“What about there?” he asked, nodding in Isabel’s direction.
“There’s a draft,” Isabel noted, scurrying out of the way when Sam paced up to the door. His boots must look like elephant feet to her, Nicholas thought.
Sam tugged the little door open and peered down a set of concrete stairs. There was a faint light.
“Basement,” he said gruffly, checking his pistol. “Stay close.”
Together they descended. For some reason, the flames that had engulfed the rest of the house hadn’t touched here. When they reached the foot of the stairs, Nicholas was grateful for the stink of must; it was preferable to the stench upstairs. He peered around.
It was more of a cell than a basement. A tiny cement square with an even tinier, grime-caked rectangle meekly filtering sunlight inside. It was filthy. The floor was covered in dust, and by the far wall there was a curious dark shadow that looked like–
“Blood,” Isabel announced, her nose hovering centimetres above the stain.
“Fresh?” Sam asked.
“Relatively,” Isabel said. She dabbed at the mark daintily. “It is dry.”
Nicholas lingered by the stairs. His head buzzed. At first he thought it was the fetid air, but now he wasn’t sure.
Sam wandered to the far wall and scrutinised the exposed bricks. Just above the bloodstain, holes had been drilled and there was a metallic residue lightly dusting the brickwork. The floor, too. There were strips where the cement floor was darker, as if something heavy had once rested here.
What sort of object would make marks like that? Nicholas thought.
“Something was here,” Sam murmured, easing himself to his knees. “Something was here and it’s been taken.”
Nicholas frowned. The buzzing intensified. Something was needling at him, tugging at his insides like a fish hook. Before he knew why, he asked: “You knew one of them, didn’t you? One of the people that was turned?”
Sam’s concentration broke. He cast Nicholas a fleeting look then puffed out a breath, straining to get up from the floor. “It happened just after you left,” he told the wall. “Snelling. He attacked a friend. A good friend...” Sam paused and Nicholas could see that this was difficult; this was the reason, perhaps, for the old man’s desperation. “He turned Richard against us, somehow. He became indistinguishable from a Harvester. And he wasn’t the only one.”
“What happened to him? Richard?” Nicholas asked. “I mean, did you find out how to get him back?”
Sam’s answer fell like the lid of a coffin.
“No.”
Nicholas didn’t hear him. His head had started spinning. His stomach roiled and churned. That awful but oh-so-familiar feeling had returned; the feeling that normally meant nausea was about to be the least of his problems.
“Uh, Sam,” he began, but Sam’s gaze had already darted to the ceiling.
Had there been a noise? A faint footfall? A breath or a whisper?
Nicholas tensed. Listened. Isabel squashed herself up into the space where the wall met the floor, ears cocked.
Nicholas’s stomach cramped and he suppressed a groan. Sam looked at him and his face set to stone.
“Blast,” he muttered. In what seemed like a single step, he was beside Nicholas, then jabbing the air with a finger. You. Follow me. Upstairs.
Nicholas sucked in a breath and nodded.
Sam set a boot on the bottom step, then crept up the staircase, pistol raised. Nicholas followed with Isabel at his heels. He didn’t know what the house was trying to tell him. Whatever it was, it was making him want to empty his stomach right here on the stairs. This feeling. It was a warning. Like that day on the bus just before Malika had attacked. But what was the warning this time? He tried to focus on breathing, not vomiting. Not imagining what kind of monster might be laying in wait just upstairs.
He bumped into Sam. They’d reached the top of the stairs. Sam put a finger to his lips and eased the door open. He stuck his head through.
Nicholas waited. Isabel pressed to the side of his leg, her tail coiled about his calf.
Sam disappeared into the hallway and Nicholas stood motionless, listening.
Silence. Nothing.
Nicholas realised that he was holding his breath and he released it slowly. A faint sound came. A shuffle, perhaps. Maybe just a dry leaf skating across the floor.
Nicholas edged into the hall. Then froze.
Sam stood facing the front door, not moving. He had become a living statue.
Nicholas frowned and moved closer. The sick feeling had gone, but there was no relief. Only concern. The look on Sam’s face was terrible. He’d gone deathly pale and his lips trembled.
“Sam?” he ventured. “What is it?”
It took Sam a moment to register Nicholas’s question.
“There was somebody there,” he croaked eventually, barely talking above a whisper. His eyes were fixed on the front door, the pistol shaking.
“Who? Who was it?”
Sam looked like he’d seen a ghost. Whatever the older man had seen, it had stuck him to the spot, and unease prickled hotly through Nicholas.
“Sam? Who was it?”
Before Sam could answer, an almighty crash resounded from upstairs. More than just a crash, Nicholas thought. A detonation. The ceiling rocked above them and a mixture of dust and ash cascaded in delicate swirls. The blast sent a shock through Nicholas’s bones.
Sam was at the front door in an instant, jerking the handle.
But the door didn’t open. Somebody had locked it from the outside.
Another deafening roar and this time half the ceiling collapsed. A burst of orange briefly lit the stairwell and Nicholas fell against one of the walls, staring up in horror. Charred carpet lolled though the hole in the ceiling like a dried-out tongue and chunks of burnt wood littered the floor.
Nicholas’s mind went blank. He couldn’t feel the wall against his back or the floor under his shoes. His ears rang and he barely noticed Sam hurry into the kitchen, then dart back into the hallway just as the room behind him erupted in a maelstrom of flying debris.
“DOWN!” Sam yelled.
But Nicholas merely stared dumbly back. What was happening? There was nobody else in this burnt-out tomb, but now the tomb was collapsing around them and they were going to be buried in the wreckage. Hundreds of tons of wall and wood and brick were going to crash onto them, smash their bodies, crush out every last breath.
It took a sharp prick in his leg to snap Nicholas to his senses.
“The house is falling apart!” Isabel shrieked. “If you don’t move we’ll die!”
That did it. Nicholas plucked the cat from the floor and raced over to Sam, who was holding open the door to the basement. As Nicholas dashed inside, he just had time to appreciate the full force of another bone-shaking detonation that took out the living room.
Knocked from his feet, he tumbled down the final few steps and only just caught himself as he hit the floor.
“Damn,” he croaked, appreciating how close he’d come to cracking his skull open on the concrete. An even more desperate thought seized him.
Sam!
Coughing up dust, Nicholas raised himself from the ground. A hand reached out and helped him and Nicholas saw that Sam had made it down just before the blast. They were both covered in grey filth; the innards of the house all over them.
“I thought–” Nicholas mumbled, but Sam had already limped over to the tiny, cell-like window, appraising it quickly. He seemed to comprehend that they’d never fit through it. They’d torn down into the one room that seemed safe, only to find there was no way out again. Nicholas cursed, extricating himself from the floor.
A cacophony of explosions erupted above their heads. Nicholas had no idea how long they had before the entire house collapsed. He tried not to think about it, instead staggering over to the wall that had been drilled with holes. Sam was already there, touching every brick, jabbing and pushing like it was some kind of me
dieval slot machine. Nicholas did the same, assuming they were looking for a loose brick, a chink in the wall’s armour that might yield and release them from this prison.
Debris crashed through the cellar door and there were flames now, lapping eagerly over the ceiling. The heat assaulted them in waves and Nicholas began to sweat all over.
Then one of the bricks moved.
It shifted inward under the weight of his hand and he shoved it harder. The brick grated against its neighbours, complaining with every centimetre, but then it was through. Nicholas heard it hit the floor on the other side.
A broken rectangular hole grinned at him.
“Hurry,” Sam urged, seeing what Nicholas had done.
Together, they seized at the bricks framing the gap and wrenched with everything they had. Mortar crumbled and the book-sized blocks came away in grating protests to be dashed to the floor. Above them, the ceiling started to sag and the flames lashed closer, eager orange tongues straining for them.
“Isabel,” Nicholas called, and the cat was at his side, the blacks of her eyes like little inverted moons. “Can you fit?” he asked.
Isabel squinted at the hole in the wall and launched silently at it, rippling into the shadows beyond. Nicholas and Sam continued to wrench at the wall. Finally it gave. Shoulder to shoulder, the duo staggered through into the welcoming blackness.
The cool against Nicholas’s skin was like an eskimo’s kiss. He reached out his hands to prevent himself from blundering into anything.
“There is an exit,” Isabel’s sharp tones rang, and Nicholas had never been more grateful for her ability to see in the dark. “To your left. It’s up in the corner, two wooden panels like a trapdoor.”
Nicholas stumbled against Sam and together they edged through the darkness. The sounds of carnage from Snelling’s house were still audible, and Nicholas wondered why nobody from the neighbouring houses had come to help. Perhaps they had tried, but found no way of getting inside.
“There,” Sam said. There came a rattle, the sound of Sam grunting with effort, and then the world opened up to them like a box of chocolates.
The sky was pink and raw, something out of a comic book, and they rushed up into it, gasping at the clean air.
Weakened by the heat, Nicholas and Sam staggered into the parched back garden and collapsed onto the grass.
Nicholas wiped the mixture of soot and sweat from his forehead, staring up in horror.
The house was ablaze. Thick black smoke streamed upward, a jagged scar in the coral-coloured sky.
“There was nothing in the house,” he murmured, coughing up cinders. “We looked. There was nothing in there that could’ve done that.”
Sam took out a handkerchief and mopped at his brow.
“Somebody came in after us,” he muttered, folding the grimed handkerchief in half and dabbing his upper lip.
“Who? Who was it?”
Sam was transfixed by the burning ruin.
“If only we knew,” the old man said softly.
Sighing, Nicholas sagged against the grass and listened to the approaching sirens.
CHAPTER FIVE
New Arrivals
“HERE,” SAM SAID, HANDING NICHOLAS HIS suitcase. It felt like it was stuffed with rocks.
They’d managed to evade the police, rounding the corner just as the first blue and red lights tumbled across the tarmac toward Snelling’s house. Sam had driven them into the centre of town, muttering something about finding a place to stay, and Nicholas had felt too beaten up to argue. He coughed, tasting smoke, and he could still feel the heat against his skin.
Together, they crossed the narrow street. At the end, a sandstone tower craned over the surrounding buildings. The Norman Tower looked like a giant chess piece. Just one of the peculiar, ancient buildings that populated Bury’s older quarters.
Sam led them down an even narrower alleyway that was lined with pretty doorways. The sign read Angel Lane. He stopped halfway down and rapped at a red door. Even his knock sounded exhausted.
After a moment it drew open and a woman appeared.
“Samuel!” she exclaimed.
“Aileen,” Sam said cordially.
Aileen resembled an old dinner lady. Her face was round and jolly. A tissue was crammed under the strap of a slender gold watch and her elbows had all but disappeared into a supple mound of doughy flesh. She wore a long, pleated brown skirt and a short-sleeved blouse, over which a flowery tabard had been fastened. It barely covered her ample bosom.
“What a pleasant surprise!” the woman exclaimed. She primped at her purplish hair in dismay, the flesh under her arms wobbling. “Look at me, I’m a mess. Whatever must you think?”
Nicholas suppressed a smile.
“It’s a pleasure as always, Aileen,” Sam said.
“I wasn’t expecting anybody,” Aileen trilled. “We’re completely empty and nobody called ahead for you. But, my! You’re looking well. Haven’t aged barely a day.” She beamed brightly at the elderly gentleman. The fact that he was covered in ash didn’t seem at all unusual to her.
“Yes,” Sam coughed. He seemed uncomfortable, perhaps because of their appearance. “This is Nicholas,” the old man continued, gesturing at Nicholas.
“And Isabel,” Nicholas added.
The woman’s smile slackened at the sight of the cat on Nicholas’s shoulder. “Ah,” she began. “House pets. Thing is, we don’t normally allow them. Rudy’s friendly as anything when it comes to people, but other cats...”
“We don’t want to cause a problem,” Sam interjected.
Aileen’s gaze softened as it returned to him and she flapped the air with podgy hands. “No bother, no bother. I’m sure we can arrange something.”
The chatter subsided.
“Could we–?” Sam entreated, crooking an elbow at the door.
Aileen threw her hands up again and dabbed delicately at her forehead. “Look at me, blathering on and I’ve not even invited you in. Yes, yes, come in, come in.”
The hallway was busy and dated. The yellowing wallpaper was distractingly fussy and a string of oval-shaped frames lined the walls. A doily-covered table by the door supported an ancient telephone with a dial. Beside that was a framed photo of a tabby cat with a protruding fang. The patterned carpet, paired with the scent of bleach, made Nicholas woozy.
“Come in, come in,” Aileen insisted, leading them through the house. “It’s lucky I cleaned this morning. You should’ve seen the state of the place just yesterday, you’d have called for Aggie and Kim in a moment’s breath.”
For some reason, Nicholas doubted Aileen’s house was ever anything other than spotless.
They passed an equally antiquated living room, where yet more doilies were draped over the backs of every chair, and a steep staircase, then went into the kitchen. Nicholas felt as if he’d stumbled across a set from an old sitcom. Everything was a lurid shade of green. The cupboard doors. The plates fixed to the wall. The bustling wallpaper. The only thing that wasn’t green was the linoleum floor. It was orange.
Nicholas looked at Sam, but the old man didn’t seem to have noticed.
“Just a minute,” Aileen said. She foraged in a drawer and retrieved a rudimentary wooden carving of a woman. It had twigs for hair and cut-stone for eyes.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Aileen asked, turning to them.
“By all means,” Sam said, taking the effigy. He held it for a few seconds and then handed it to Nicholas, whose bemusement must have been clear. Just who was this woman?
“Only a precaution,” Aileen explained brightly. “It screams bloody murder if you’re a bad egg. Can’t be too careful what with everybody coming and going around here. I’m not one for rumours, but better safe than sorry, I always say. Ah, lovely.” She took the totem back and threw it into the drawer. “You’ll be wanting your rooms first. And then I’ll put the kettle on.” She opened a lime green door to what turned out to be a pantry.
“The beds wil
l need making up; it’s been a while,” Aileen quavered as she went inside, talking more to herself than either of her guests. Nicholas noticed she was playing with a set of keys. What was she doing?
Sam followed Aileen into the pantry and beckoned for Nicholas to do the same.
At the back of the storeroom rested a full set of shelves, all of them crammed with food. Tins. Fresh vegetables. Little herb containers. It was as if Aileen was expecting an air raid any moment and she’d be blown if she was going to let any of her guests starve if that happened.
Their host brandished an old key and foraged between the shelves for something. Nicholas saw her flabby arm jiggling, then heard the click of a lock. Aileen pushed a shelf and the wall swung inward.
“Didn’t I mention?” Sam said to him, knowing full well that he hadn’t. “Aileen runs a Sentinel safehouse.”
“Safehouse?” Nicholas asked.
“They’re dotted all over the place,” Sam told him. “You can never be too careful. The house itself is a false front for the real house, which resides behind. A quite clever idea, I have to say. Very Dutch. Who’d ever suspect Aileen?”
The old man winked at him.
Aileen had disappeared up a flight of stairs and Nicholas heard her humming to herself animatedly.
“Sentinels and their secret doors,” he muttered, hurrying after Sam.
Upstairs looked like a completely different house. A long, bright landing was broken up by numerous flights of stairs that led off in different directions. They followed the sound of humming and came to a small room that was sparingly furnished, but preferable to the finicky décor downstairs. A single bed with crisp white linen. A beige armchair. A sink.
“Here,” Aileen said to Nicholas, “this’ll be yours. I’ll put Samuel in across the hall.”
She left the room and Sam trudged after her.
Nicholas went to the window. The sun hung over the town and he admired the golden view. They were high up and he could see over row upon row of neat rooftops. An old stone building that looked like a watchtower peeked above them. Nicholas remembered it was the entrance to the Abbey Gardens.
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