Chapter 5 #2
I turn the light off and lie in the dark, waves of fury rolling over my body.
I toss and turn and must eventually fall asleep because when I wake up it’s crushingly dark, and I can hear Phoenix’s low, rumbling growl that seems to vibrate through the bed.
My heart starts hammering and pressure builds in my bladder.
I sit up, listening for sounds, my skin turning clammy.
Phoenix’s growls grow more insistent as I blink in the darkness, trying to adjust my eyes.
I can just about see the outline of his pricked ears, his bared teeth and the whites of his eyes.
I pick out the shadows in the darkness. Phoenix’s head is now turned towards my closed bedroom door.
He isn’t one of those barky dogs. We rescued him eighteen months ago from our local cats-and-dogs home – he’d been well trained and adored for the first eight years of his life by an elderly lady who’d had to give him up to go into residential care.
‘What is it? What is it, baby?’ I whisper, reaching for his head, but he continues his low-level snarling.
When Rufus is here I keep my bedroom door open, a habit from when he was little.
I swing my legs around and sit on the edge of the bed.
Phoenix jumps down and lets out a sharp bark that makes me jump.
And then he stands at my bedroom door, growling.
My heart picks up speed. This is unlike him.
Oh God, oh God. I try to quell my panic that someone is in the house, but my legs start trembling.
‘Sssh, Phoenix, shush.’ I listen intently for any sound or movement, but I can’t hear anything apart from the dog.
I go to the window and pull aside the curtains.
The street is dark and silent. I can see the corner of the Morgans’ house, but there are no lights on.
The clock on my bedside table flashes up 1. 06 a.m. Is it burglars?
Phoenix barks again. I scan the room for an object I can use as a weapon.
All I can see is my lamp. I pull the plug from the wall, the lead trailing after me as I brandish the lamp in one hand.
With trepidation I open the door and grab Phoenix’s collar so he can’t dart off without me.
I stand there for a moment, my heart beating wildly, and then I grapple around for the light switch.
I slowly descend the stairs, Phoenix straining against my hand.
I can hear my shallow breathing, but everything else is quiet.
Phoenix is still growling softly. I’ve reached the bottom step now.
The lamp feels sweaty in my hand, but I grip it tighter.
Moonlight or streetlight filters through the fan of glass at the top of the front door, reflecting onto the wooden floor, but everything else is in shadow.
Phoenix suddenly pulls away from me and gallops towards the kitchen, barking madly. Oh God, is someone in there?
‘Phoenix,’ I hiss, fear making me snap.
I pad down the hallway towards the kitchen and jump when I hear a crash outside, something falling and breaking. My heart thumps painfully. What the fuck was that?
From my position in the hallway I can see through to the kitchen and the patio doors ahead. They are closed. No smashed glass or kicked-in lock.
Nausea engulfs me and for a few moments I’m too scared to move.
I’m suspended there, in the hallway, clutching the stupid, useless lamp.
And then fear is replaced by anger. How dare someone come into my house?
My sanctuary. And, with a burst of adrenaline, I rush into the kitchen, growling like a woman possessed, the lamp raised, ready to hit whoever might be lurking in the kitchen.
But it’s only Phoenix standing there, looking up at me with his dark eyes.
‘What was that crash?’ I ask Phoenix. I catch sight of myself in the reflection of the patio doors, in my shapeless PJs, my dark hair a messy halo around my head, my brown eyes huge in my pale face.
And then I notice something else. I move closer to the doors and peer through the glass.
One of my terracotta tubs is overturned, rolling on its side on the patio.
Someone was out there. Someone was in my garden.
I click on the outside light, which instantly illuminates the patio, throwing shadows onto the lawn.
A chill runs down my back.
The garden gate that leads to the lane, which is always closed, is wide open.
I’m relieved when it’s morning. I hardly slept the rest of the night and took a knife to bed.
I’m not sure what I would have done with it had anyone tried to break in.
The cry of a baby woke me briefly at five but I dropped off again, feeling safer because the sun was up.
Now, in the cold light of day, I grasp at explanations for the knocked-over tub and the open garden gate.
Maybe I’d forgotten to lock it. Maybe an animal had knocked over the tub. I’m not convinced.
At seven thirty my room is like an oven, and I reach over to widen the window. The morning air smells of hot car fumes and festering bins. My head is pounding. I shouldn’t have drunk so much last night and now I’ve got a full day at Citizens Advice ahead of me.
I reach for my phone to text Jo but she’s already sent a message.
SO? Did you listen?
For a few seconds I wonder what she’s talking about and then I remember our plan.
I get out of bed and head to Rufus’s room, kneeling on the carpet to press play on the tape deck.
There is nothing but white noise. I pick it up and take it downstairs, plonking it on the kitchen table.
I let the tape run while I’m making a cup of tea and sorting out Phoenix’s breakfast. My limbs feel heavy.
Just when I’m about to give up and turn it off I hear something: Phoenix’s barking and growling.
And then I freeze. What was that? A crash.
The same as the crash I heard last night.
My eyes instantly go to the tub, still lying on its side.
I rewind and listen, turning up the dial as far as it will go. It’s faint and hard to hear behind the fuzz of white noise and Phoenix’s barking, but I’m sure I’m not mistaken. It’s there, just after the crash of the tub.
A man’s voice.