4

I woke to an unfamiliar sound. Checked my alarm clock: 2.15. I lay there trying to work out what the sound was and where it was coming from. Rats? In my roof? I’m not wild about rats. It doesn’t matter how much Brad lectures me on the soft fur of the desert silky mouse, it’s an instinct.

I turned my pillow over and tried to get comfortable. Tried not thinking about hordes of rats escaping the roof, raining over me, gnawing at me with their nasty pointy teeth.

A thud. Followed by a metallic rolling.

I sat bolt upright, flung the doona aside and leapt out. Grabbed the sawn-off star picket I keep beside my bed. I opened my bedroom door. Stood there a moment holding my breath.

A floorboard creaked. The hairs on my arms stood to attention. I tightened my grip on the star picket. Breathe, Cass. I stepped out into the hallway. Fumbled for the light switch near my bedroom door. My hand ran over the cool, smooth paint. Why can you never find the bloody light switch when you need it? Another thud from up the hallway.

I inched forward. A light flicked on, up ahead in the lounge, wavery torchlight movements. My heart jack-hammered in my chest.

Maybe I should phone for help. Dean? But I’d be long dead before Dean had finished his million bloody questions: how’d the bloke get in; why didn’t I lock up properly; are you really sure someone’s there?

Probably be more useful to phone Vern. Fewer questions and he’d get here faster. Where was my phone? Think, Cass, think. In my handbag, in the lounge. Shit. With that torch. And whoever was holding it.

I moved rapidly to Plan B: flee. I’m no coward, but I’m not stupid either. Nearest exit? My bedroom window, stuck closed thanks to the painters. Out via the shop? The noisy lock would give me away. That left the back door. Which involved getting past the lounge.

I crept forward, tiny slo-mo steps. I’d slither past the lounge and out the back door. Then run like the wind.

More flickery torchlight movements. Something in that lounge had his attention. My handbag was there. And the money Gary had paid me—I’d left it in that envelope on my coffee table. Bastard would probably steal it. OK, four steps to go, maybe three. Nearly there. Remember to breathe.

I slunk past the lounge; the door was open an inch. No need to touch it or look in there. I made a silent beeline for the back door. A floorboard creaked under my foot.

Shit shit shit.

I rushed for the door. Fumbled with the lock; my hands shaking. Maybe locking up so carefully last night hadn’t been a great idea.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. I swung around. The torchlight blinded me. I raised my star picket. Aimed for a foot above the torch; brought it crashing down. A cry of pain. The torch fell to the ground. I bent down, snatched it up.

‘Bitch.’ A man’s voice, muffled.

Something whacked my head. I saw dancing fireflies for a tick. Then everything went black.

Car tyres squealed. There was something cold against my face and I realised I was lying face down on the floor. I sat up, touched my forehead; it was sticky. I groaned: my head felt like a train smash.

I tried standing on my wobbling legs. Everything was dark. No skittering torchlight. Where was he? I held my breath; felt around in the darkness for my back door. Found it—the door was open. I held onto it and sucked in a deep breath of cold night air. Revived a little, I turned, felt around the wall and flicked on the light.

There was a huge book on the floor near my feet. Slow Food: Collected Thinking Through the Ages. On loan from Claire. I’d been knocked out by that? I hadn’t even wanted to read the bloody thing.

Armed with my star picket, I marched through my house, turning on every light. My bathroom window was broken. I searched the house methodically, confirming the absence of intruders. No noises, no torchlight.

I headed back into the lounge room. Stood there a moment, feeling woozy. Where was Natalie’s bag? I was sure I’d left it on the coffee table, next to Gary’s envelope of money—which was still there. With the money inside. All of it.

I phoned Dean. I won’t bore you with his long and tedious list of questions, his complaints at being woken up at 3am, his impatient tone.

If it was anyone else calling about a break-in, he’d skip the judgment and fling out pronto to his divvy van. I hoped. I took a deep breath and explained a second time about my book-bashed head, the flickery torchlight, the car tyres squealing. Somehow, something finally clicked for Dean.

‘Jesus, why didn’t you say so? I’m on my way.’

I hung up, holding back the snappy Say so? What do you think I’m doing?

In the bathroom, I took a look in the mirror. Blood on my forehead. Swelling around my right eye. I hoped I wasn’t up for a black eye. I wiped off the blood, downed some Panadol. Grabbed an icepack from my freezer and pressed it against my head.

I performed a fruitless search through the house looking for Natalie’s bag. I should have locked the damn thing away somewhere. If I had a lockable kind of somewhere. I slumped onto my couch, feeling nauseous.

There was something shining on the floor, next to the couch. I bent down and picked it up.

A phone.