Jimmy waits alone in the Carlyons’ kitchen. The room is so warm that tiredness threatens to send him to sleep, so he rises to his feet. He twists the door handle but it refuses to give. His birds must feel like this, trapped in their wire enclosures until their wounds heal, but he can’t understand why Gavin has locked him inside the room. The man said that it’s for his own safety, but he has never shown any care before, looking through him like he doesn’t exist. The clock on the wall is ticking too loudly, while Naomi Vine waits to be set free.
He counts the objects on the walls to stop himself going mad. There are old pictures in wooden frames, silver teapots on a narrow shelf, beside pieces of bone china and the type of copper pans his grandmother used for making jam. Everything seems to have been borrowed from another age. Jimmy is about to give up when he spots an old-fashioned phone, like the one his parents owned. The handset rests on a cradle, above a circular dial. He calls 999, the number his father taught him, in case of emergencies. A woman’s calm voice asks which service he wants, but he can’t make a sound. He’s still clutching the receiver when Gavin returns, now fully dressed, with a blanket over his arm.
Carlyon crosses the room in a few strides, unplugging the phone from the wall with an angry gesture.
‘For God’s sake, Jimmy, why call someone when you can’t even speak? Sit down before you break something; it took me years to build up this collection. Sleep in the armchair till morning. It’s too dangerous outside until the killer’s found.’
The man’s coal-dark stare is furious, making Jimmy cower in the corner of the room. He does as he’s told until Carlyon leaves the room once more with the phone tucked under his arm.