The noise comes again and he shoves the container back. It jars. He frowns, then the noise repeats. Scratching, and it seems to be coming from overhead! He shines the torch up to the ceiling. Among the pipes that are strung below the wooden floorboards he thinks he sees movement. The hairs on his neck stand on end and cold washes over him. They could jump from the pipework straight onto his head. He pulls the collar of his jacket up, covering the vulnerable skin at the back of his neck and crouches, then shuffles, across to the steps. Within three seconds he’s back at the top and closes the cellar door with a soft, but reassuring, tack. He shudders and swings the torch across the hallway. Where was the woman? Upstairs? But he’d already checked each room. Perhaps an attic or a loft he hadn’t spotted? As he swings the torch over the staircase movement catches his eye, not low and scurrying, but something large and in the corner. He swings the torch back to where the movement occurred. Nothing! This job was getting to him, or perhaps it was the chaos he’d witnessed during the day. Viktoria had begged him not to go back out, and he wished he had listened to her, but he had no choice; the job had to be done.
He scans the hallway again. Nothing. He must have been imagining things. Turning the torch again to the stairs he steps forwards. As he takes the first step he knows he’s not alone. Damn!
Bill launches himself at the man’s back. He has no idea where Clarissa is, but he can’t let this man find her. He’d recognised him as soon as he walked back up the street, the confidence in his stride, the jacket, his bright blond hair and breadth of his shoulders were unmistakable, as was the arrogance. He’d watched his approach, concealed by the lowering light of day and the parked cars, and smirked as his suspicions were confirmed and the man slipped down the passageway to the back of the house. As soon as the blond was out of sight, he followed with just enough space between them to remain unseen and unheard.
Hands thrown around the blond’s neck, he grapples him to the floor, the blond crashes hard against his legs. Pain shoots through Bill’s knee. The man turns in an instant, jumping up to his feet and Bill scrambles back then stands and waits. It’s been a while since he’s needed to fight, but his body reacts as it always has and a surge of power fills him as he takes his stance. The blond’s hand reaches into his pocket and pulls out a blade. It opens with a snap. Hah! Just like old times. Bill waits. Seconds pass and then the blond attacks.
Uri grinds his teeth. What was the old man doing? He needed to be taught a lesson. Charging forward, blade in hand, he lunges for the man. Within the next seconds the blade is on the floor and his arm is filled with pain. He scowls at the man and realises that despite his scruffy appearance he had strength and skill to be reckoned with. This job was turning sour! As the knife skittles across the floor he raises his arm and despite the pain powers his fist into the man’s bearded face. It impacts with a thud and the man staggers back. Uri takes the advantage and another blow finds the man’s jaw. The man staggers again, through the door into what must be the living room. He kicks at him, catching his belly this time, and the man struggles to keep his balance then falls. Another fist crunches into his face and he’s done. The man steps back one more time, hitting his head against the hearth as he falls to the floor.
A groan and then silence. Uri stands over him, the last light of day is just enough to make out his form. He’s broad, a strong man, not as old as he’d first thought, and, from the way he’d tackled him, one with military training though his beard is unkempt and he stinks as though he hasn’t washed in days. Uri draws back as a dark patch spreads against the white of the carpet.
Voices sound from outside and as Uri steps to the window a knock comes at the door. He sighs. This job is doing his head in! Stepping over the prone body of the ex-military man, he makes his way to the kitchen where he waits at the half-open door. A large black and grey cat stalks forward and meows as the knocking comes again from the front.
Chapter 26
The sun is lowering as Jessie takes the first step onto the road where her home stands. It’s red-brick façade looks as it always does, the tall sash windows of the ground floor flanking the wide and cleanly swept stone steps. It stands three storeys high, a perfect example of late Georgian architecture, or at least that’s what her father had said on the morning he’d taken her and Stella to see it, to show them the rooms and let them choose which they wanted for their bedrooms. She can still see the house on that bright spring morning, the way the light flooded the rooms at the back, pouring in through the tall sash windows. The stairs had creaked as they’d gone up to the first floor and Stella had thought a mouse must be underneath and refused to stand on them. She smiles. Stella couldn’t have been more than four at the time.
“There it is,” Jessie says with relief as she stops to look at the house and points across the road. “The one with the wide steps and hanging baskets with red geraniums.” Her mother always insisted on red geraniums outside the house, said they reminded her of a wonderful holiday in Greece she’d shared with her dad. She’d said that Jessie had been conceived there, but Jessie had asked her to stop telling the story with a horrified ‘Please, no!’ Her mother had laughed and said they’d all visit one day. Jessie had felt sad then, knowing that her father wouldn’t be there to enjoy the holiday.
She takes the first step up towards the door and twists the knob. It doesn’t turn. The door is locked. She bends to the side to peer in through the windows. The curtains are open and she can see into her mother’s sitting room, but there’s no one inside. She knocks. No answer. She knocks again.
“They in?” Clare asks as they stand on the steps and wait.
Jessie listens carefully for the sound of footsteps. When none comes she knocks again.
“I don’t know. Perhaps not.”
“But where would they be?”
“I don’t know. I always said that if there was an emergency they should stay here so we could meet up. They know there are provisions in the cellar so they shouldn’t need to go out in … this,” she says nodding her head in the direction of the city centre.
She knocks again. Still no reply.
“Let’s go around the back. I know where there’s a key.”
Jessie jumps back down the steps to the pavement then runs to the wooden gate that opens up to the passageway to the back garden. For a moment, just as she reaches for the handle, she worries that it will be locked. It is. She looks up then grabs hold of the neighbour’s drainpipe, lifts her foot to the top of the low wall and pulls herself up. From this vantage point, she can see down the long stretch of garden to where the shed sits at the bottom.
“Wait here,” she says as she steps up again and stands with one foot resting on the gate’s wooden frame then jumps down to the concrete path below. Her shins burn as she lands with a thud. At the end of the passageway she takes a moment to scan the garden for movement - after their walk through the city she’s not taking any chances - then runs across to the garden shed. Behind it she squats and rights an upturned terracotta pot then digs until her fingers find the plastic bag hidden in the soil. The backdoor keys are inside, dry and clean.
At the backdoor, she pushes the key to the lock. There is no resistance and the door swings open. It wasn’t locked or even shut!
“Jessie!”
“Oh!” she gasps and turns to the figure leaning out of the neighbouring back door. “Mrs Clayton! You startled me.” The woman is elderly and looks frightened. “Are you OK?”
“Yes, well … no! What’s happening? We’ve had no electricity on since last night.”
“Oh,” she says trying to seem calm. “I’m not sure. I think the grid is down, but I’m sure it will be running again soon,” she says and turns again to the kitchen, hoping the woman will go back inside her own home.
“But it’s getting so late, Jessie. It’ll soon be dark.”
“Yes, Mrs Clayton,” she replies, noticing the thinness of her skin as she clutches at the door’s frame, and the concern that fills her ey
es. “Do you have any candles or torches?”
“Yes, I keep a stock under the sink. I haven’t forgotten the blackouts we had in the seventies you know.”
“Do you have a gas stove or electric?” she asks wondering if the couple had eaten that day.
“Only electric. Ted doesn’t hold with gas. Old fool!” she laughs. “He thinks it’ll poison us.”
“Oh. I was going to offer you one of ours. We have two camping stoves.”
“Oh, well … you do?”
“Would you like one?”
“Oh, yes, Jessie. Yes, please. He’ll just have to put up with it—if he wants a cup of tea and his supper. We can have some soup,” she says turning back to look into the kitchen. “I’m sure I’ve got some in the cupboard.”
“Oh, good,” Jessie replies. “I’ll bring the stove round in a few minutes. Is that alright?”
“Oh, yes. What would I do without you?” she finishes with a smile and a sigh of relief then steps back into her kitchen.
Relieved that the woman has gone, Jessie turns her attention back to the open door. Her mother insisted that the back door was on the latch, even if they were all at home. Perhaps Stella had forgotten to lock it again. Something brushes against her leg. Startled, she flinches. ‘Keep it calm, Lockhart’. She takes a breath and laughs as the black and grey striped moggy that was the bane of her mother’s life slips between her ankles.
“Oh, Badger!” Jessie says bending to stroke the animal. “You scared me then. Hah! I’m a scaredy-cat!” She tickles him under the chin as she listens to his satisfied purring then steps into the kitchen, soaking in the atmosphere of familiarity and safety being home brings. She closes the door, releasing the latch to lock it, and with a quick glance scans the kitchen; nothing seems out of place. She moves through to the hallway. All is quiet, but there’s no sign of Stella or her mother. At the front door, through the frosted glass, she can discern the outlines of Alex and Clare. She unlocks the door and swings it open.
“Any sign?” Alex asks with a concerned frown.
“No,” Jessie replies.
“Any sign of problems?” he asks.
“No, but I’ve only been in the kitchen. It all looks normal. Well, the back door wasn’t locked but-.”
“Let me check,” he says and moves off to the kitchen.
“Sure,” Jessie replies with a bemused smile.
“Check to see if anything is gone,” he calls back.
“Like what?”
“Coats, shoes—that kind of thing. Anything that would give us a clue as to where they could be. Clare. Take a look in the living room,” he calls from the kitchen doorway.
She walks to the back of the hallway to the door at the side of the stairs and opens it. Inside are hooks laden with numerous coats. She checks the cluster of outdoor shoes and wellies that sit beneath the small window. There are three pairs of wellingtons and some garden shoes of her mother’s.
“Well?” Alex asks, suddenly behind her.
“You startled me!”
“Sorry.”
“Well, I think her walking boots are missing. She has a pair of purple ones that she uses when we go to the moors.”
“Jacket?”
“I’m not sure. There are so many, and she could have bought a new one anyway.”
Alex grunts. “What about the one she usually wears to walk in then?”
Jessie scans the row of coats hanging on their wooden pegs.
“The green one.”
Jessie’s frown deepens. “How did you know-”
“You showed me that photo—the one with you and your sister up in the Dales last year. I remembered she had a green walking coat on. She said it helped her blend into the background—at least that’s what you said she’d said,” he replies quickly.
“Oh,” Jessie says surprised that he’d recalled such a small detail. “You’re observant, I’ll give you that.”
“It’s what I’m trained to do—what we’re trained to do.”
“Sure, but-”
“I can’t see it,” he continues ignoring her response.
Irked, she turns and is suddenly blocked against him. Not for the first time, she’s impressed with the breadth and strength of his body, his arms rest against the door’s frame, and she suddenly feels small. “Excuse me,” she says as he stands looking at the coats. “I think you may be right,” she continues as she pushes past him, a small thrill running through her as she brushes against him. “She must have gone out with Stella.”
“Jessie!” Clare calls from the living room.
Jessie turns, immediately aware of the anxiety in Clare’s voice. “What is it?”
“There’s a man,” Clare says stepping back into the hallway. “He’s unconscious.”
Confused, Jessie steps past the woman and into the living room. On the carpet lies a man with a full beard, scruffy jeans, jacket and a dark patch of blood seeping from beneath his head into her mother’s cream carpet. She stares at the blood smeared across his face then crouches. He’s breathing. She lays her fingers at the base of his throat. His pulse feels strong. Memories of Captain Ridley surface and she pulls her fingers away as though scorched.
“Alex,” she calls then waits whilst scrutinizing his face. She doesn’t recognise him. What’s he doing in the house?
“Is he dead?” he asks as he steps into the room.
“No.”
“Who is he?”
“I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Well, he looks scruffy. Perhaps he broke in and your Stella hit him?”
“Hmm. Well, the back door was open, so I guess …”
“He must be a thief,” Clare says with conviction.
The man on the floor groans and they take a step back.
“He’s waking up.”
He groans again but shows no sign of moving.
“What should we do with him?”
“Someone needs to watch him whilst I look round the rest of the house. Stella was here last night. If someone broke in, perhaps she’s hiding.”
“Sounds likely.”
“Alex, will you check upstairs? Clare, could you watch him?” she says reaching into her bag. She pulls out the gun taken from the terrorists and hands it to Clare. “I’ll check downstairs—there are a few places I know she could hide in.”
“Sure,” Alex replies and makes his way out of the room.
Clare stares down at the man, gun in hand, a worried frown on her face.
“I don’t think he’ll move, Clare, and if he does, he won’t move very quickly—he looks hurt.”
“Sure,” Clare replies though she doesn’t sound convinced.
Stepping out of the room, Jessie looks across to the door leading down to the cellar. Stella could be down there, but she doubts it—far too creepy. She’ll check the laundry room first. As she walks across the floor towards the hallway that leads further into the house, creaks from behind the cellar door catch her attention. She smiles. She did go down! Good girl.
Jessie takes a final stride and pulls the cellar door open. A waft of mildew fills her nose, but there’s another scent, almost pine-like. It’s unfamiliar, but similar to ones she’s smelt before. As she realises the aroma reminds her of a man’s eau de cologne, a face rises out of the gloom.
She gasps as the man towers over her, his broad shoulders filling the narrow doorway. As she stumbles back in horror he grabs the collar of her jacket.
“Where’s your mother?” he asks in a voice chilling in its quiet demand.
Jessie stares back at him. Her senses reeling.
“My mother?”
“Yes, your mother?”
He sounds Russian! “I … I don’t know.”
“Pah!” he says pushing her back against the wall.
Her backside hits the metal edge of the radiator and she flinches at the pain. “I don’t know where she is,” Jessie repeats staring up into the clear blue of his eyes. He pushes at h
er again, his forearm forced beneath her chin. The pressure squashes at her windpipe as he walks her backwards across the hallway.
Jessie chops at his ribs as he rams her into the wall. Her hand catches against something firm as they hit his jacket. A holster. He’s carrying a gun!
“She’s here. I know that. Now tell me where she is,” he demands.
The pressure is unbearable. She nods. He loosens the pressure a fraction though his grip remains strong. She has no intention of telling him where her mother could be. There are numerous places she could hide in the house.
“The door …” she gasps as she pulls air into her lungs, “it was open when I got here. She must have left.”
“Nope! I’ve been watching. She hasn’t left.”
A rap at the front door and then Alex’s footsteps thud on the stairs as he makes his way down. The man swings to look to the door and then the stairs whilst maintaining his grip on Jessie’s throat. In that second’s distraction, Jessie makes her move. Grabbing inside his jacket, she pulls the gun strapped to his ribs out of its sheath. Too late, he turns with a snarl as he realises his mistake and Jessie thrusts the muzzle into the soft flesh beneath his jaw. The pressure on her throat increases and his eyes remain steely.
Thud!
The front door judders.
In one swift movement, he grabs her arm and pulls the gun from beneath his chin. The strength in his arm is immense. As he wraps his fingers around her wrist and squeezes, she pulls the trigger. The bullet slices through the air and smashes into the ornately moulded rose on the ceiling. He grimaces and increases the pressure on her hand as Alex takes the final steps down the stairs and runs across the room.
Days of Fire Page 17
