As I turn the handle of the study door, agonizingly slowly, bit by bit, I wonder what I’ll do if this is a trap, and they’re waiting for me on the landing. But when I finally open the door and peer through the darkness, there’s no one there.
On winged feet, I fly along the landing to the top of the main stairs. Above me I can hear footsteps in the attic. Who are these people, and what are they doing up there?
But this is one time I won’t allow my curiosity to get the better of me. This isn’t a mystery story, something I can read curled up safely next to Mum.
This couldn’t be more real.
I run noiselessly down the main stairs, rehearsing what I’m going to say to Mum, planning the arguments that will make her listen to me and do what I say to keep us safe. I don’t know how to break the news to her that all her worst fears have finally come true. What do I say? What will happen when I tell her we have to leave our house right away? But somehow, I have to get her out. Her survival is my survival.
But when I reach the bottom of the main stairs, the door of Mum’s room is open, a dim light filtering out from the bedside lamp inside. Mum is standing in the doorway, leaning on her sticks, and one glance at her face tells me she already knows.
I run and throw my arms around her.
‘I heard them, Anni,’ Mum whispers. She trembles in my arms, or is it me who’s shaking? I can’t tell. ‘I heard voices again and I was so worried about you. I was coming to look for you. I didn’t dare call out in case you’d managed to hide—’
‘I did hide. You did the right thing, Mum. They didn’t see me; they don’t know we’re here. They’ve gone back up to the attic. We’re still safe. For the moment.’
‘Who are they, Anni?’ Mum asks urgently. She seems to have aged twenty years since I last saw her, and she looks tinier than ever, wrapped in her baggy knitted cardie. ‘What do they want? Why are they in the attic? Who are they?’
I lay my hands gently over hers. ‘Mum.’ I make her look at me. ‘We don’t have time for this. We need to get out of here. Now.’
Mum looks at me uncomprehendingly, as if I’m speaking a language she doesn’t understand. ‘Out?’ she repeats. ‘You mean, out of the house?’
‘Yes.’
Mum stares at me, her eyes glazed with shock. I can actually see the colour in her face melt away, leaving a waxy paleness as she realizes exactly what I’m asking of her.
‘Of course,’ she says, almost to herself. ‘Of course we have to leave the house. We have no choice.’ She stares wildly at me. ‘We have to leave the house.’ She chants the words over and over again: ‘We have to leave the house. We have to leave the house. We have to leave the house!’
Mum’s shaking so much she can hardly stand upright, and I’m forced to grab her arms to keep her from falling. I’m so, so scared. I’ve never seen her like this before.
‘Mum, I’ll be there all the time. Trust me, I won’t let anything happen to you. They won’t hear us up in the attic.’
‘Anni, can’t you just call the police right now and we’ll wait here, inside the house, for them to arrive?’ Mum pleads.
I shake my head. I’ve already thought of this, and I’m certain it’s not a good idea. ‘It’s not safe, Mum. What if they find us before the police get here? It could turn into an armed siege or something . . .’ Mum’s eyes widen at the word armed, and I curse myself silently for letting that slip. ‘Look, we can hide in the garden while I call for help – we don’t have to go far from the house.’
To my relief, Mum’s panic seems to subside a little. She nods weakly. Leaving her propped against the doorway, I run across the room and grab her big bunch of keys and also my coat from the sofa where I left it after my shopping trip. My phone is in the pocket, and once we’re safely out of the house, I’ll call 999. Or maybe it will be quicker if I leave Mum in hiding and run round the corner into Pride Street where the police cars are parked.
Then, linking arms, Mum and I begin to make our way down the long, dark corridor towards the front door. We can’t go my usual way out through the back garden – Mum could never manage it with her sticks. And the back garden would be a scary place for her to hide in, too.
We go slowly, and at first everything is fine. Pale moonlight filters through the glass in the front door, illuminating the darkness just a little. There’s no sound but the soft thud of Mum’s sticks on the tiled floor of the hall. I can’t hear anything from upstairs, either.
But as the front door looms up in front of us, Mum’s steps become slower. And slower. Her breathing sounds shallow and too quick in my ear, and I pray she doesn’t have one of her panic attacks when she gasps for breath and almost passes out.
Can she do this? I’m not sure.
We stop in front of the door. I pull my arm from Mum’s and unlock the door. Then I begin to draw back the bolts. Some of them are rusty and stiff from years of disuse, and I have to struggle and tug and heave at them with all my strength.
Beside me Mum is whimpering like a frightened kitten. She is rigid with terror. As I reach for the last bolt, she begins to cry.
‘Anni, I can’t . . .’
‘Mum, please,’ I beg her. ‘You can hide in the bushes right outside the front door while I call for help. We’ll only be three steps away from the house. Please, Mum, please.’
Tears still stream down Mum’s cheeks. In desperation, I begin to cry myself, waiting with dread to hear what she’ll say.
‘Open the door, Anni,’ Mum murmurs, and then she sways and trembles as if this momentous decision has drained all her strength to the last drop.
The last bolt is the biggest and it’s stuck fast. Cursing under my breath, I push at it, almost breaking my fingers as I attempt to slide it back and set us free.
Then . . .
Footsteps on the landing.
Beams of light breaking through the darkness of the hall.
Shouts of anger, frustration and shock.
People – four people – are running down the stairs towards us.
We’re trapped.