Who is this man?
Why has my mum changed her name?
‘Ace! Anni’s gone! Ace!’ Jack’s voice pulls me sharply out of my bewildered daze. He’s shouting frantically as he runs up the stairs from the ground floor. Then I hear the door to the big attic being flung open with a crash as Ace, Queenie and King dash out and run down the stairs.
I scramble to my feet, all confusion cleared, my mind sharpened by an instant rush of pure panic. The four of them are yelling at each other and so I can clearly hear what they’re saying.
‘What do you mean, Anni’s gone?’ Ace demands angrily. ‘You were supposed to be watching her!’
‘She said she needed the bathroom,’ Jack gabbles, out of breath. ‘I waited in the hall, by the door to her mum’s room. After ten minutes, I banged on the door, then I opened it and she wasn’t in there—’
‘And you’ve left Jamila on her own as well!’ King yells.
‘I locked the door behind me. I’m not that stupid—’
‘We don’t have time for this!’ Queenie howls. ‘Let’s just find Anni before she gets out of the house somehow and calls the police!’
‘She might have gone already,’ King points out. I can hear the tension in his voice, taut as elastic pulled tight.
‘How?’ Queenie demands. ‘We have the keys to every door and window!’
‘All right, this is what we’ll do . . .’ Ace begins issuing instructions, but her voice is getting fainter as they move further away from me. No one has thought to check the little attic because they don’t think there’s anywhere to hide in here. They’re searching the other two floors first, and if they do decide to check the attic, I’ll already be concealed inside the secret safe.
I tiptoe across the dusty wooden floor, leaving the box of secrets behind me. I can’t think about it now. I tell myself there must be a reasonable explanation for those photos, even if nothing comes to mind. Anyway, I have more important things to concentrate on right now. Mum’s relying on me, and it actually looks like her plan is going to work.
I slip inside the cupboard. I can just get inside without ducking my head, but the sloping roof means I can’t stand upright without stooping slightly. Never mind, there are still boxes left that I can sit on. And I’ll stay here as long as it takes, until Ace, King, Jack and Queenie have fled the house, assuming I’ve gone to raise the alarm because they can’t find me. I hope Mum is still pretending to be asleep, and that she stays safe.
Now I’m inside the cupboard, all I have to do is push the panel back into place from this side. I’m a bit nervous about whether I’ll be able to get out again, but logically I realize all I’ll have to do is push the opposite edge to make it open. And even if I get stuck, I mustn’t panic. When Ace and the others have finally gone, Mum will come to look for me if I don’t appear. It will take her ages to struggle up two flights of stairs with her sticks, but I know she’ll come . . .
All the time I’m telling myself these things, I’m pushing on the panel, trying to close it. It’s not closing. It’s not even moving. Frustrated beyond imagining, I grit my teeth and put my shoulder to it and heave and shove, but still it’s not budging. It only occurs to me much, much later that maybe it’s not possible to close it from the inside, maybe there’s some kind of safety feature to stop a person getting trapped in there.
If I can’t close it – and I can’t – then I have no hiding place. When Ace and the others eventually search this attic – and they will – they’ll see this open panel right away.
I need another plan. Something, anything, but I don’t know what.
I run out of the cupboard and stare wildly around the attic as if someone’s going to pop up and yell, Here’s your escape route, Anni! Come this way! But of course there’s nothing but bare floorboards and cardboard boxes and dust.
A tapping sound filters into my consciousness. I tiptoe across the attic towards the window and pull back one of the curtains. Outside, in the darkness, I can see the big oak tree that stands just outside. It’s the tallest tree in our garden, with branches spread far and wide, and the tips of some of them are brushing against the cracked glass.
I could throw out the last note I have – it’s still in my pocket. Then a fully-formed, and much better, plan leaps into my head. Open the window, climb down the tree, escape out of the back garden and, instead of just hiding away, actually go for help.
It’s risky and dangerous, especially in the dark, and Ace or one of the others might spot me as they search the house, but I have nothing left. I can’t let Mum down. I need to make her plan work.
In an instant I’m across the attic, lifting the handle and pushing the window open. Now, close up, I can see how rotten and warped the wooden window frames are. Water has seeped through the damaged wood and sits in puddles on the windowsill. I guess this is because of the constant drip-drip-drip of rainwater from the broken guttering around the roof.
I climb onto the sill. I thought I’d get through the window easily, but it’s a tight fit. I undo the handle and allow the window to swing outwards freely, as wide as it will go, to give me more room. And poking my head outside to assess the situation, I try not to worry about the fact that the tree seems further away from the window than it first appeared. It’s stopped raining now, and the wind has dropped a little, but there’s still an icy breeze shaking the branches of the oak tree. I hesitate, realizing how perilous my plan is. Then I think about Ace and the others running around the house, searching frantically for me, I think about Mum praying her plan will work, and that makes me strong. I’m going to get us out of this.
I can already see that the branches closest to the window are little more than twigs, and won’t be enough to bear my weight, even though I’m small and slight. But if I can just reach a little beyond them, there are thicker branches that I’ll be able to grab onto.
Maybe.
I have to try.
I grip onto the top of the window frame with one hand, and then I slide my body through the open window as far as I can until I’m crouching on the outside sill. I’m right above the cracked patio of paving slabs a very long way below me, my only anchor my left hand clinging grimly to the inside of the window frame. Don’t look down, don’t look down. Then, steadying myself, I lean forward as far as I dare and try to grab hold of one of the bigger branches.
They’re just out of my reach.
Groaning under my breath, shivering with terror yet sweating heavily, I make another attempt. But it’s no use. I’m too far away. I have to think again.
There’s only one thing I can do. It’s even more dangerous, but I’m doing it anyway.
I slide back inside the attic and I pull the window in a little, slipping the handle back into place so that the window stays open as far as it can go. I test the handle several times, making sure it doesn’t move. This is the only thing that’s going to stop me crashing down onto the hard, unforgiving paving slabs below me.
Then, somehow, I have to get outside again through this narrower opening. It’s a struggle, but I manage it, wriggling through until I’m sitting on the windowsill outside, legs dangling in thin air. And now, with a leap of faith, numb with fear, I lean forward and grab the top of the open window. Then – not thinking, not planning, just doing it – I launch myself off the sill into space.
I’ve done it! I’ve done it! I’m clinging on tightly to the top of the open window, hanging from it, my legs swinging below me. I’ve made it! I’m heady with victory, thrilled with my success. Already I can see that I’m much closer to the bigger branches of the oak tree, as I knew I would be – all I have to do now is let go of the window with one hand and stretch across the space to grasp one of the branches. That’s all I have to do . . .
The sound of creaking, cracking, splintering wood is like the sound of someone crying out in pain, as if the house is calling a warning to me. Suspended from the window, I’m transfixed for a moment as triumph melts away and is replaced by terror. Oh God, the window is falling apart under my weight! Desperate, I reach for the tree, but it’s already too late. Inside the attic, the handle has torn away from the rotten wood of the window frame and it’s now flapping uselessly around, not able to hold the window steady and in place. The window, with me hanging from it, opens wider and wider, swinging me away from the oak tree and towards the solid wall of the house. I shut my eyes tightly and pray that it doesn’t bang against the brickwork, crushing my fingers.
The window stops a little way from the wall, and then begins swinging gently to and fro in the breeze. I realize with cold, sharp clarity that somehow I have to get back into the house; I’m too far away from the oak tree now to think about escape.
Wheezing and panting with effort, I attempt to lift one of my dangling legs and hook it sideways over the windowsill, hoping to pull myself and the window back towards the attic and safety. It’s so incredibly difficult. My arms are taking all my weight and my muscles have become a mass of burning flesh.
Then all hope is lost as, with shrieks of protest, the window itself begins to collapse. It tears itself away from the hinges at the top of the frame with creaks and groans, and swings crazily away from the house, with me still clinging helplessly to it. Now only the bottom hinge is holding the window in place, and it’s the only thing stopping both me and the window from falling like stones onto the hard ground beneath.
I don’t want to give up, but I know when I’m finally beaten.
‘Help!’ I shout as loudly as I can. My voice is weak and faint at first, but becomes stronger as I realize that if no one comes I’m going to die. ‘Help! Help me!’