In the morning she’ll find the killer.
23
PHILIP
He wakes with a start. Disorientated. Confused.
What’s that noise?
He hears it again. Thumping. Banging.
There’s a moment of silence, and then a scraping sound as if something heavy is being dragged across the ceiling. He looks up. The chandelier light fitting is trembling. Whatever’s happening, it’s going on above him. The noise is coming from the loft.
Is it Lizzie? No, he doubts that. It can’t be. She’s never been in the loft the whole time they’ve lived here. Never been in the loft of any house they’ve had. And there’s no light from the hallway leaching under the door into his bedroom; the house is in darkness. If it were Lizzie she’d have turned the lights on.
There’s only one other explanation. Someone else is in the house.
Trying not to think about the ache in his chest and his jackhammering heartbeat, he throws off the duvet and quickly pushes himself up to standing. The movement’s too quick, far too quick. There’s a twinge of pain in his lower back, and he winces as he straightens up. It’s taking him longer to get going these days and his body doesn’t appreciate the urgency of this situation. Still, he can’t let that slow him. He needs to know what’s going on. Check if Lizzie is okay. He has to know if there’s an intruder in the house.
His heart pounds harder against his ribs.
He feels a tightening around his chest.
Ignoring it, he steps into his slippers and looks around the bedroom for something he can use to defend himself. There’s not much that’s any use – a few framed paintings of sailing scenes on the walls, the chest of drawers against the wall at the far end of the bed with his television on it, the matching bedside tables. His gaze lingers on the bedside lamps. They’re sturdy and wooden. A bit cumbersome to handle, but the best he’s got to hand. Unplugging the nearest lamp, he removes the shade and bulb. It’s a good weight, solid. It could do the job.
Lamp base in hand, he moves towards the door. Easing the handle down as quietly as he can, he opens the door and steps out into the dark hallway. He looks towards Lizzie’s bedroom. There’s a dull glow from the nightlight just outside it, but her door is closed and there’s no light showing from beneath it. She must still be sleeping. That’s good. He can’t let anyone hurt her. Has to find the intruder.
He grips the lamp base tighter. It’s feeling heavier. He chased down his fair share of criminals back in the day, but it’s been years since he’s done anything that strenuous and he’s not as fit as he used to be. Turning, he glances the other way along the hall, and that’s when he sees it.
The loft hatch is open and the ladder pulled down.
There’s a light on up inside the loft.
Raising the lamp base as if it’s a baseball bat ready to strike, Philip pads as softly as he can along the hallway towards the hatch. He can hear the person moving around up there. There’s the sound of boxes being dragged across the boards. What the hell are they doing? What kind of burglar goes in a loft?
His heart’s pumping. The squeezing across his chest is getting worse.
Holding tight to the lamp, he grips the loft ladder with his other hand and starts to slowly climb. His palms are sweaty, and fear makes his movements jerky, awkward. But it’s not just fear he’s feeling, not any more. It’s anger too. How dare someone break into his house? Invade his space and his privacy? He’s going to show them what’s what.
The anger helps him heave himself up the last few rungs of the ladder. He launches into the loft space, lamp raised like a bat, ready to fight, charging in the direction of where he last heard movement. He lets out a war cry.
Lizzie screams and drops the box she’s holding.