Thirteen Days of Midnight by Leo Hunt Read Free Book Online Page A

her glasses need a new prescription? Blotch-Face is exactly where he was before, staring at both of us. He’s probably six feet tall and right under the street lamp — you can’t possibly miss him. As I watch, the skinhead leans out of the shadows, says something only Blotch-Face can hear.
    “Are you messing with
me
?” I ask. “How can you not see them?”
    “See who?” comes Mark’s voice from behind. He claps me on the shoulder, making me start like someone fired a gun next to my ear. Holiday gasps, too, then giggles.
    “Luke’s being a jerk,” she says. “He’s trying to freak me out.”
    Her tone is light, jokey, but there’s a little hint of something else in her eyes. Like she’s starting to see that I’m genuinely scared.
    “Am I nuts?” I ask Mark. “There’s two guys watching us up on that bank. Look.”
    “Huh,” he says. “Well, if they were there, they’re gone now.”
    He’s right. There’s nobody up on the bank anymore. Just a lone orange street lamp and an enormous dark oak tree, branches rippling in the wind that’s rising.
    The night doesn’t really get back on track after that. Whatever moment me and Holiday were having is lost, and Mark stands behind us while he’s talking, so I have to crick my neck to look him in the eye. I keep waiting for him to leave, but he doesn’t. I can’t relax. I keep thinking about the two men and the breakfast, wondering if they put it there, wondering if they knew Dad somehow. After a while it starts raining again, and I take it as an excuse to leave. Holiday says something about a Halloween party at her house, and I nod without taking it in. The buses don’t run this late and I walk up to Wormwood Drive the long way, drizzle fizzing on the shoulders and hood of my raincoat, the gutter running with a shimmering flush of water. Every step I take I’m thinking of Blotch-Face and the skinhead, trying to work it out. Maybe they know about the money, are trying to get hold of it somehow? What exactly were the complications Mr. Berkley was talking about? Kirk’s been robbed for twenty quid — don’t want to think about what people would do to me for several million. I need a bodyguard or something. By the time I reach the crest of our hill, I’m convinced that the skinhead’ll be lunging out of every shadow, and when a car drives past, I flatten myself against a fence, wondering if it’s going to stop and unload a pack of ski-masked kidnappers. As I reach my road, I imagine that they’re already in my house. Mum’s alone, and Ham’s a coward: He’ll hide in the laundry room.
    The wind’s dropped, and the trees along Wormwood Drive are still, but this only adds to my unease. It seems like the whole road is holding its breath. I make my way down to our house, ears alert for any unusual sound, wishing I had my skewer. The dark windows remind me of empty eye sockets. I’m holding my breath, expecting movement at every moment. The fear intensifies as I open our front door, and I’m cringing away from the darkness inside our house, absolutely certain a man’s shape will appear in the hall.
    I hear a gentle movement in the kitchen and nearly jolt out of my body, and then Ham’s gray form appears from the blackness, and he calmly thrusts his warm head into my legs and waits to be petted. I burst into laughter and push him off me.
    The house itself is fine. There’s no mystery meal waiting on the table. Television remote, sneakers, schoolbag, Mum’s house keys, frying pans, the fruit bowl in the living room, Dad’s papers on my desk. Each object sits in its proper place. Mum is asleep in bed. Seemingly hasn’t moved all day. If anyone came in here, Blotch-Face or the skinhead or anyone else, there’s no sign of it. I check every room and make sure every window is locked. I walk to the bathroom, fill a glass, and drink. Walk to my bedroom. Close my eyes.

S late-gray Wednesday morning. When I open my door Ham is lying outside it like a