should he make the climb up the spiral staircase to chase the vermin away? If it was vermin, of course.
It’d been quiet up there for some time now. What if an intruder was waiting for him to put his head through the round hole in the floor? But there was an alternative to sticking his neck out, so to speak, and it would probably deal with either burglar or beast.
He grasped the key in the bedroom door, ready to slam it shut and keep it that way.
‘ Okay, I know you’re up there, I’ve rung the police, you better get out now while you’ve got the chance! ’
He’d shouted loud enough to wake the dead, and the near-hysteria hadn’t shown. They might get cocksure, villain or vermin, if they thought he was afraid.
Nothing scuttled, nothing panicked. Nobody returned his call.
He tried again. ‘ You’ve got about four minutes to get out, the police are pretty quick round here, go now and we’ll say no more about it! ’
Nothing at all.
Creed waited a while longer before reaching out and switching on the hall light. Christ, Creed, you’re like a bloody maiden aunt, he scolded, feeling just a trifle braver with the light on. No one was up there. No one. He’d been mistaken.
Nevertheless, he crept into the kitchen with considerable caution and took out a long carving knife from a drawer just in case. He stood at the foot of the circular staircase and peered into the dark hole over his head. Gotta check it out, Creed. You’ll spend the rest of the night listening if you don’t.
He put one foot on the bottom step, paused, made it to the second.
The hell with it. He continued the climb, bare feet quiet but not soundless, his eyes soon drawing level with the next floor. He took his time looking over the rim.
It felt as if his heart had thickened into a heavy, glutinous lump inside his chest when he looked across the loft room.
The lightswitch was near, but it couldn’t be reached from his position. Not that it mattered, for there was another light source: the amber light from the open darkroom spread softly towards him.
And in the darkroom, its bald skull like a dull setting sun in the orange glow, was a crooked figure. It stood sideways to Creed, holding a strip of film to the light with fingers that appeared extraordinarily long, like talons. But its awful face was turned towards the round pit from which Creed’s head protruded, as though it had been waiting for him to appear.
Not a sound came from Creed, but his mind babbled, Oh shit oh God oh Christ . . .
Then he was running backwards, not taking time to about-face, descending the circular staircase in a flurry of limbs, scrabbling at the rail and the centre-post for balance, shins scraping against the metal steps.
Choosing not to linger in the kitchen, he finally turned to face the direction in which he was fleeing and ran into the hallway, virtually leaping down the stairwell leading to the front door.
Unfortunately Grin was making her way up those same stairs at that precise moment, her purpose being to investigate the ruckus caused by her master. She was a mere shadow in the darkness, but an extremely loud one when Creed’s foot landed on her back.
She screeched and Creed fell.
He grabbed air and found it insubstantial; Creed tumbled, headfirst, then over, then headfirst again. The street door at the bottom of the stairs shook in its frame as he hit it.
Moaning, he rolled over, consciousness sinking fast but not yet quite gone. Eyes barely open, he looked back up at the shadowy hallway to the top of the stairs.
He muttered something before fading completely, and that partial word came from extreme shock.
‘Nos . . .’ he said quietly, and that was all he could manage. His eyes closed as though he were falling asleep and his head lolled to one side, a hand slipping from his lap on to the floor, fingers uncurling.
6
Envelopes dropping on to his head were the first thing to disturb him. He opened bleary eyes with difficulty and
It’d been quiet up there for some time now. What if an intruder was waiting for him to put his head through the round hole in the floor? But there was an alternative to sticking his neck out, so to speak, and it would probably deal with either burglar or beast.
He grasped the key in the bedroom door, ready to slam it shut and keep it that way.
‘ Okay, I know you’re up there, I’ve rung the police, you better get out now while you’ve got the chance! ’
He’d shouted loud enough to wake the dead, and the near-hysteria hadn’t shown. They might get cocksure, villain or vermin, if they thought he was afraid.
Nothing scuttled, nothing panicked. Nobody returned his call.
He tried again. ‘ You’ve got about four minutes to get out, the police are pretty quick round here, go now and we’ll say no more about it! ’
Nothing at all.
Creed waited a while longer before reaching out and switching on the hall light. Christ, Creed, you’re like a bloody maiden aunt, he scolded, feeling just a trifle braver with the light on. No one was up there. No one. He’d been mistaken.
Nevertheless, he crept into the kitchen with considerable caution and took out a long carving knife from a drawer just in case. He stood at the foot of the circular staircase and peered into the dark hole over his head. Gotta check it out, Creed. You’ll spend the rest of the night listening if you don’t.
He put one foot on the bottom step, paused, made it to the second.
The hell with it. He continued the climb, bare feet quiet but not soundless, his eyes soon drawing level with the next floor. He took his time looking over the rim.
It felt as if his heart had thickened into a heavy, glutinous lump inside his chest when he looked across the loft room.
The lightswitch was near, but it couldn’t be reached from his position. Not that it mattered, for there was another light source: the amber light from the open darkroom spread softly towards him.
And in the darkroom, its bald skull like a dull setting sun in the orange glow, was a crooked figure. It stood sideways to Creed, holding a strip of film to the light with fingers that appeared extraordinarily long, like talons. But its awful face was turned towards the round pit from which Creed’s head protruded, as though it had been waiting for him to appear.
Not a sound came from Creed, but his mind babbled, Oh shit oh God oh Christ . . .
Then he was running backwards, not taking time to about-face, descending the circular staircase in a flurry of limbs, scrabbling at the rail and the centre-post for balance, shins scraping against the metal steps.
Choosing not to linger in the kitchen, he finally turned to face the direction in which he was fleeing and ran into the hallway, virtually leaping down the stairwell leading to the front door.
Unfortunately Grin was making her way up those same stairs at that precise moment, her purpose being to investigate the ruckus caused by her master. She was a mere shadow in the darkness, but an extremely loud one when Creed’s foot landed on her back.
She screeched and Creed fell.
He grabbed air and found it insubstantial; Creed tumbled, headfirst, then over, then headfirst again. The street door at the bottom of the stairs shook in its frame as he hit it.
Moaning, he rolled over, consciousness sinking fast but not yet quite gone. Eyes barely open, he looked back up at the shadowy hallway to the top of the stairs.
He muttered something before fading completely, and that partial word came from extreme shock.
‘Nos . . .’ he said quietly, and that was all he could manage. His eyes closed as though he were falling asleep and his head lolled to one side, a hand slipping from his lap on to the floor, fingers uncurling.
6
Envelopes dropping on to his head were the first thing to disturb him. He opened bleary eyes with difficulty and
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