I kick off my shoes. Then silently I fly up the back stairs on bare feet, avoiding the holes in the carpet that’s even more frayed and raggedy than the main staircase. In just a few seconds I arrive at the next floor. Now I have to make it along the corridor to the other end of the house in order to reach the attic stairs. This means I shall have to pass along the top of the main staircase without making a sound.
I creep along the corridor as fast as I dare. I try to breathe slowly and deeply, but I can’t control the loud, panicky beating of my heart and it sounds like a thunderous roar, bouncing off the walls and echoing in my ears. I can’t believe Jack won’t be able to hear it. Then, as I near the head of the big staircase, I am racked with indecision. Jack is almost directly below me now. Should I slow down and pick my way steadily, carefully across the top of the stairs, ensuring I don’t make a single sound? Or should I just run for it?
I run. There’s not really a choice because I don’t have the luxury of time. Noiselessly I scoot across the top of the stairs, every moment expecting to hear a shout, a yell.
Nothing.
Once again I check my watch and see that only two minutes have passed, even though I feel like I’ve aged several years. Already I’m at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the attics. Now to get past Ace, King and Queenie.
The light above the stairs has been left on so at least I can see where I’m going. Once again I remind myself of the sequence of steps. Avoid the third, seventh and tenth.
And now I’m on the landing, right outside the big attic, and the only thing that’s separating me from discovering their mission is the closed door. I should pass quickly into the smaller attic before I betray myself with one small sound.
But I can’t.
I stop and listen. There’s nothing except a faint, strange noise, like the rushing of the wind. Ace is talking, but I don’t know what she’s saying. Queenie replies in her normal ultra-loud voice, but even then I can’t make out any words. I strain to work out what’s happening, dying to put my ear against the door, which would be madness. I don’t have time for this.
Reluctantly I turn away.
The door to the smaller attic stands ajar and I slip easily through the gap. It’s so dark I can see nothing, and the dust is already catching at my throat as I close the door quietly behind me. I pray I don’t start coughing and give myself away. Even though the attic windows are thick with grime, there is enough light from the moon, the streetlamps and the headlights of passing cars, including the occasional blue flash of police lights, to see what I am doing.
The attic has wooden beams in the walls that slant this way and that, and between them are white-painted panels. There’s nothing in the room except a few empty, battered cardboard boxes and lots of dust.
Look for the third panel on the left and push it hard on the right-hand side. The panel swings out, and there’s a space behind it. That’s the secret safe. Mum’s words swim into my head and I swerve away from the door and head to the wall on my left.
Third panel between the beams. Right-hand side. It’s easy to find.
Now, push, Anni! Push!
I push with all my strength, but nothing happens.
I try again. And again. Then again and again, with growing desperation, feeling my way up the side of the panel, pushing hard every few centimetres. But I know I’m just pushing against plaster and solid brick, and sickening frustration overwhelms me. Mum was wrong. There’s no secret safe here. I wonder uneasily if my mum is all right, or if her mind is wandering off along some track that isn’t quite normal . . .
But she was so sure.
I take a step back. Maybe Mum’s memory has dimmed over time? Maybe the panel opens differently? I check all around it, pushing experimentally at the other three sides, but nothing moves under my probing fingers.
That’s it then, I think, defeated and disappointed, and I wonder if I’ll have time to get back downstairs before Jack realizes I’m not in the bathroom after all. But then I take a step back, and this time I survey the panels on either side of the one Mum told me about. The panel on the left looks just as solid and unyielding, but the one on the right, the fourth panel along – is it my imagination, or does it look very slightly different to the others, one of the upright edges sticking out just a little too far? You wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it.
Hope floods through me, making my hands tremble as I reach out and push the edge of the panel. This time there’s an almost instant give under my fingers that makes my heart sing. Just a little more effort and then – well, it’s like something out of Indiana Jones.
The panel swings slowly and pivots. One edge moves inwards and the other outwards, revealing a dusty space under the sloping eaves behind it. I get a real head-rush of triumph and delight, intoxicated by my success against all the odds. I peer inside the safe and I can see it’s quite a narrow space. There’s not much room to stand upright. In fact, there’s not much room at all because the cupboard is stacked with boxes and boxes of papers, yellowed with age and curling at the edges.
I don’t have time to stand around patting myself on the back, though. Another glance at my watch now tells me that I’ve been gone for nearly six minutes. How much longer before Jack comes looking for me?
I try squeezing inside the cupboard, but there are too many boxes and not enough room for me. Mum must have forgotten that Dad hadn’t got around to clearing it out. Swiftly and methodically I begin to move some of the boxes out, concentrating on not making a sound. They’re full of paperwork, boring stuff like bank and credit card statements addressed to Rajveer Rai, my dad. I place them near the other empty boxes, hoping Ace and the others have never looked inside the little attic, and if they have, that they don’t remember how many boxes were there before.
I grab one more box from right at the back of the cupboard, and instantly feel the bottom flaps give way. Cursing under my breath, I hold it together underneath until I can lower it noiselessly onto the attic floor. A few bits of paper have fallen out of the bottom of the box, and I leave them, turning away, but one of them is a photograph and it catches my attention.
I scoop the photo up, though every nerve is screaming Leave it and get inside the cupboard! But I can’t because I’ve already recognized my mum. It’s a photo I’ve never seen before. She’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with a yellow happy-face logo, and she’s standing on a bridge – somewhere in London, I think, because I can see St Paul’s Cathedral in the background. I can hardly believe it’s her, she looks so different, and it’s not just because she’s younger and her hair is longer. It’s her face. She’s laughing; she’s beautiful and glowing and alive. She looks confident enough to conquer the world.
And she’s not alone.
Mum’s holding hands with a young man. It’s not my dad. I don’t know who he is – an old boyfriend, maybe? I’ve never seen him before, and yet I feel a flash of confused recognition, as if he’s someone I might have met, once upon a time.