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I crouch down beside Harper. She has a deep gash on her forehead, and it looks like her leg is broken: I’m sure her knee isn’t supposed to hinge like that. I feel queasy: I’m not good with blood. I think – oh, Christ – I think I can see bone poking through her skin.
‘Don’t try to move,’ I say, swallowing hard. ‘It’s going to be OK, Harper. I’m going to get help.’
‘Millie,’ she whispers.
I catch a glimpse of tangled limbs in the shadows just beyond Harper, and swing my phone upwards in a panicked arc.
Stacey must have broken Harper’s fall. She’s sprawled on the cellar floor, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle, her eyes wide and sightless. I’m not a doctor, but even I can see at a glance she’s dead.
Harper grips my hand. ‘Millie’s … down here,’ she gasps. ‘Stacey … tried to … stop me—’
‘Don’t try to talk,’ I say fiercely. ‘I’ll find Millie. You don’t need to worry about Stacey any more. We’re going to get you out of here.’
‘Peter,’ she pants.
‘He’s OK. He’s upstairs. He’s fine.’
‘Peter—’
‘I’ll be right back,’ I say, gently freeing myself from her grasp.
I step over Stacey’s body, the gorge rising in my throat. There’s another door beyond her, bolted shut. ‘Millie!’ I shout, yanking the bolts free.
My wife is propped up against the wall, her left hand cradled oddly in her lap. She looks pale and filthy, her face drawn and hollow-eyed. She’s aged ten years since yesterday.
‘What kept you?’ she says.
chapter 67
millie
I can see at a glance there’s nothing I can do for Stacey. Her neck is broken: she must have died instantly in the fall down the cellar steps. It was a quicker and kinder death than she gave her husband.
I crouch next to Harper, sprawled at the bottom of the stairs like a broken marionette, and triage her injuries as Tom runs upstairs to call the emergency services. I daren’t risk moving her. Her pulse is weak and thready, and I don’t like the sound of her lungs. She has an open fracture of the left tib and fib, and I suspect a pneumothorax on the left side, probably caused by one or more broken ribs. I’m worried about the gash on her forehead, too. And that’s before we get to any hidden internal injuries.
‘The ambulance is on its way,’ Tom says, returning with a thick blanket he must have dragged from one of the beds upstairs. ‘What can I do to help?’
‘Stay with her,’ I say, tucking the blanket around Harper. ‘I need to sort out my hand again, Tom, and see if I can stop the bleeding. There’s a strong chance I might faint. I don’t want you to panic. If I pass out, you need to make sure the tourniquet is tight. And try not to throw up over me,’ I add, as he goes green.
He looks away as I tighten the shoelace around my macerated hand. ‘What thehellhappened here?’ he says. ‘Peter said Stacey put him in thefreezer!What the actualfuck?’
‘Felix is dead,’ I say grimly, gritting my teeth through the pain as my vision swims. ‘Stacey’s kept him locked down here ever since he disappeared. He’s in the other part of the cellar. Don’t look,’ I add. ‘You don’t want to see it.’
‘Jesus,’ Tom breathes.
I swallow down nausea and then go back to Harper and check her pulse. Her eyes are closed, and her skin is pale and clammy. Her injuries are severe, but they’d probably be survivable in normal circumstances. But she’s still recovering from major heart surgery: given what her body has already been through in the past few weeks, I’m not sure she’s going to survive this. I pray to God I’m wrong. If it wasn’t for her bravery, neither Peter nor I would have survived in this cellar more than a couple of days at most. We owe her our lives.
‘Peter knew Felix was here,’ I tell Tom, keeping my voice low.
Tom’s jaw drops. Even in the dim light spilling from the hallway upstairs, I can see horror and shock in his eyes.
But not disbelief.
‘Heknew?’ Tom echoes.
‘Since the beginning.’
Tom rubs his hand across his face. ‘Christ Almighty.’
