Saving Grace

48

The world was draining away, like water down a sink. Noise, first – traffic horns, whistling birds, rustling trees – all faded into piercing silence. Colour, second – blue sky, green grass, the vibrant red of Grace's roses – all paled into a numbing grey. Then my lungs emptied, squeezed the last of the flavourless air back into the dull world as my chest tightened and my knees crushed the weeds below me. Then, through the dense cotton that had clogged my mind, I became vaguely aware that Grace was screaming.

"Richie!"

Her hands were on my face, cupping my head, holding it up. My dreary eyes met hers, drifted away, focused, unfocused. She was calling my name. She was screaming for me.

"Grace," I whispered.

"Focus, Richie. Focus. Come back to me."

I blinked, tried to focus my eyes, and a crushing tsunami crashed over me – the sounds resonated, the colour pulsated, the world was overwhelmingly alive.

"I'm here," I breathed. "I'm here."

She nodded, sunk her fingers in my hair.

"Godric is on his way. He's bringing backup." I nodded, trying to tether myself to world before I drifted away again. She shook her head. "How did this happen? The doors were locked, the windows were shut, the security system was on. He shouldn't have been able to get in." She rolled back on her heels, raked her hands through her hair. "I don't understand."

Weary, I turned my head up, saw the house through the fog. I had to find something real, had to focus on it until it hurt, so I clung to her words. How did he get in – a window, a door – how did he get past the security system? Then the cotton in my brain melted like fairy floss in a summer breeze, and I saw the smallest window wink at me from the roof.

"Maybe he didn't have to get in," I mumbled.

Grace frowned.

"What do you mean?"

I leapt to my feet, sprinted for the house.

"Richie! Wait! What are you talking about?"

I jumped Grace's stairs two at a time, reached the upstairs hallway and looked up at the manhole. Grace stopped, breathing hard.

"What are you doing?"

"I need a chair. Get me a chair."

My eyes darted, locked onto Grace's bedroom door. I barged inside, dragged her Bonaparte armchair into the hall.

"Richie, you're scaring me!"

"Just wait."

I climbed onto the chair, raised my hands, pushed the manhole out of place. Darkness wafted above me, and I lit up the torch on my phone.

"Gracie, do me a favour and sit down."

I moved my feet. She sat down.

"Don't move."

I stepped up onto the very top of the chair so my toes brushed her shoulders. My fingers grasped the edge of the manhole; my phone cast a hundred shadows. I gulped, pulled myself into the ceiling.

"Richie?" Grace called. "What's going on?"

I shone the torch, looked around the room. Sleeping bags, crumpled chip packets, dozens of corresponding letters scattered along the floor. I scoffed.

"You little bastard."

"What? What's going on?"

"He didn't break in," I said. "The bastard was up here the whole time."

© A.G. Travers 2018