After what seems an eternity, I find the courage to call‘hello’ into the darkness.
There’s no reply.
Surely if someone was there, I’d have heardsomethingby now? But since that terrible, ear-splitting crash, it’s been silent.
Maybe I dreamed it?
Emboldened by this thought, I slip out of bed and peer outinto the hallway. Nothing. Just darkness and shadows. And when I pause tolisten again, the flat is eerily silent. I grab my phone from the hall table tocall Adam. I’ve no evidence yet of an intruder to warrant a call to the police(I wouldn’t dare go into the living room) but Adam will be over here in minutes...
‘Go outside. Immediately. And wait for me,’ Adam orders. ‘I’mcoming over now.’
I do as he says, fleeing barefoot past my coat and shoes onthe rack in the hallway, just wanting to be out of there. And when I burstthrough the communal entrance into the night beyond, I see the damageimmediately. My living-room window has been smashed in, and my nextdoorneighbours, Stan and Ivy, are standing in their dressing gowns, clutching eachother and staring at it, as if they can’t believe their eyes.
‘Oh, you’re all right, Krystle!’ gasps Ivy, seeing me.‘Thank goodness. We’ve just come out this minute to see what the noise was.’She lays a warm hand on my bare arm. ‘Who’s done this, love? Have you calledthe police?’
I’m about to answer her when I’m distracted by the noise ofan engine starting up. And when I swing round, I’m just in time to see a caraccelerating out of the close at speed.
A shiver of fear runs through me. Even though I’ve beenhalf-expecting something like this to happen, it doesn’t lessen the shock. Inanswer to my kindly neighbour’s question, I knowexactlywho it was whobroke my window...
I swallow hard. The repercussions will be so much worse forme if I phone the police.
So instead, I shake my head. ‘I don’t know who can have donethis, Ivy. I really don’t.’
CHAPTERTWO
Adam, when he arrives, is bewildered that someonewould do such a random thing as hurling a brick through someone’s window. He’s adamantthat I need to report it.
But what he doesn’t realise is that Iknowwho threw itand why – but I’m too ashamed to tell him. I haven’t told anyone.
‘Krystle, you’ve had a massive bloody brick thrown throughyour window!’ he says, as he moves around the living room, picking up shards ofglass in his gloved hands. ‘You need to let the police know, so they canhopefully find out who did it.’
I nod, watching helplessly from the doorway. ‘Is it reallyworth it, though?’ I hedge. ‘I mean, breaking a window isn’t exactly high onthe list of terrible crimes, is it? I’d just be wasting their time.’
He sighs. ‘You should still report it. Look, I’m going tophone the police myself.’
I shrug, not knowing what to say, and he fishes for hismobile. If I argue he might get suspicious about why I want to keep the policeout of this.
He might think differently if he was in my position, and heknew what a vicious bully I’d somehow managed to get mixed up with...
*****
It all started one morning back in June when I waschatting to Bertha behind the café counter.
In a lull between customers, I’d confessed to her about howhard up I was and that because I’d splashed out on Carrie’s birthday present,I’d fallen behind on the rental payments. But I regretted bringing up thesubject almost immediately because just talking about it made me feel wobblyand emotional, and it also put Bertha in a position of having to offer to lendme some money, which really wasn’t my intention at all.
I felt the burn of tears at Bertha’s warm, sympatheticresponse, but I brushed off my worries, thanked her for her offer and said I’dbe absolutely fine. I lied and told her I was just having a bad day and I’dtake the money for the rent from my savings. (That was a laugh. When did Ievermanage to save?)
I wished I hadn’t said anything. However down I might befeeling, I try not to do the ‘oh, woe is me’ thing because why shouldpeople be burdened with your problems? (I figure they’ll like you far more ifyou come across as happy and bubbly all the time.)
So I was very glad of the diversion when we suddenly heard avoice say, ‘Well, my friend was quite right. This café is as gorgeous inside asit is outside!’
We looked up and a youngish woman with a blonde up-do, pinklipstick and a friendly face was standing there. She smiled warmly. ‘Could Ihave one of those delicious-looking Danish pastries and a coffee, please?’
‘Of course.’ I dashed away the rogue tears that had sprungup, and Bertha swept into action with the tongs and an equally warm smile. AndI was hopeful that my outburst of emotion might be forgotten.
But pretty soon, we had another distraction on our hands. Ayoung couple had come in ten minutes earlier, clearly in the middle of an argument.The man was red-faced and angry-looking, and every time the woman tried tospeak, he shouted her down, getting louder all the time. Bertha and I exchangedworried glances. Our other customers were looking around nervously, and thepoor woman, clearly upset, got up and hurried off to the Ladies.
‘I’m going to make sure she’s all right,’ I murmured toBertha.
