the garish and outlandish ideals of those Victorian rich, who built these houses,” said Eddy,
