ᴀ ᴅ ʀ ɪ ᴇ ɴ ɴ ᴇ [1]

03. truth

chapter three

TRUTH

• ────────⋅☾ ☽⋅──────── •

THEY DO. ON FRIDAY, no fewer than twelve letters arrive, slotted through the cracks in the doorframe and the toilet window, due to the newly-boarded-up letter slot. I have to give the sender points for creativity. On Saturday, things begin to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters find their way into the house, concealed inside eggs that a very confused milkman hands Aunt Petunia through the living-room window.

While Uncle Vernon makes furious calls to the post office, trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shreds them in the food mixer.

"Who on earth would want to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asks in amazement.

On Sunday morning, however, just as Uncle Vernon has finished gloating the fact there's no post on Sundays, around fifty letters come shooting out of the fireplace. Laughing at Uncle Vernon's expression, I expertly jump, grabbing one out of the air and running for the door.

"Give me that!" he yells after Harry and I, "give me that letter!"

Uncle Vernon tackles us just as we reach the base of the stairwell, and we all begin scrambling around, trying to either protect or destroy the precious letter.

"Get off!" I shriek, "they're my letters!"

"That does it!" Uncle Vernon yells, untangling himself from Harry and I, the poor letter ripped into shreds. "We're going! Far away! Where they can't find us!"

He looks so dangerous with half his moustache missing, no one dares argue.

So we drive. And we drive. Even Aunt Petunia doesn't dare ask where we're going. Every now and then, Uncle Vernon takes a sharp turn and drives in the opposite direction for a while.

"Shake 'em off. . . shake 'em off. . ." he mutters whenever he does this.

At last, Uncle Vernon stops outside a gloomy hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Harry, Dudley and I share a room with two twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snores, while Harry sleeps soundlessly and I read The Lord of the Rings, watching the cars pass by below, wondering. . .

For breakfast, we eat stale cornflakes and cold, tinned tomato on toast. I've just finished when the hotel manager comes over.

"'Scuse me, but is any of you Mr H. and Miss A. Potter? I only got abou' un 'undred o' these at the front desk."

She holds up a letter so we can see the spidery green ink forming the address.

To Mr H. and Mrs A. Potter

Room 17

The Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harry makes a grab for the letter, but Uncle Vernon catches his hand.

"I'll take them," says Uncle Vernon gruffly, and follows the woman away to the front desk.

• • •

It's horrible in the boat. Icy sea spray and mist creep down our necks, and the chilly wind whips our faces. I can't feel the cold, but that doesn't stop my cheeks from stinging and my spine tingling. After what seems like hours, we reach a rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, leads us to a broken-down house.

The inside is horrible; it smells strongly of seaweed, the wind whistles through the gaps in the wooden walls and the fireplace is damp and empty. There are only two rooms, one upstairs and downstairs.