Silently she scanned the shelves. Piles of exercise books to her left and text books to her right. A higher shelf held a few reams of A4 paper and a plastic tub that had once contained sweets. Just the kind of tub that teachers used to store coloured pencils, crayons and, Annie hoped, compasses.
As quietly as she could manage, Annie eased the plastic container from the shelf and almost cried out in relief when she saw that it didn’t have a lid – there was no way she could have opened it without making a noise. It was filled with coloured pencils and felt tip pens, most with the tops missing, a couple of rulers, a broken set square and an almost-finished roll of Sellotape. Annie lifted the ruler to see if she could find anything else and saw a pencil sharpener and another set square. Carefully, she eased her fingers further into the tub, running them through the items, trying to identify them by touch. And then she found it. Something sharp pricked her middle finger. A pair of compasses with the stub of a pencil still attached.
Having a potential tool and a plan didn’t make Annie feel any safer. She still had to open the door, cross the room and wrestle with the window – all without being seen or heard. It was impossible. She couldn’t do it. It might be safer just to stay in the cupboard and wait for rescue. But what if nobody came? Or what if they came too late and the men in the classroom had decided that the students were expendable and turned their guns on her friends.
No. She had to try.
She placed the tub of pencils on the floor at the back of the cupboard and took a deep breath. Then another. Placing her hand on the latch above the door handle she gave it a sharp turn, wincing as it clicked open. She eased her hand downwards and felt the coolness of the door handle as she applied pressure. The sliver of daylight down the side of the jamb widened as Annie’s trembling hand pushed the door open far enough for her to see a small slice of the geography room.
Empty.
She could do this.
Feeling like a child in a playground game, she took a baby step forwards. Then another until her whole body was out in the open; exposed.
The windows were only a few metres away but they might have been on the other side of the world – Annie had no idea how she could possibly walk that far, but she had to move.
One more tiny step. Another.
Something cold suddenly pressed against her neck and a gloved hand covered her mouth.
‘Scream and you’re dead,’ a voice hissed in her ear as another hand gripped her wrist and the compasses fell to the carpet.
Before
Andy threw his car keys onto the table next to his front door and sighed heavily. His job wasn’t especially stressful but, recently, he’d started to resent every minute he spent there because he felt like he was earning the money for somebody else. He’d already sounded out a couple of estate agents about the possibility of putting his bungalow on the market – it was too big anyway. The two dormer rooms were empty, and he hardly ever used the conservatory despite its fantastic view of the western fells.
The loss of status would be hard to take though. After paying off his debt he’d still have enough money to buy a small terraced house in Moor Row or Cleator but, when he contemplated being in such close proximity to other people, he felt physically ill. He was a manager. He was supposed to have a nice house and a flashy car. If he didn’t then what was the point?
The last of the afternoon sun spilled through the stained-glass panes in the top of the door creating a kaleidoscope effect on the hardwood floor of the hallway. Dust motes danced in the blades of colour, reminding Andy that he hadn’t done any serious housework since he’d let his cleaner go at the end of October.
He shrugged out of his suit jacket, placing it carefully on the coat rack before loosening his tie so he could slip it off without undoing it. For a second, he held the loose end over his head, pulling it tight like a noose. ‘Twat,’ he muttered to himself, flinging the tie down next to his keys.
He rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, his mind on the six chilled bottles of Peroni waiting in the fridge. One before his usual microwaved ready meal would leave him five to get him through to bedtime and, if they didn’t do the trick, he still had half a bottle of Laphroaig in the cupboard.
Andy uncapped his beer and poured it into a tall glass, tilting it carefully so the head didn’t overflow, then took two large swigs.
‘Got one for me?’
The glass shattered in a hissing puddle of lager as Andy turned round. He hoped he hadn’t really recognised the voice, that it was just an opportunistic burglar.
‘You need to clean that up before you cut yourself.’ The voice was solicitous but the emphasis on cut hinted at malice.
‘Gerry. H-h-how did you get in?’ Andy stuttered, trying to make sense of Montrose’s menacing presence in his kitchen.
Montrose shrugged as though the question wasn’t important and crossed to the fridge where he helped himself to a beer. ‘We need to have a chat,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait in the
