'What?'
'Our life together.'
'No. We've got Lisa.'
'We just never had each other, did we?' he said, his tone hardening rapidly.
'You were never here, Bob.'
'I was doing a job, for Christ's sake. You knew what I did when you met me. You knew I was in the army.' He turned to face her.
'You were different then,' she told him.
'Bullshit.'
'We were both different people, Bob.' She opened her mouth to speak again but he held up a hand to silence her, his ears attuned to the slightest noise.
He moved across the room, towards the living-room wall, then he cupped a hand to it and listened.
Movement on the other side.
He leaned closer, trying to distinguish the sounds.
Then, silence.
He wondered if the noise had come from the front of the house, but something told him his initial instinct had been correct.
Sounds of movement from the house next door?
Neville retreated from the living room for a moment.
When he returned he was carrying the MPi 69, his face set in a stern expression.
Julie looked at the automatic weapon and shuddered involuntarily.
Neville slipped off the safety catch.
It seemed the waiting was over.
9.41 A.M.
Doyle noticed that there were still cups and plates on the kitchen table of number eight. Even a bottle of milk was propped in the centre of the table, bowls of half-eaten cornflakes close by.
The resident must have been evacuated during breakfast.
On one of the plates a fried egg had congealed along with several rashers of bacon and a couple of sausages.
The counter terrorist picked up one of the sausages and pushed it into his mouth, chewing hungrily.
He looked around the room. Crayon drawings were stuck to the cupboard doors with Blu-Tack. Fridge magnets in the shape of letters had been placed randomly on the white metal of the cold unit.
Wilde noticed some small metal cars on the floor beneath the table, discarded by their owner during the flight from the house.
The room smelled of cooking.
He and Scott followed Doyle through into the living room, which looked slightly less chaotic.
The television was still on, the sound turned down.
Beneath it the digits of the video, he noticed, were set at the wrong date and time.
There were photos on the wall showing the family who had fled.
Mother, father and two children.
The parents were in their late twenties, he guessed, the kids about eight or nine. A boy and a girl.
Doyle glanced around the room, also taking in the details, then he crossed to the front window and peered out.
The view he had was roughly the same as that of Neville in the building next door. Uniformed policemen, a number of cars. Even the Portacabin which he'd left not so long ago was just visible from here.
The counter terrorist saw a door behind him and assumed it led to the hallway.
He pushed open the door and found that his assumption was right.
As Scott and Wilde watched, he closed the door again then flicked on the two-way.
'Calloway, it's Doyle, come in.'
There was a sharp hiss of static then he heard the policeman's voice.
'What have you got, Doyle?'
'Any sign of movement from Neville?'
'Not yet.'
'If there is, you let me know straight away, got it?'
Doyle flicked off the two-way then pushed open the hall door once more, edging towards the stairs, climbing them cautiously, cursing under his breath when the first one creaked alarmingly.
The two policemen followed him, also treading carefully
As they reached the landing, Doyle looked up and saw a trapdoor leading to the attic.
The four doors which faced the three men were all closed. He nodded towards Wilde, then the closest door.
Scott searched the other two rooms.
'Nothing,' Scott whispered, joining Doyle who was still gazing up at the trapdoor.
Wilde rejoined them a moment later and merely shook his head.
'Give me a leg up,' Doyle said quietly and Scott clasped his hands together, stirrup-like, allowing the counter terrorist to put one booted foot there, then he lifted.
Doyle pushed the opening of the trapdoor with one hand, using the other to grip the side of the attic entrance, then he swung himself up into the gloom of the loft.
The darkness up there was impenetrable, the dust thick.
It clogged in his nostrils but he put a hand over his mouth to stop himself coughing.
Doyle reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his lighter, striking it, holding it high above his head.
The sickly yellow light it gave off was barely sufficient to cut through the inky blackness and it only gave him a puddle of brightness about a foot in diameter in which to move.
He picked his way slowly across the attic floor, the lighter growing hot in his hand.
There were boxes everywhere, piled high, some overflowing. He saw magazines, tools, clothes and even old blankets stuffed into them. Some of the boxes were ripped, their contents having spilled out on to the dusty floor of the attic.
A pile of old copies of Men Only stood close by and Doyle glanced down approvingly at the face of the young woman who adorned the cover, her features covered by a film of dust.
There was a loud squeak from beneath his foot and he froze.
Shit.
The sound seemed to be dulled by the dust in the air but, to Doyle, the noise sounded deafening.
He looked down to see that he'd trodden on a plastic rabbit. Another child's toy. As he removed his foot it squeaked again, almost protestingly.
Fucking thing.
The wall which separated the attic of number eight from the attic of number ten was about six feet away now.
Doyle could see that the bricks there were still bare, untouched by paint, encrusted only with dust and grime.
He stood close to the wall and pressed the flat of one hand to the cold bricks.
These houses were more than eighty years old. The walls must be at least a foot thick, he mused, tapping a brick with the knuckle of his finger.
If they were going to get into the house next door through here they'd need to blast the fucking thing.
So much for plan A, Doyle mused, turning and heading back towards the hatch.
It was then that the two-way crackled into life.
He snatched it from his pocket, turning the volume down as low as it would go.
