landing. Looking down the corridor at the closed door at the end, she took a deep breath and slowly walked towards it. She stood outside for a moment and leaned in so that her ear was almost against the door. She thought she could feel the wood breathing. Something inside. She took a step back. Not now. Not today. But if no one else came back to Greyfriars, she would have to go in.
She could hear him in the hallway, then the front door opened and shut, followed by the sound of footsteps crunching across the drive. She went to the top of the stairs and leaned over the banisters, listening. More footsteps, stones crackling under boots, then a dull twack; something fell to the ground. She would have to be quick. She clung to the edges of the steps where they were less likely to squeak as she carefully made her way down. Creeping to the front door, she squinted through the keyhole. She couldn’t see much, but the garage doors were open; her father’s rusty lock and chain were lying broken in the gravel. She turned the handle and pulled but the door wouldn’t budge. She tugged furiously at it, then felt in her pocket for the key, but it wasn’t there. Had she left it on the little side table when she’d first come in? She must have done, but now it was gone.
She ran into the kitchen and tried the back door, pulling at the handle, and then twisting it and pushing at it. The bolt was pushed across at the top and she reached up on her tiptoes to pull it back. She tried the handle again, but the door still wouldn’t open. Studying it more closely, she felt her stomach suddenly turn. The door was nailed into its frame.
She ran out of the kitchen and hurried from room to room, desperately now, trying to push open the shutters at the windows one by one—but the planks were still in place, nailed across them on the outside, so that no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t push them open. She stumbled back into the middle of the sitting room and saw the telephone on the side table. She’d call someone. Anyone. Get somebody to come. But when she lifted the receiver and listened, the line was dead. She heard nothing but the sound of her own breathlessness and then her sudden, sobbing tears.
The motorcar was a Crossley Torquay Saloon with a sliding roof. He remembered them from when he’d been in London; his music tutor, Professor Aritz, had owned one too, although this was older, a ’33 model. Still, it looked in good condition, and while the wheels’ spokes were grubby, it had only a few dents and hardly any sign of rust. He walked around the garage admiring the vehicle and occasionally giving one of the wheels a nudge with his boot. Even in the dimness of the garage the front lights gave him a bug-eyed stare. He had never had a motorcar of his own, and this was a particularly fine one; the bottom half a milky cream, while the top half and the sliding roof were a smart jet black. Inside were brown leather seats, and the woodwork was so beautifully finished that even through the murky windows he could see the polished grain.
He opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat, resting the pistol in his lap, then looked in the mirror at the garage doors behind him, slightly ajar, and the hot afternoon sun burning through the gap. He ran his hands around the steering wheel and across the polished dashboard. The seat was surprisingly comfortable, and he inhaled the slight tang of leather and polish. He studied the dials and pedals, familiarizing himself with them. There was no radio. He had tried tuning in the wireless in the sitting room to find German broadcasts, but all he could pick up with any clarity was the BBC Home Service.
On the back seat was a neatly folded picnic blanket of green and blue tartan. He imagined driving to picnics in this car, along the twisting, turning English roads. Out of London into the heart of the country. Henley, Oxford, and then, perhaps, on into the Cotswolds…
Eva had enjoyed picnics.
She could hear him in the hallway, then the front door opened and shut, followed by the sound of footsteps crunching across the drive. She went to the top of the stairs and leaned over the banisters, listening. More footsteps, stones crackling under boots, then a dull twack; something fell to the ground. She would have to be quick. She clung to the edges of the steps where they were less likely to squeak as she carefully made her way down. Creeping to the front door, she squinted through the keyhole. She couldn’t see much, but the garage doors were open; her father’s rusty lock and chain were lying broken in the gravel. She turned the handle and pulled but the door wouldn’t budge. She tugged furiously at it, then felt in her pocket for the key, but it wasn’t there. Had she left it on the little side table when she’d first come in? She must have done, but now it was gone.
She ran into the kitchen and tried the back door, pulling at the handle, and then twisting it and pushing at it. The bolt was pushed across at the top and she reached up on her tiptoes to pull it back. She tried the handle again, but the door still wouldn’t open. Studying it more closely, she felt her stomach suddenly turn. The door was nailed into its frame.
She ran out of the kitchen and hurried from room to room, desperately now, trying to push open the shutters at the windows one by one—but the planks were still in place, nailed across them on the outside, so that no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t push them open. She stumbled back into the middle of the sitting room and saw the telephone on the side table. She’d call someone. Anyone. Get somebody to come. But when she lifted the receiver and listened, the line was dead. She heard nothing but the sound of her own breathlessness and then her sudden, sobbing tears.
The motorcar was a Crossley Torquay Saloon with a sliding roof. He remembered them from when he’d been in London; his music tutor, Professor Aritz, had owned one too, although this was older, a ’33 model. Still, it looked in good condition, and while the wheels’ spokes were grubby, it had only a few dents and hardly any sign of rust. He walked around the garage admiring the vehicle and occasionally giving one of the wheels a nudge with his boot. Even in the dimness of the garage the front lights gave him a bug-eyed stare. He had never had a motorcar of his own, and this was a particularly fine one; the bottom half a milky cream, while the top half and the sliding roof were a smart jet black. Inside were brown leather seats, and the woodwork was so beautifully finished that even through the murky windows he could see the polished grain.
He opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat, resting the pistol in his lap, then looked in the mirror at the garage doors behind him, slightly ajar, and the hot afternoon sun burning through the gap. He ran his hands around the steering wheel and across the polished dashboard. The seat was surprisingly comfortable, and he inhaled the slight tang of leather and polish. He studied the dials and pedals, familiarizing himself with them. There was no radio. He had tried tuning in the wireless in the sitting room to find German broadcasts, but all he could pick up with any clarity was the BBC Home Service.
On the back seat was a neatly folded picnic blanket of green and blue tartan. He imagined driving to picnics in this car, along the twisting, turning English roads. Out of London into the heart of the country. Henley, Oxford, and then, perhaps, on into the Cotswolds…
Eva had enjoyed picnics.
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