Page 75 of Sin Like the Devil

After quickly inputting the combination, the lock slides off in my hand.

“Is there anything you don’t know about Harrowdean?” Raine asks.

“Doubt it. I make it my business to know everyone else’s business.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

Surprised, I chuckle. “Yeah, it is.”

Stepping inside the building, the scents of mould and disuse wash over us. Nobody comes here. Not even the guards. Harrowdean’s dark dealings take place elsewhere, but I’ve kept this bolthole on my radar for those days when privacy is needed.

“Smells delightful.” Raine scrunches up his nose.

“The original institute was built in 1843. I found some dusty, old documents in the library last summer. It was an asylum for decades, then a rich kids’ boarding school.”

“Smells like this place hasn’t been used since 1843. What the hell is here?”

“You’ll see.”

Feet creaking over rotten floorboards and smashed tiles, we creep through the shadows. On the right side of the building, vintage changing rooms lie behind rusty shower curtains and clinking brass hooks.

The left side of the building contains a cavernous room marked by signage pointing towards what once was a huge swimming pool. Now it’s merely an empty, mouldy basin filled with discarded trash.

Anything the previous owners deemed worthless ended up in this concrete pit. Broken bed frames. Smashed chairs. Old, rotting books.

The first time I stumbled across this place, it was like discovering Atlantis. I felt more at home surrounded by destruction and decay than anywhere else.

Raine sniffs the air. “Chlorine?”

“You’d struggle to take a dip in this pool.”

“Yeah, it’s faint. How big was the pool?”

I steer him around a pile of collapsed bookshelves. “It’s full size. No idea how long it’s been empty for.”

The ceiling is high and domed, peppered with small windows that have long since caved in or been smashed by extreme weather. Part of the roof is gone too. The wind whistles in, carrying a hint of winter sun into the murkiness.

On the other side of the empty swimming pool sit a couple of ripped, sagging armchairs I found while poking around. Sometimes, I escape here with my sketchbook and charcoals, needing the silence.

“Three steps in front of you,” I direct him.

Poking the armchair with his guide stick, Raine strokes a hand over the ancient fabric. “Gotcha.”

We both take seats facing the desolate pool house after Raine places his violin case and guide stick on the ground.

“What do you want to know?”

I twist in my armchair to face him. “How does a professional violinist end up somewhere like this?”

He snorts. “By being a total fuck-up?”

“Can’t he get you out? Your… uh, manager?”

Mouth twisting into a grimace, his fingers tap out a staccato rhythm on the armrest. “He’s the reason I’m here. The asshole sold it to me as a sweet deal.”

“I mean… this is pretty sweet.”

Raine’s head moves on a swivel, his glasses-covered eyes casting around the swimming pool like he can actually see the opulence.

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