Читать книгу Saving Missy - Beth Morrey - Страница 17

That night I dreamt about Jonas, this time an unwilling lamb to slaughter. He was bundled into a van, scrabbling and howling for my mother, her screams mingling with his barks, then an incessant scratching as his claws scraped against the door. I had to get him out. Pounding against it, my hands a bloody mess as I slapped and thumped. And then giving up, sliding down it, my back to the cold metal as I listened to Jonas on the inside, still scrabbling. Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch. Then a click and a thud. And then I was awake and my house was being burgled.

The noises took a while to process, in the haze of sleep and residue from the dream. It was hard to work out what was real, and even harder to acknowledge it. The quiet scraping, the dull thumps and fumbles; every sound made my whole body throb with horror. What could I do but let it happen? A defenceless seventy-eight – no, seventy-nine-year-old woman, alone in a huge house at two o’clock in the morning? I lay there, bound to the bed in my terror, listening to them moving quietly through the rooms downstairs, then started praying to a God I didn’t believe in that they wouldn’t come up. What would I do if they did? I had to let them get on with it, because the alternative was unthinkable.

I heard them creeping up the stairs – there were at least two of them – and closed my eyes tightly, grateful that the curtains were closed so it was too dark for them to see my uneven breathing. When they came into my room I stayed very still, not moving even when the flashlight played across my face. I worried they would be able to hear my heart pounding, but they didn’t really care if I was asleep or not – I wasn’t going to stop them. They went over to my dressing table and rifled through my jewellery box. Things Leo bought me, mementos my mother left me. Her pearls. The Regard ring Leo bought me after Mel was born. The ruby earrings he gave me for our fortieth wedding anniversary. Not the what, but the who and the why.

Concentrating so hard on lying still, at first I didn’t notice one of them had moved nearer and was standing by the bed looking down. I couldn’t see him of course, but I could hear him, feel his gaze. Still as I was, I stiffened, barely able to breathe, and then … the rustle of fabric as he reached out. I could sense his hand hovering above my hair, almost touching but not quite. That I, who so craved the comfort of human contact – a friend’s embrace, a child’s hand – should endure this. I lay like a corpse, so revolted that bile rose in my throat, but his companion suddenly hissed, the hand was withdrawn and he moved away. Then they went out again, and very slowly and carefully I breathed a sigh of relief, because it could have been so much worse.

They left rather less quietly than they came in, because the job was done by then. I couldn’t face going down to inspect the damage, so waited until my tears had subsided and then got up and opened the curtains, letting the streetlight in so that I could watch the shadows on the wall. When dawn came, I went down to the kitchen and saw that my new laptop had gone, and cried again, because it had all my photos of Arthur on it.

When the police came, they’d said they’d probably picked the lock on the back door, that they were good at that sort of thing nowadays, as if it was a skill people learned in school. They said not to worry, that they probably wouldn’t come back now the house had been ‘done’, but to change the locks and consider some additional security measures. So I got out the emergency locksmith although I couldn’t afford it, and he put on some extra bolts and recommended an alarm system. But the price he quoted was so extortionate that I balked, and hustled him out of the door. No men in my house, not now.

I stayed in my kitchen for the rest of the afternoon, drumming my fingers on the table to drown out the silence (they’d taken the radio). I thought about Leo, and Percy the lunger, and Fix’s husband, and the burglar’s hand … As a girl, I’d always thought of men as the protectors – Fa-Fa in particular the mammoth gatekeeper of our family – but at Cambridge I realized that they had little comprehension of the damage they could cause. I supposed guardians were by their nature ruthless, in some respects. A monster not to be overcome … Cerberus who eats raw flesh, the brazen-voiced hound of Hades …

As the light started to fade again I couldn’t take it any more, couldn’t think any more, so I put on my coat and let myself out, marching briskly down the road to the big house Angela had pointed out to me. Peering at the many doorbells, I squinted until I saw ‘7C. A. Brennan’ and pressed it firmly. After a little while I heard a familiar voice, harsh with cigarette smoke. ‘It’s me. Missy,’ I said. The door buzzed, and I went up, catching my breath on each landing.

Angela greeted me at her door, eyebrows raised. Otis poked his head out from behind her, followed by Bob on the other side. She wagged her tail in greeting.

‘I’ll take the dog,’ I said. ‘Just until your friend sorts herself out.’

For a second Angela was impassive, and then her face broke into an ear-splitting grin, the tiredness and worry wiped away. She leapt forwards and hugged me, too hard. But I found I didn’t mind.

‘You won’t regret it,’ she promised. ‘She’s the best dog.’

‘I’m sorry about yesterday. It was my birthday. I was a bit depressed.’ I felt shamed by both admissions, and looked away before Angela could spot the tears in my eyes, bending to scratch Bob awkwardly on the ear. She panted and nudged me for more.

Angela clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry! Honest, I really am, I had no idea. God, what a stupid cow, barging in like that.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said, pinning my smile in place and straightening up again. ‘I suppose you brought me a present, in a way.’

She laughed. ‘Fancy a drink to celebrate?’

She led me into her flat, and as I bent again to pat both Bob and Otis, I could already hear the sound of a cork popping. Angela reappeared, holding two very large glasses. At least half a bottle in there.

‘Happy birthday, Missy,’ she said.