The house hunt, p.10
The House Hunt, page 10
The floorboards trembled beneath me again.
He’s closed the door.
I moved forwards more carefully this time until I reached the window in front of me, tilted the shutter blades with my fingers and looked out.
The thickening darkness outside was stained acid yellow by the street lighting.
I couldn’t see an ambulance but an old man was standing beside the open gate at the end of our path.
Our neighbour, John.
He had an empty plastic shopping bag hanging limply in his hand. I didn’t like the expression on his face. His mouth was hooked downwards, a slash of doubt or confusion scoring a deep line across his brow.
He was only there for the briefest instant, half twisted around, glancing towards our front door. Then he turned and began to walk off, his domed scalp and the wisps of white hair at the sides of his head skimming along past the top of our hedge.
He crossed the road and continued onwards, heading in the direction of the nearby parade of shops on Upper Richmond Road.
Had he called round to ask if there was anything we needed, as he sometimes did?
If so, had Donovan said something to get rid of him – something that hadn’t entirely convinced him that everything was normal and that explained why he’d been looking back at our house with such a conflicted expression on his face?
Or had he been looking that way because he’d watched Donovan let somebody else into our home?
John was continuing to stroll away beyond the parked cars and plane trees. He didn’t glance back.
There was nobody else around.
My eyes strayed to the ‘For Sale’ sign in the front of our yard and something inside me tightened and tensed.
Then I lowered my gaze further and peered at my arm for a second. The one with the sleeve rolled up, exposing my familiar, knotted scar, running like a length of hot wire from the inside of my wrist to the crook of my elbow.
I experienced a jolt of fear, icy liquid seeping through my stomach.
Taking hold of my wrist, I lifted my arm closer, staring in disbelief at the inside of my elbow.
No, I hadn’t imagined it.
A tiny dot of blood.
I pressed a nail to it, remembering the scratch and the stinging sensation, the way Donovan had slipped something into his pocket afterwards and—
Shit.
In my dazed state I’d thought he was helping me, but what if he hadn’t been?
He might have injected you with something.
I remembered what he’d said to me when I’d been lying on the floor.
Just wait.
Why? How had he expected to find me when he got back up here and what was he planning to do to me?
I stared back at the en suite behind me, not daring to breathe as I listened to the maddening hiss and splatter of the shower and beyond it . . . nothing.
Except a taut, silent humming. A soundless note of pure terror.
Which was when a new thought hit me.
Move.
40
I flung myself sideways, scrambled out of the opening to my right and made a grab for the bed.
Knotting my fingers in the pleated throw, I leaned out and stared towards the hallway.
No sign of Donovan.
Sweat poured down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I felt hot and shivery at the same time.
My reflection stared back at me from the full-length mirror opposite. It was as if I was staring at the victim of a sudden road accident. I looked stunned and dazed.
Then I glanced down at my arm and saw the needle mark inside my elbow again, and the horror hit me anew.
I struck out forwards, exiting the bedroom and grabbing hold of the railings overlooking the stairs, sweat dripping in my eyes.
The noise of the shower behind me had receded a little. There was no sound from below, no conversation, no noise from Donovan or Bethany or whoever the mystery caller had been.
I considered going for the front door.
In my mind I mapped out rushing downstairs and grappling with the snap lock and staggering outside.
But I knew Donovan was down there somewhere and Bethany could be anywhere.
Were they really a threat to me or was I letting my thoughts run away from me?
I licked my lips. They tasted of salt and oil. A needling pain probed at the back of my skull again.
At the end of the hallway was the bathroom and the back bedroom. I really hated that the bathroom was ahead of me. A wordless danger seemed to emanate from it.
Bad karma. Bad memories.
As if I wasn’t freaked out enough already.
Movement to my left.
I jerked my head sideways, gazing down over the railings.
Somebody’s shadow was sliding up the stairwell wall from below.
Only seconds until they saw me.
Maybe less.
My heart stuttered.
What to do?
I took a backwards step towards the bedroom.
But the bedroom was where they expected me to be.
Then I glanced sideways and up.
At the stairs leading towards the attic.
41
Sam
‘Oh my God!’ the Artist gasped, clamping her hands over her mouth.
The Athlete shot to his feet. ‘Should I get someone? Who should I get?’
‘No, don’t do that,’ Sam said. ‘Please, everyone stay where you are.’
He looked at the scissors that were now pointed towards him. They were a relatively small pair. Translucent plastic handles. Blades perhaps five centimetres long.
They were oscillating wildly in the Librarian’s grip. His upper lip was damp with sweat, his engorged eyes bulging. He had started to weep.
‘Easy,’ Sam said to him. ‘Take it easy, it’s OK.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he snivelled. ‘I’m so sorry I did this.’
‘No, it’s OK,’ Sam told him again, talking slowly and deliberately. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’
The Lost Girl twisted her upper body away from the Librarian, shying from looking, placing a hand on the Boxer’s shoulder. The Artist was shaking her head minutely, her skin drained of colour, while the Athlete raised himself up on his toes and looked out through the glazed internal wall of the seminar room as if he was hoping to signal to somebody passing by.
Sam kept his focus on the Librarian, patting the air with his hands.
‘I know it’s a lot,’ Sam said. ‘What you’re hearing today. But you just need to breathe. Listen to my voice. Take your time.’
‘Don’t come any closer!’
The Librarian twitched and slashed at the air with his scissors. The Lost Girl shrieked.
‘Everybody stay calm,’ Sam reminded them.
‘I don’t know,’ the Boxer muttered. ‘This doesn’t feel right to me.’
Again, Sam kept his focus on the Librarian, blocking everything else out, feeling oddly composed.
This is an opportunity to prove everything you’ve been saying to the group. This is how you secure their trust.
The Librarian was breathing rapidly, bubbles of saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth.
‘You’re not going to hurt anyone,’ Sam told him. ‘You never were going to hurt anyone. Listen to me. Focus on my voice. These are just bad thoughts you’re having. Your thoughts are not real. You control your actions. Now, I am going to slowly extend my hand to you, and when I do, I want you to give me the scissors.’
42
I climbed towards the attic with my hands out in front of me, my fingers tearing at the carpet, my shoulder brushing the wall.
A terrible feeling.
Those prickles in my spine again. The sensation of someone looming behind me.
I reached the upper landing, whirled around, stared back.
But the stairwell was empty.
And I knew I had a choice.
Two rooms.
Choose well.
I entered Sam’s study at a crouch, bracing myself against the door frame before advancing as far as his desk chair.
Footfall downstairs.
Somebody was striding along the landing. Confident. Fast.
I sneaked on towards the French doors opening onto the balcony, taking hold of the door handles, reaching for the key.
Wait.
A tremor deep inside me.
The key wasn’t here. It was missing.
He must have taken the key.
My mind flashed back to when Donovan had stepped in from the balcony earlier. His back had been to me when he’d closed both doors after him. I hadn’t paid close attention to what he’d been doing with his hands because I’d been too busy worrying about what to do and say next.
Oh God.
I tugged down on both door handles but they only confirmed what I already knew.
He was locking you in.
He’d planned ahead.
Was Bethany a part of this? What even was this?
Fear bulged in my throat.
I scanned the carpet around my feet, telling myself the key might have simply fallen out. The pain at the back of my head spiked momentarily as I looked down, but if the key had fallen to the floor I couldn’t see it.
Spinning, my heart thrashing against my ribs, I stared towards the top of the stairs, willing this not to be happening to me, wishing I could be anywhere else.
That’s when I heard the shower stop.
The squeak of a tap. A hush followed by a ragged splatter and then silence.
I listened as closely as I could.
Beneath my feet I could picture Donovan or Bethany standing very still and listening for me.
I didn’t move. My body was stone.
I wanted to shout or scream for somebody to help me, but I was petrified of letting them know where I was.
The seconds passed like minutes.
When I did gradually turn my head, achingly slowly, I surveyed Sam’s study for anything I could use to let myself out.
But all I could see was pens and notebooks, papers and texts.
Then I heard movement again.
Downstairs.
Footsteps.
On the landing.
Hurrying towards the back of the house.
43
They’re checking the back bedroom, I thought. The bathroom.
I pressed my hands against the French doors. My fingers smudged the glass.
Make a decision.
Think.
Turning quickly, I retraced my steps across the room, accidentally banging into Sam’s chair and knocking it aside.
At the top of the landing I paused and looked down the stairs again.
A moment of vertigo.
Of terror.
But whoever was down there didn’t show themselves or spot me.
Taking one big step forwards, I crossed into the attic bedroom.
My gaze swept across the skylights, the daybed, the hanging chair and the bookshelves. I was sweating so badly my jumper was sticking to my skin.
I ventured on, making for the small cupboard under the eaves where I’d stashed the vacuum cleaner. I had to duck as I got close because of how sharply the ceiling sloped.
The cupboard was fitted flush against the wall, painted in the same off-white as the rest of the room. It had concealed hinges. There was no handle. If you didn’t know it was there, you could easily overlook it.
I couldn’t hide in there.
No way. Not possible.
Not with my claustrophobia.
But inside the cupboard – just past the Hoover and to the right and within careful reaching distance – was a small toolbox.
Sam and I kept it there in case I needed a screwdriver or a pair of pliers when Sam was out because I obviously couldn’t go down into the basement for the rest of our tools.
Inside the toolbox there was also a tape measure. Chisels. Hooks and screws.
And resting on the lid of the toolbox was the hammer that I’d used to hang Sam’s framed X-Files poster.
If I reached inside for the toolbox, I might be able to use the tools to force my way through the French doors. Or I could smash the glass with the hammer if I had to. Defend myself if it came to it.
The cupboard door was secured by a push latch. I knew it squeaked.
Should have oiled it before now.
I looked back across the bedroom towards the doorway. They weren’t up here yet, but I was past pretending I could hear any noises they might be making over the crashing of my pulse in my ears.
And once I opened the door, I’d have the hammer. Once I had the hammer—
I pressed the door.
The latch creaked and clunked as it sprang open just slightly.
Then the door swung back as if of its own accord.
And that’s when I screamed.
44
Sam
Sam extended his hand towards the Librarian in slow increments. He still felt calm and in control but, even so, he had his doubts. How could he not? It was as if his mind was playing tricks on him.
He understood why, of course. He was familiar with the emotional and logical processing that was going on.
For instance, in one part of his brain some of his thoughts were already jumping ahead to possible future scenarios.
Bad scenarios.
Like the Librarian stabbing him in the hand, or lashing out and thrusting the scissor blades deep into his neck.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Librarian spluttered again.
‘It’s OK,’ Sam said, focusing all his concentration on the Librarian, trying to quieten his doubts. ‘You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You haven’t done anything wrong.’
Yet.
Sam took a breath and stretched his arm out further.
And in another part of his brain, an old childhood memory stirred. It was from when he was eight, visiting a zoo on a school trip. He could remember how he’d put his hand out slowly, so slowly, towards a glass tank where a Central African rock python was nestled.
The python had been coiled up, unmoving, but although the snake seemed thoroughly uninterested in Sam and his classmates, and even though the inch-thick glass had been between them, a part of Sam had still believed that somehow the snake might uncoil, strike, sink its fangs into his wrist.
The power of thoughts.
The irrationality of fear.
Very slowly, Sam rested his tongue on his bottom lip and began to rotate his wrist, turning his palm upwards.
‘It’s OK,’ Sam told the Librarian. ‘Just look at me and listen to my voice. I’m going to count to three and then you’re going to pass the scissors to me. Understand?’
The Librarian whined at the back of his throat with a sound like a dentist’s drill.
‘One,’ Sam said.
‘I don’t think I can do this,’ the Librarian told him.
‘Two.’
Very carefully, Sam turned his head and glanced quickly at the Artist. She was watching him with her face scrunched up as if she was bracing herself for something terrible to happen.
Trust me.
‘Ready?’ he asked the Librarian.
‘No, no, I’m just—’
Sam exhaled again, holding his palm steady, thinking of that big snake behind the glass cage, wondering if he was about to feel its fangs piercing his skin all these years later.
‘Three.’
45
My scream slipped out hot and ragged, sharp as a blade in my throat.
I stopped myself as soon as I could, clamping a hand over my mouth, and in the silence that followed there was only Bethany.
Bethany, who had flopped forwards out of the cupboard where she shouldn’t have been.
Bethany, whose eyes were shut and whose body was slack and whose wrists had been bound together in front of her waist with the scarf that she’d been wearing around her neck.
She didn’t stir when her body hit the floor.
She was completely out of it.
I bit down on my lip so hard it burst inside my mouth with a hot splash of blood.
My scream raged on inside my head, getting louder, more desperate.
I pressed my other hand over my mouth, flattening my lips against my gums. My entire body shook with the effort of holding it in.
But it was already too late.
Footsteps on the attic stairs, thumping upwards, hard and fast.
‘Bethany.’ I took hold of her shoulders and shook her. ‘Bethany, please.’
I whipped my head towards the doorway as Donovan rushed in and skidded to a halt. He eyed me carefully, then swung his head towards the open cupboard door, switching his gaze between me and Bethany, assessing, reassessing.
‘You weren’t supposed to see that.’
Her, I wanted to yell at him, but instead I hurriedly checked that Bethany’s airways were clear, swept her hair away from in front of her face, put my cheek next to her mouth.
She was breathing shallowly. Her chest was rising and falling. I could see a rapid flickering beneath her eyelids.
‘What did you do to her?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer me. I felt around her scalp, tilted her head from side to side.
‘Did you hit her?’
‘Move away from her.’
‘We need to get help. We need to—’
‘I said move,’ he told me, and strode towards me so fast that I let go of Bethany and scuttled backwards until my spine and shoulder blades butted up against the metal frame of the daybed, my backside grazing the floor, my fingers twisting in the carpet pile.
‘Stay away from me,’ I told him.
He looked at me without saying anything for a few seconds. There was an ice pack in his hand. He must have taken it from our freezer. I’d stocked up on ice packs after Sam had suffered one DIY mishap too many.
‘Don’t scream again,’ he said. ‘Don’t shout. I can’t be responsible for what happens if you do that.’
My chest juddered as I looked at Bethany on the floor in front of him. I couldn’t see any obvious signs of bruising or abrasions. There was no blood. No swelling.
He must have drugged her, I thought, and then I looked down at my arm again, at the spot of blood on the inside of my elbow.
