The second house that week looked easy.
It was in the middle of nowhere. A converted barn in the countryside, but on a main road. And that helped: it meant that when one of the heavier lorries came past he could make noise without worrying about being overheard.
The burglar had been watching the house all afternoon, after he’d sorted out some business in the city centre. No one had come in or out all afternoon. And, since it had gone dark, no lights had come on. Not even lights on timers.
This was going to be easy. The last one had been harder. Guards. Fences. Alarms. Boys watching in the woods. This was a piece of cake. He smiled. He’d never done two players’ houses, one night after the other. But he was feeling good. He wanted to do more. Find more money. And – he had to admit it to himself – it excited him. Being in the house of a professional footballer. The empty house of a professional footballer. Taking things off them. That was the best bit.
He felt the familiar anger return. Why should they have all the fame and the money? Half of the players at City FC were rubbish. There were hundreds of boys who didn’t make it who were better than the City FC players. The ones who made it were just lucky. He hated to see the young players being interviewed on TV, hated seeing their names on the list of the England under-eighteens squad. They had all the limelight. Sometimes he wished he was the famous one. Famous for robbing their houses. He occasionally fantasised about it. Being on TV dragged from a house, all the cameras on him.
Anyway, this latest house was going to be no problem. And the burglar knew whose house it was. Alex Finn. City’s keeper. England’s number one goalie.
What would he find here?
Medals?
England caps?
Keepers’ gloves?
Or cash. Because that’s what he really wanted. Money.
He liked money. It made up for the things that had started to go wrong in his life. It could buy him things. Things he wanted.
But to business. Getting in.
He took great pleasure in smashing the front door down. You never got the chance to do this normally. Houses were usually overlooked by other houses. So you never knew who was watching you. But today – as he had already decided – he could do it. There wasn’t another house nearby. No problem.
He ran at the door from three metres away and kicked hard.
The door splintered around the lock. Almost opening first time. He kicked at the door again. It swung open.
This was so easy. The door was actually rotting, so it came apart with no trouble at all. He couldn’t believe his luck – Alex Finn should be able to afford to have the same doors they had at Fort Knox.
The burglar bounced into the house, surfing on the adrenalin that was streaming through his blood.
He wouldn’t bother to disable the alarm. The house was a good sixteen miles away from the nearest police station. He had checked on Google. You could see where all the police stations were. He knew he had at least fifteen minutes to search the property.
What next?
He had to open the back door. Then he could escape if someone came home while he was in the house.
Then what?
The bedroom. Always start in the bedroom. He went up a narrow flight of stairs. The house was all old beams and wooden floors. Not very cosy. Quite cold. There were clothes lying on the landing floor.
He went into a large bedroom with mirrors along one wall.
It was a mess. More clothes all over the place. Old newspapers. Half-drunk cups of tea.
This player was a slob, he thought. He couldn’t even keep his house clean. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the time. Footballers had loads of time. They only had to train for a few hours a day.
Focus, he told himself. Focus. He headed for a chest of drawers. He’d start there. He turned several of the drawers over, tipping their contents on to the bed.
Nothing. Just T-shirts, jogging bottoms.
He pulled several baskets out of the main cupboard and tipped them on the bed too.
Nothing. Socks. Pants.
Now what? Another room. He made to go and find the second bedroom. But then he saw it. A black briefcase. At the back of the cupboard. On a high shelf.
He pulled it down. Something told him this was what he was looking for. It had a combination lock. He could either take this away and open it later or smash it to pieces with his foot now.
He’d do the latter. He liked smashing things in footballers’ houses. They deserved it.
He placed the briefcase on the floor and leaned on the wall, his foot poised above it.
And then he saw the lights. A pair of headlights sweeping across the driveway, coming from the main road.
Adrenalin immediately ran through his blood.
He left the unopened case and ran for the stairs.
The stairs would take him to the doorway where whoever was in the car would be coming in. But that was his only choice.
He ran to the landing, hearing a car door opening.
Down the stairs.
As he hit the bottom steps, holding on to the banister to swing round so he could run to the back door, he saw the figure.
Alex Finn.
Alex Finn, a big man. In the doorway. His heart felt as if it was about to burst out through his throat. He felt sick.
But he had to run.
‘Get here, you little …’
But he was already in the kitchen at the back of the house. Running. He felt like he was flying.
‘Leave it, Alex!’ Another voice. A woman’s voice.
He burst out through the back door, hurting his hand as he did, catching it on the lock.
Then he ran again. Through a garden. Across lawns. Leaping a pond. Over a wall. Then he was in a field. It was dark. He wasn’t sure what he was doing now. Just run – he knew that was what he should do. That was what the voice in his head was telling him.
So he ran. And ran. And ran. Until he couldn’t run any more. Until he was forced to slump under a tree. Until he felt like he was going to die of an exploding chest.
And it was only then that he realized that his sleeve was drenched with blood from his cut hand.