by Ken Follett
Sophie said in a frightened voice, "Is this normal?"
"No," he replied. "They have arguments, but not shouting matches."
"What's going on?"
He hesitated. Part of him wanted to forget the noise and act as if he and Sophie were in a universe of their own, lying on the old sofa under their coats. He could have ignored an earthquake to concentrate on her soft skin and hot breath and moist lips. But another part of him felt that the interruption was not entirely unwelcome. They had done almost everything: it might even be nice to postpone the ultimate, so that there was something else to look forward to, a further delight to anticipate.
Below them, the kitchen went quiet as suddenly as it had burst into sound.
"Strange," he said.
"It's spooky."
Sophie sounded frightened, and that made up Craig's mind. He kissed her lips once more, then stood up. He pulled up his jeans and stepped across the attic to the hole in the floor. He lay down and looked through the gap in the floorboards.
He saw his mother, standing up with her mouth open, looking shocked and frightened. Grandpa was wiping blood off his chin. Uncle Kit had his hands in the air. Three strangers were in the room. At first he thought they were all men, then he realized one was an ugly girl with a shaved head. The young black man was holding Nellie's collar, twisting it hard. The older man and the girl held guns.
Craig murmured, "Bloody hell, what's happening down there?"
Sophie lay beside him. After a moment she gasped. "Are those things guns?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"Oh, my God, we're in trouble."
Craig thought. "We have to call the police. Where's your phone?"
"I left it in the barn."
"Damn."
"Oh, God, what can we do?"
"Think. Think. A phone. We need a phone." Craig hesitated.
He was frightened. He really wanted to lie still and shut his eyes tightly. He might have done that, were it not for the girl beside him. He did not know all the rules, but he knew that a man was supposed to show courage when a girl was frightened, especially when they were lovers, or nearly. And if he was not feeling brave, he had to pretend.
Where was the nearest phone? "There's an extension beside Grandpa's bed."
Sophie said, "I can't do anything, I'm too scared."
"You'd better stay here."
"Okay."
Craig stood up. He buttoned his jeans and buckled the belt, then went to the low door. He took a breath, then opened it. He crawled into Grandpa's suit cupboard, pushed at the door, and emerged into the dressing room.
The lights were on. Grandpa's dark brown brogue-style shoes were side by side on the carpet, and the blue shirt he had been wearing yesterday lay on top of a pile of clothes in the linen basket. Craig stepped into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, as if Grandpa had just got out of it. On the bedside table was a copy of Scientific American magazine, open--and the phone.
Craig had never dialed 999 in his life. What were you supposed to say? He had seen people do it on television. You had to give your name and location, he thought. Then what? "There are men with guns in our kitchen." It sounded melodramatic--but probably all 999 calls were dramatic.
He picked up the phone. There was no dial tone.
He put his finger on the cradle and jiggled it, then listened again. Nothing.
He replaced the handset. Why were the phones out? Was it just a fault--or had the strangers cut the wires?
Did Grandpa have a mobile? Craig pulled open the bedside drawer. Inside he saw a flashlight and a book, but no phone. Then he remembered: Grandpa had a phone in his car, but did not carry a mobile.
He heard a sound from the dressing room. Sophie poked her head out of the suit cupboard, looking frightened. "Someone's coming!" she hissed. A moment later, Craig heard a heavy footstep on the landing.
He darted into the dressing room. Sophie ducked back into the attic. Craig fell on his knees and crawled through the suit cupboard just as he heard the bedroom door open. He had no time to close the cupboard door. He wriggled through the low door, then quickly turned and closed it softly behind him.
Sophie whispered, "The older man told the girl to search the house. He called her Daisy."
"I heard her boots on the landing."
"Did you get through to the police?"
He shook his head. "The phone's dead."
"No!"
He heard Daisy's heavy tread in the dressing room. She would see the open cupboard door. Would she spot the low door behind the suits? Only if she looked carefully.
Craig listened. Was she staring into the open cupboard at this minute? He felt shaky. Daisy was not big--an inch or two shorter than he was, he guessed--but she looked absolutely terrifying.
The silence dragged out. He thought he heard her step into the bathroom. After a shorter pause, her boots crossed the dressing room and faded away. The bedroom door slammed.
"Oh, God, I'm so scared," Sophie said.
"Me, too," said Craig.
***
MIRANDA was in Olga's bedroom with Hugo.
When she left the kitchen she had not known what to do. She could not go outside--she was in her nightdress and bare feet. She had raced up the stairs with the thought of locking herself in the bathroom, but realized almost at once that that would be useless. She stood on the landing, dithering. She was so frightened that she wanted to vomit. She had to call the police, that was the priority.
Olga had her mobile in the pocket of her negligee--but Hugo probably had his own.
Frightened though she was, Miranda had hesitated for a split second outside the door. The last thing she wanted was to be in a bedroom with Hugo. Then she heard someone step out of the kitchen into the hall. Quickly, she opened Hugo's door, slid inside, and closed it quietly.
Hugo was standing at the window, looking out. He was naked, and had his back to the door. "Would you look at this bloody weather?" he said, obviously thinking his wife had come back.
Miranda was momentarily arrested by his casual tone. Obviously Olga and Hugo had made up their quarrel, after yelling at each other half the night. Had Olga already forgiven her husband for having sex with her sister? It seemed quick--but perhaps they had had this row before, about other women. Miranda had often wondered about Olga's deal with her flirtatious husband, but Olga had never spoken of it. Maybe they had a script: infidelity, discovery, quarrel, reconciliation, then back to infidelity.
"It's me," Miranda said.
He spun around, startled, then smiled. "And in deshabille--what a lovely surprise! Let's get into bed, quick."
She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and at the same time noticed that Hugo's belly was much bigger than when she had gone to bed with him--he looked like a little round gnome--and she wondered how she could have found him attractive. "You have to phone the police right now," she said. "Where's your mobile?"
"Just here," he said, pointing to the bedside table. "What on earth is wrong?"
"People with guns in the kitchen--dial 999, quickly!"
"Who are they?"
"Never bloody mind!" She heard heavy footsteps on the landing. She stood frozen, terrified that the door would burst open, but the steps went by. Her voice became a kind of low scream. "They're probably looking for me, get on with it!"
Hugo came out of shock. He snatched up his phone, dropped it on the floor, picked it up, and jabbed at the "On" button. "Damn thing takes forever!" he said in frustration. "Did you say guns?"
"Yes!"
"How did the people get in?"
"Said they were stranded--what is the matter with that phone?"
"Searching," he said. "Come on, come on!"
Miranda heard the footsteps outside again. This time she was ready. She flung herself on the floor and slid sideways under the double bed just as the door flew open.
She closed her eyes and tried to make herself small. Feeling foolish, she opened her eyes again. She saw Hugo's ba
re feet, with hairy ankles, and a pair of black motorcycle boots with steel-tipped toes. She heard Hugo say, "Hello, gorgeous, who are you?"
His charm did not work on Daisy. She said, "Give me that phone."
"I was just--"
"Now, you fat fool."
"Here, take it."
"Now come with me."
"Let me put something on."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to bite your little cock off."
Miranda saw Hugo's feet step away from Daisy. She moved quickly toward him, then there was the sound of a blow, and he let out a cry. Both pairs of feet moved toward the door together. They passed out of Miranda's sight, and a moment later she heard them going down the stairs.
Miranda said to herself, "Oh, God, what do I do now?"
6 A.M.
CRAIG and Sophie lay side by side on the floorboards of the attic, looking down through the hole into the kitchen, as Craig's father was dragged naked into the room by Daisy.
Craig was shocked and disturbed. It was a scene from a nightmare, or an old painting of sinners being dragged down into hell. He could hardly grasp that this humiliated, helpless figure was his father, the master of the house, the only person with the nerve to stand up to his domineering mother, the man who had ruled Craig for all fifteen years of his life. He felt disoriented and weightless, as if gravity had been switched off and he did not know which way was down.
Sophie began to cry softly. "This is awful," she whispered. "We're all going to be murdered."
The need to comfort her gave Craig strength. He put his arm around her narrow shoulders. She was trembling. "It is awful, but we're not dead yet," he said. "We can get help."
"How?"
"Where is your phone, exactly?"
"I left it in the barn, upstairs by the bed. I think I dropped it into my suitcase when I changed."
"We have to go there and use it to call the police."
"What if those terrible people see us?"
"We'll stay away from the kitchen windows."
"We can't--the barn door is right opposite!"
She was right, Craig knew, but they had to take the risk. "They probably won't look out."
"But what if they do?"
"You can hardly see across the backyard anyway, in this snow."
"They're bound to spot us!"
He did not know what else to tell her. "We have to try."
"I can't do it. Let's just stay here."
It was tempting, but Craig knew that if he hid himself and did nothing to help his family, he would feel ashamed. "You can stay, if you like, while I go to the barn."
"No--don't leave me alone!"
He had guessed she might say that. "Then you'll have to come with me."
"I don't want to."
He squeezed her shoulders and kissed her cheek. "Come on. Be brave."
She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "I'll try."
He stood up and put on his boots and coat. Sophie sat motionless, watching him in the candlelight. Trying to walk softly, for fear of being heard below, he found her rubber boots, then knelt down and put them on her small feet. She cooperated passively, stunned by shock. He gently pulled her upright and helped her on with her anorak. He zipped it up at the front, pulled the hood over her head, then brushed her hair back with his hand. The hood gave her a gamine look, and for a fleeting moment he thought how pretty she was.
He opened the big loft door. A freezing wind blew a dense flurry of snow into the attic. The lamp over the back door spread a small half circle of light, showing the snow lying thicker than ever on the ground. The trash-can lid looked like Ali Baba's hat.
There were two windows at this end of the house, one from the pantry and the other from the boot lobby. The sinister strangers were in the kitchen. If he was very unlucky, one of them might step into the pantry or the boot lobby at just the wrong moment, and spot him--but he thought the odds were in his favor.
"Come on," he said.
Sophie stood beside him and looked down. "You go first."
He leaned out. There was a light in the boot lobby, but not in the pantry. Would anyone see him? On his own he might have been terrified, but Sophie's fear made him braver. He swept the snow off the ledge with his hand, then walked along it to the lean-to roof of the boot lobby. He swept a section of the roof clear, then stood upright and reached out to her. He held her hand as she inched along the edge. "You're doing fine," he said softly. It was not difficult--the ledge was a foot wide--but she was shaky. At last she stepped down to the lean-to roof. "Well done," Craig said.
Then she slipped.
Her feet skidded from under her. Craig still had hold of her hand, but he could not keep her upright, and she sat down with a thud that must have reverberated below. She landed awkwardly and tipped over backwards, sliding down the icy slates on her bottom.
Craig grabbed at her and grasped a handful of anorak. He tugged, trying to arrest her slide, but his feet were on the same slippery surface, and all that happened was that she drew him along with her. He skated down the roof after her, struggling to remain upright and trying to slow her down.
When her feet hit the gutter at the lip of the roof, she came to a halt; but her bottom was half off the sloping side edge. She tilted sideways. Craig tightened his grip on her coat and pulled, drawing her toward him and safety--then he slipped again. He let go of her coat, waving his arms to stay upright.
Sophie screamed and fell off the roof.
She dropped ten feet and landed in soft new snow behind the trash can.
Craig leaned over the edge. Little light fell in that dark corner, and he could hardly see her. "Are you all right?" he said. There was no reply. Had she been knocked unconscious? "Sophie!"
"I'm okay," she said miserably.
The back door opened.
Quickly, Craig lowered himself to a sitting position.
A man stepped out. Craig could just see a head of short dark hair. He glanced over the side. The extra light spilling from the open door made Sophie just visible. Her pink anorak disappeared into the snow, but her dark jeans showed. She lay still. He could not see her face.
A voice from inside called, "Elton! Who's out there?"
Elton waved a flashlight from side to side, but the beam showed nothing but snowflakes. Craig flattened himself on the roof.
Elton turned to the right, away from Sophie, and walked a few steps into the storm, shining his flashlight in front of him.
Craig pressed himself to the roof, hoping Elton would not glance up. Then he realized that the loft door was still wide open. If Elton happened to shine his flashlight that way, he could not fail to see it and investigate--which would be disastrous. Moving slowly, Craig crawled up the lean-to roof. As soon as he could reach, he got hold of the lower edge of the door and gently pushed it. It swung slowly through an arc. Craig gave it a final shove and released it, then quickly lay down again. The door closed with an audible click.
Elton turned. Craig lay still. He saw the beam of the flashlight play over the gable end of the house and the loft door.
The voice came from inside again. "Elton?"
The flashlight beam moved off. "I can't see nothing," Elton shouted back irritably.
Craig risked moving his head to look. Elton was walking the other way, toward Sophie. He stopped at the trash can. If he peeked around the angle of the lobby and shone his flashlight into the corner, he would see her. When that happened, Craig decided, he would dive off the roof onto Elton's head. He would probably get beaten up, but Sophie might escape.
After a long moment, Elton turned away. "Nothing out here but fucking snow," he called out, and he stepped back inside the house and slammed the door.
Craig groaned with relief. He found he was shaking. He tried to make himself calm. Thinking about Sophie helped. He jumped off the roof and landed beside her. Bending down, he said, "Did you hurt yourself?"
She sat up. "No, but I'm so scared."
"Okay. Can you stand up?
"
"Are you sure he's gone?"
"I saw him go in and close the door. They must have heard your scream, or maybe the bump as you slipped on the roof--but in this storm they probably aren't sure it was anything."
"Oh, God, I hope so." She struggled to her feet.
Craig frowned, thinking. The gang were obviously alert. If he and Sophie went directly across the yard to the barn, they could be seen by someone looking out of the kitchen windows. They would do better to strike out into the garden, circle around the guest cottage, and approach the barn from behind. They would still risk being seen going in through the door, but the roundabout route would minimize their exposure. "This way," he said. He took her hand, and she followed him willingly enough.
They felt the wind blowing more fiercely. The storm was coming in off the sea. Away from the shelter of the house, the snow no longer fell in swirling flurries, but pelted down in hard, slanting lines, stinging their faces and getting into their eyes.
When Craig could no longer see the house, he turned at a right angle. Their progress was slow. The snow lay two feet deep, making it tiring to walk. He could not see the cottage. Measuring his steps, Craig walked what he guessed was the width of the yard. Now completely blind, he figured he must have drawn level with the barn, and he turned again. He counted the paces until he should have bumped up against its wooden end wall.
But there was nothing.
He felt sure he could not have gone wrong. He had been meticulous. He walked another five paces. He feared they might be lost, but he did not want Sophie to know that. Suppressing a feeling of panic, he turned again, heading back toward the main house. The complete darkness meant that Sophie could not see his face so, fortunately, she did not know how scared he was.
They had been outside less than five minutes, but already his feet and hands were agonizingly cold. Craig realized they were in serious danger. If they could not find shelter, they would freeze to death.
Sophie was not stupid. "Where are we?"
Craig made himself sound more confident than he felt. "Just coming up to the barn. A few steps more."
He should not have made such a rash prediction. After ten more steps they were still in blackness.