Devil Take The Hindmost

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was in the washed-out nether-time between a very late night and a far-too early morning when Ty and I made it into the tight warren of terraced houses, corner shops and neglect comprising the Whitmore Reans area on the edge of the city centre.

The faintest smear of pinkish light clung on the snatches of horizon visible amid the higgledy-piggledy jumble of buildings on the skyline; a colour like the half-memory of diluted blood, presaging the breaking dawn some hours away yet.

We rang the doorbell and hammered our fists on the wooden panels with such vigour that I became concerned we would attract the attention of neighbours who, in turn, might attract the attention of the police.

Given what just transpired, this would be a very bad turn of events.

We would have stopped beating on the door several minutes before had there not been obvious signs of someone being inside the property. The honey glow of a low watt bulb crept past a bedroom net curtain on the first floor, and we saw the indistinct shadow of an occupant through frosted glass panes in the door.

The figure seemed to be moving toward the door but diverted at the last moment and ascended a narrow staircase and had not returned.

"Do you think she is OK?" I asked Ty as we made our way through the brick-arched side passage to the rear, where a claustrophobic path ran behind the small yards of terraced houses in parallel lines on two streets. Back-to-back, as it were.

"If that is her in there, I'd like to know why she won't let us in. I'd also like to hear why she legged-it and left us conkers-deep in the police station," Edge responded, giving me a two-handed boost by interlacing his fingers to use as a step.

With the aid of Ty's head start, I hauled myself up and over the bricks and landed clumsily in the small flagstone paved yard beyond. Ty himself needed no assistance and vaulted the wall with the easy grace of a gymnast, his feet kissing the stone noiselessly next to mine.

"Right," he carefully inspected the back door, which looked like it had been solid when originally installed prior to the popularisation of the motor car. "I thought I heard a scream, didn't you?"

I nodded, despite having witnessed no such thing.

"It sounds to me like an ongoing violent incident. You should call the police," he continued.

I theatrically patted the pockets on my clothes beneath the stolen blue overalls. The resulting squelch stood as evidence that I was not carrying my phone, and I shrugged with a faux shocked smile.

"Well, in that case, I think we can agree there is an individual in distress inside, and we can't wait for assistance," Ty concluded the charade and flexed his shoulder against the door once, then twice, testing its resolve.

The third impact was short, sharp, and delivered with great force.

There came a soft splintering sound of ancient damp wood as the lock remained intact, but the door frame into which it was embedded gave way around the ironwork in a tangled lattice of toothpick-sized shards. We bundled into a tiny galley kitchen; impeccably clean and tidy with the notable exception of an empty bottle of dark rum which lay upended, having spilled its last drops across the Formica worktop.

"It's her," I hissed.

Ty nodded and gestured toward the front of the house, then sharply upward.

She was upstairs.

After issuing the signal, he prowled out of the kitchen into the hall with the predatory silent grace of an owl looking for rodents.

This was a display of noiseless menace that I rather ruined by taking a deep breath and yelling at the top of my lungs.