‘Daniel. Hurry up.’ Emily’s voice was shrill, as she appeared at his side, threading her arm through his and marching him off to the front door.
There was a lot of faffing about downstairs with Emily snapping that she needed an umbrella. With an almighty slam that made the letterbox rattle, the door closed on her strident tones.
I let out a sigh and waited for my heart to slow again.
Looking round the empty flat, I decided there was no point in being a wounded soldier and not making the most of it. Selecting a large bar of Dairy Milk from my secret stash and with a mug of tea, I switched on the radio, slipped back inside my sleeping bag and settled down.
The night’s disturbed sleep caught up with me and succumbing to the soft-edged focus of the painkiller, I dozed off.
* * *
I woke to the sound of a key in the lock and started. Was that Emily coming home already? Had I been asleep for the whole day? It didn’t feel like it.
No, the clock on the wall said it was only quarter past ten. Puzzled and still half asleep, I called out. ‘Emily?’
No answer. Dopily I swung my feet, still in the sleeping bag, onto the floor. She’d found her keys, then. I called her name again. What was she doing home at this time?
Not coming back to play Florence Nightingale that was for sure.
She still hadn’t answered. I waited and listened. A faint click. The front door closing. My heart lurched.
‘Emily.’ I yelled it louder this time — as if sounding confident and a touch belligerent might scare off whoever it was, if it wasn’t Emily.
Still no sound. Making as much noise as I could, I shuffled across the lounge to the top step, bent and looked down. From there I could see the bottom of the stairs but not the front door at the end of the passage.
‘Hello,’ I called, feeling daft. As if a burglar was going to answer me!
Disentangling myself from the sleeping bag, I crept down the top six steps protectively holding my injured arm and paused. From here I could see the glass front door. There was no onethere. I hesitated. It wouldn’t do any harm to put the chain on the door.
As soon as I reached the bottom step I scooted to the front door. Like a child running and jumping into bed, frightened of a monster lurking underneath. I was about to shove the chain in place, when I spotted the black bundle leaning against the glass on the other side of the door. I opened the door carefully. Charlie, the junk shop cat, was curled up in a ball, meowing piteously.
‘Hey, puss,’ I murmured softly, worried by his obvious distress. Gently stretching out my hand, I tried to stroke him but to my surprise he hissed, jumped up and ran off up the street limping. Strange, he was normally so friendly.
I slid the chain on the door home and turned to go back upstairs. That was when I stepped into a cold damp patch.
Looking down, my foot seemed small in the centre of the large sodden footprint outlined on the carpet. Far larger than Emily’s delicate size fours.
Emily’s keys! My mind raced, making terrifying connections. Her keys had been missing since Thursday, the day of Peter’s visit to the office. I tried to remember the scene. Emily had taken everything out of her bag that day. Had Peter taken them?
Heart racing, I fled back up the stairs, grabbed the phone and bolted myself into the bathroom.
* * *
Fingers shaking, I tried to call Emily’s work number, stabbing and missing the buttons on the phone. My heart was pounding double time and my injured arm was throbbing.
‘Emily! It’s me. Olivia. He’s been here... he’s got your keys,’ I burst out. ‘He’s—’
‘Olivia, slow down—’
‘He’s been here... he must have your keys. He got in.’
‘Who’s been there?’ asked Emily impatiently. ‘What are you on about? I’ve got my keys. ’
‘You’ve got your keys?’ I repeated stupidly.
‘Yes, they were at work all the time. At reception. I must have dropped them here.’
‘Thank God.’ I sighed with relief, my heart immediately slowing but still thudding furiously. ‘Sorry, Em, I really thought... I thought. . . Doesn’t matter. I must have been dreaming. Lack of sleep.’
