Resonance Read Online Free Page B
movement, no noise. He could see all the back garden now, all except the area immediately below the window.
He stepped gingerly across the room and out into the corridor, the carpet cold and soft against his bare feet. He'd check the front: the storeroom curtains were open; he'd have a good view from there.
He tiptoed towards the window. The houses across the street stared back, grey and silent, not a single light in any window.
He edged closer. He could see the street now, two lines of parked cars, his front wall . . .
His gate! It was open. He never left it open. And no one had come to the house last night, no one had knocked at the door or pushed anything through the letter box. He'd have heard, he'd have seen.
Someone had to be out there, now. They'd left the gate open for a quick getaway. They were around the back trying the windows. That's how they worked, wasn't it?
He flew back to his bedroom. He had to find some clothes, he had to get dressed, he had to get out.
People want you dead , her words wouldn't go away. He threw off his pajamas, searched the darkness for whatever clothes he could find.
Click!
He froze, one leg in a pair of trousers. The sound came from his back door, he was certain of it. The sound of a lock being turned. He had bolted the back door, hadn't he? Back door locked, Tuesday . The memory came flooding back. But what day was it now? Wednesday? Thursday?
He hopped and pulled at his trousers, one leg was stuck and the other was cramping. Shit! Shit! Shit! He fell over, still pulling and stretching. He had to get out. He had to get out now!
A low thud came from downstairs. Then another. Graham swept the floor with his hands, frantically searching for his shoes. He found them, struggled with the laces, grabbed his jacket, his keys, his wallet.
He flew downstairs. People want you dead. He had to get out. It was his only hope. There was no telephone. He wouldn't have one in the house. He was alone, totally alone.
His hands closed on the chain at the front door. He held his breath as he slipped the chain and slowly, noiselessly, opened the door.
A window smashed behind him. The kitchen! He pulled the front door towards him and squeezed through, easing it closed behind him—no ritual, no counting, barely a breath.
Had he been seen? He prayed not, he prayed that whoever was breaking in had been too busy working on the kitchen window to notice him slip out the front.
He stepped lightly toward the open gate, slipped through, glanced back towards the house. A circle of light flitted alone in the darkness—a torchlight—ascending the stairs.
He turned away, head down, walking fast, trying to suppress the noise of his feet on the paving stones. The night was so quiet. If he ran they'd hear him for miles.
The moon shone through dappled clouds, its light haloed in a giant circle. In the distance, the orange glow from a line of streetlights bled into the sky. He walked on, stepping through the moonlight. Was the man alone, was there a lookout in a car?
He felt like he was wading through treacle, would the corner never come? People want you dead. Was this what it was like to be at the epicenter of an unravelling? Had all the others he experienced been mere aftershocks? Was he about to disappear like his father?
A noise from behind. A door closing—his door—running feet. He ran, no point being quiet now. A car door slammed, an engine started. Graham ducked around the corner, tires screeched behind him. He ran out between two parked cars, racing across the road in the darkness. More tire screeching, the car had reached the corner and was turning, its headlights swung round, light bouncing off the curving avenue of trees and parked cars. Graham ran ahead of the beam, keeping low, the path ahead alive with light and bouncing shadows. Trees loomed out of the night, twisted branches dancing between grey and black.
The car was catching up. Seconds away. Graham ducked lower, keeping to the
He stepped gingerly across the room and out into the corridor, the carpet cold and soft against his bare feet. He'd check the front: the storeroom curtains were open; he'd have a good view from there.
He tiptoed towards the window. The houses across the street stared back, grey and silent, not a single light in any window.
He edged closer. He could see the street now, two lines of parked cars, his front wall . . .
His gate! It was open. He never left it open. And no one had come to the house last night, no one had knocked at the door or pushed anything through the letter box. He'd have heard, he'd have seen.
Someone had to be out there, now. They'd left the gate open for a quick getaway. They were around the back trying the windows. That's how they worked, wasn't it?
He flew back to his bedroom. He had to find some clothes, he had to get dressed, he had to get out.
People want you dead , her words wouldn't go away. He threw off his pajamas, searched the darkness for whatever clothes he could find.
Click!
He froze, one leg in a pair of trousers. The sound came from his back door, he was certain of it. The sound of a lock being turned. He had bolted the back door, hadn't he? Back door locked, Tuesday . The memory came flooding back. But what day was it now? Wednesday? Thursday?
He hopped and pulled at his trousers, one leg was stuck and the other was cramping. Shit! Shit! Shit! He fell over, still pulling and stretching. He had to get out. He had to get out now!
A low thud came from downstairs. Then another. Graham swept the floor with his hands, frantically searching for his shoes. He found them, struggled with the laces, grabbed his jacket, his keys, his wallet.
He flew downstairs. People want you dead. He had to get out. It was his only hope. There was no telephone. He wouldn't have one in the house. He was alone, totally alone.
His hands closed on the chain at the front door. He held his breath as he slipped the chain and slowly, noiselessly, opened the door.
A window smashed behind him. The kitchen! He pulled the front door towards him and squeezed through, easing it closed behind him—no ritual, no counting, barely a breath.
Had he been seen? He prayed not, he prayed that whoever was breaking in had been too busy working on the kitchen window to notice him slip out the front.
He stepped lightly toward the open gate, slipped through, glanced back towards the house. A circle of light flitted alone in the darkness—a torchlight—ascending the stairs.
He turned away, head down, walking fast, trying to suppress the noise of his feet on the paving stones. The night was so quiet. If he ran they'd hear him for miles.
The moon shone through dappled clouds, its light haloed in a giant circle. In the distance, the orange glow from a line of streetlights bled into the sky. He walked on, stepping through the moonlight. Was the man alone, was there a lookout in a car?
He felt like he was wading through treacle, would the corner never come? People want you dead. Was this what it was like to be at the epicenter of an unravelling? Had all the others he experienced been mere aftershocks? Was he about to disappear like his father?
A noise from behind. A door closing—his door—running feet. He ran, no point being quiet now. A car door slammed, an engine started. Graham ducked around the corner, tires screeched behind him. He ran out between two parked cars, racing across the road in the darkness. More tire screeching, the car had reached the corner and was turning, its headlights swung round, light bouncing off the curving avenue of trees and parked cars. Graham ran ahead of the beam, keeping low, the path ahead alive with light and bouncing shadows. Trees loomed out of the night, twisted branches dancing between grey and black.
The car was catching up. Seconds away. Graham ducked lower, keeping to the