There was nothing in the hallway. I moved forward and pushed the kitchen door fully open. Nothing.
I went back into the hallway.
Still nothing.
I thought about the single mug and the ready-meal cartons. Fuck it, I'd just go straight upstairs and find him.
Focusing my eyes and the weapon on the top landing, I placed my left foot very carefully on the bottom step, then my right.
I stopped and listened.
I lifted my left foot again and put it down on the second step, easing my weight down gently on the carpet, hoping the board wouldn't creak beneath it.
I moved slowly but purposefully, eyes wide, weapon up. The glow from the wood-burner threw my shadow against the wall.
Adrenalin took over. If Lynn was waiting for me, he'd be armed. A shotgun, at least. I was drenched with sweat. My heart was pumping so hard I could feel it hammering against my chest.
It started to get darker and colder as the glow of the embers faded. All I could hear was the sound of my own breath.
Moving like this is physically demanding. Every movement has to be so slow and deliberate that every single muscle is tensed; your body needs more oxygen, and your lungs, in turn, need to work harder. And on top of all that, somebody could be waiting to kill you at any moment.
I reached the landing. There was a smell of polish and mothballs. There was a door to my left. The corridor to my right ran the length of the house. Knees bent, shoulders hunched over, box-cutter now in my left hand and pistol in my right, I started to move along the Afghan runner at its centre. I checked the crack under each of the doors I passed for any signs of life.
The first was to my left, facing the rear of the house.
Nothing.
I turned the handle and went in.
Nothing.
No one.
I moved down to the next door on the right, facing the front of the house.
I could hear snoring.
I carried on along the corridor and listened outside the next room. Nothing. And there was no noise from any of the other five.
I put the box-cutter back in my fleece, fished out the torch and twisted the lens.
At this point I'd normally have pressed my right thumb down on the weapon's safety catch, checking that it was off and ready to go, before entering the target room. Then I'd have pushed the mag in the pistol grip to make sure that it was engaged.
No need for any of that with this fucking thing. I just hoped my bluff was going to work.
I lifted the latch, and none too gently. Once you've decided you're going in, you might as well get it over with. I pushed the door a few inches, brought up the torch and used my body to open the door fully.
I moved immediately to the right, to avoid silhouetting my body in the doorway. The curtains were still open.
I closed the door most of the way with my shoulder, and the torch beam hit a pile of clothes draped over a wooden chair, then a watch and a glass of water on a bedside table. There was a body in the bed. It stirred, maybe as a reaction to the change in the air pressure as the door opened, or the fact that light was now shining in its face.
His head turned and his eyes opened wide. He wouldn't be able to see me, just the torchlight. I tilted it to make sure he caught sight of the pistol.
I moved quickly and knelt astride him, pinned him to the bed with the duvet taut across his chest.
I cut the light and dropped the torch onto the bed. I didn't want him to see my face yet. I wanted to keep him confused.
He started to react. 'What . . .? Who the . . .?'
He gave a grunt as I pressed the pistol against his clenched teeth. He tried to resist. I grabbed the back of his balding head with my left hand and forced the weapon down harder. Metal scraped against enamel until he eventually opened up.
I pushed the muzzle as far into his mouth as it would go.
37
He struggled for a while, not trying to escape, just trying to work out what the fuck was going on, and to breathe. He was flapping, and snorting like a horse. I moved with his chest as it arched up and down. Finally he lay still. No one will really fuck around once they realize they have a pistol in their mouth and it's not coming out.
I leant towards his left ear. His cheek smelled of coal tar soap. 'You have two choices. Die if you don't help
