The Other Side of the Door by Nicci French (13 ebook reader .TXT) 📗

not to ask myself. What if there was a key and the person let themselves in? What then? To that question I couldn’t even imagine an answer. I looked down at the bundle on the floor, then up again at Sonia. She just gave a shrug. Of reassurance? Helplessness? I started to hiss something in a frantic whisper but she shook her head and put a finger to her lips.

There was a silence and we waited, keeping absolutely still. I tried to hear steps from outside but I couldn’t make anything out. All I could hear was my heart, the blood rushing and pounding through my body and, beside me, Sonia’s breathing—small, shallow gasps that made me realize she was as scared as I was. The phone rang. It had to be the person outside. Maybe they’d had some sort of arrangement. Was there an answering-machine? I hadn’t thought of that. The phone rang and rang. It felt as if someone was punching me on a bruise, over and over. Finally it stopped. We waited and waited, much longer than was necessary. I didn’t trust myself to speak and it was Sonia who broke the silence. When she spoke it was still in little more than a whisper.

‘I think they’ve gone.’

‘Will they come back, though?’ My chest hurt, as if I’d run a long distance.

‘How should I know?’

‘I feel a bit sick,’ I said.

‘Are you actually going to be sick?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘Try to breathe deeply.’

‘We mustn’t do anything until the middle of the night—I mean about getting him out.’

Sonia gave me an exasperated look as if I were one of her more stupid pupils. ‘Does anybody else have a key for the flat?’

‘Liza gave one to me, which I gave to him, but I’ve taken it back now,’ I said. ‘And she said she was going to leave one with the man who lives upstairs, in case of emergencies.’

‘No one else?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘But you know how it is—keys get copied. He might have given them to other people as well.’

‘We should be all right.’

‘It’s just if someone came in . . .’

‘At least it would be simple.’

‘Simple?’ I said. ‘What would we say?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t matter much, though.’

There was another silence.

‘Let’s agree to take him to this reservoir you went to once,’ I said.

‘Langley reservoir.’

‘Right. And we’ll open the windows, take off the handbrake and push the car off the edge. Yes? But then what?’

‘Then we go home.’

‘But how? We won’t have the car.’

‘We’ll walk.’

‘It might be miles to the nearest station.’

‘Have you got a better idea?’

‘No.’

‘Anyway, that’s the least of our problems at the moment. Let’s get to that bit and then think about it.’

‘OK. You’re right.’

‘We can leave in about half an hour.’

Before

Guy Siegel was a solicitor in a large and respectable firm, but when I called at his house he was dressed in jeans and an expensively distressed sweatshirt. As he passed me a bottle of beer it felt more as if he was the one who was a musician. He didn’t hand me a glass. It was all very rock and roll.

‘You probably wouldn’t believe it,’ he said, ‘but in my last couple of years at school I played in a punk band. Well, really we were a post-punk band. It probably seems like ancient history to you.’

‘It’s a bit before my time.’

‘Come on through,’ he said. ‘Ancient history. We were called Sick Joke. You know, I had a fantasy that we’d be signed up and go on the road and . . . Well, I’d probably better not say exactly what my fantasy was. But you don’t get a house like this working in a post-punk band.’

I looked around at the rugs and vast sofas, the tastefully abstract paintings on the wall. ‘I guess not,’ I said.

‘Joakim’s like me,’ he said. ‘He’s got a fantasy of working as a musician.’

‘He’s good,’ I said. ‘But I told you that at the parents’ evening. If you’re half as good as him, you’ll be fine for us.’

Guy swigged his beer. ‘I’m a bit more than half as good, I reckon. You need a drummer?’

‘Yes, we do.’

‘You wouldn’t mind having a father and son in the group?’

‘If it’s all right with you two.’

‘You don’t want me to audition?’

‘I trust Joakim. And you too, of course.’

‘I’ve got my own drum kit.’

‘So much the better.’

He took another swallow from his bottle and looked at me appraisingly. ‘As I said, Joakim’s got this fantasy of working as a musician, just like I did. It’s ridiculous, of course.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Don’t you agree?’

‘I’m a music teacher,’ I said, ‘so I don’t think I’m the right person to say that playing music is a fantasy.’

‘I don’t think Joakim’s got any interest in being a teacher.’ Guy said this as if it were even worse than being a musician. ‘He wants to play live. What do you think about that?’

‘What do you want me to say? He’s good. One of the best I’ve taught.’

‘He looks up to you. He respects you. Playing like this is all good fun, now that he’s finished his exams, but I’d be grateful if you’d talk to him about the realities of being a musician.’

‘This is just a one-off performance at a friend’s wedding. We’re not touring America.’

‘But if he asks.’

‘I really don’t give career advice. However, we’re a pretty motley collection. I don’t think there’s much chance that we’ll seduce Joakim with our glamorous rock-and-roll lifestyle. Anyway, you’ll be there to keep an eye on him. Is that why you want to sign up?’

‘Not at all,’ Guy said. ‘I’ve spent too long playing along to Led Zep records. It’ll be good to play with some real people.’

After

I crept out of the door again and onto the lane. It was entirely dark now, just a few stars blinking above me and the dull orange glow of London all around. The lights were out in the flat above, but still, the person who lived there might