The Turn of the Key(69)

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll have to hunt them out, give me ten minutes and I’ll be with you.”

“Okay,” I said. I felt better already. The chances were, there was a simple explanation for the noise, and we were going to discover it. “I’ll put the kettle on. See you in ten minutes.”

*

In the event, he was back sooner than ten, a tangle of rusty keys in one hand and a tool kit in the other, a big bottle of WD-40 sticking out the top. The dogs followed him in, panting excitedly, and I found myself smiling as I watched them sniffing diligently around the kitchen, Hoovering up all the scraps the children had dropped. Then they flopped down on their beds in the utility room as though the whole trip had exhausted them beyond measure.

The kettle had just boiled, and I poured out two mugs and held one out to Jack. He shoved the keys in his back pocket, took it, and grinned.

“Just what I needed. D’you want to finish the teas down here or take them up?”

“Well, Petra’s still asleep actually, so it might be a good idea to crack on before she wakes up.”

“Suits me,” he said. “I’ve been sitting in the car all morning. I’d rather drink on the go.”

We carried everything carefully upstairs, tiptoeing past Petra’s room, although when I peered in she looked like she was out for the count, sprawled like someone dropped from a great height onto a soft mattress.

Up in my bedroom, the curtains were still drawn, the bed rumpled, and my worn clothes were still scattered across the soft wheat-colored carpet. I felt my cheeks flush, and putting down my cup I hastily picked up my bra and knickers from the night before, along with a blouse, and shoved them into the laundry basket in the bathroom, before opening the curtains.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not normally such a slob.”

That was totally untrue. Back at my flat in London the majority of my underwear lived in a pile in the corner of the room, washed only when the clean pairs in my drawer ran out. But here, I’d been trying to hard keep up the image of meticulous neatness. Apparently it was slipping.

Jack, however, didn’t seem bothered and was already trying the door in the corner of the room.

“It’s this one, is it?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And you’ve tried all the other cupboard keys?”

“Yes, I tried all the ones I could find.”

“Well, let’s see if any of these match.”

The ring he was holding held maybe twenty or thirty keys, all of varying sizes, from a huge black iron one, which I guessed must be the original key to the gate, before the electric lock had been installed, through to small brass ones that looked like they might be for desks or safes.

Jack tried a medium-size one that fit through the hole but rattled around loosely inside, plainly too small for the lock, and then a slightly larger one, which fit but did not turn all the way.

He squirted the can of lubricant inside the lock and tried again, but it still turned only a quarter of the way, and then stopped.

“Hmm . . . it could be jammed, but if it’s the wrong key I don’t want to risk forcing it and breaking the shank in the lock. I’ll try a few more.”

I watched as he tried maybe four or five others of the same size, but they were worse, either not fitting in at all, or jamming before he’d managed even a quarter turn. At last he seemed to make up his mind and returned to the second key he’d picked out.

“This is the only key on the bunch that has any give at all, so I’ll try it again with a bit more force, and if it breaks, well, we’ll just have to get the locksmith in. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” I said, and he began to force the key.

I found I was wincing preemptively as I watched him apply pressure, first gently, and then harder, and at last so hard that I could see the shaft of the key bending slightly, the round bow at the top twisting, twisting . . .

“Stop!” I cried, just as Jack gave an exclamation of satisfaction and there was a noisy scrape and click, and the key completed the full turn.

“Got it!” He stood, wiping the lubricant off his hands, and then turned to me with a mock courtly bow. “D’you wish to do the honors, milady?”

“No!” The word was out before I could think better of it, and then I forced a laugh. “I mean . . . I don’t mind. It’s up to you. But I warn you, if there’s rats, I’ll scream.”

It was a lie. I’m not afraid of rats. I’m not afraid of very much, normally. And I felt like the worst kind of female cliché sheltering behind the big strong man. But Jack had not lain there, night after night, listening to that slow, stealthy creak . . . creak . . . above his head.

“I’ll take one for the team, then,” he said with a very small wink. And he twisted the handle, and the door opened.

I don’t know what I expected. A staircase disappearing into the darkness. A corridor hung with cobwebs. I found I was holding my breath as the door swung back, peering over Jack’s shoulder.

Whatever I expected, it wasn’t what was there. It was just another closet. Very dusty, and badly finished so that you could see the gaps in the plasterboard, and much smaller and shallower than the one where I’d hung my clothes, but a closet nonetheless. An empty bar hung, slightly lopsided, about six inches down from the ceiling as if awaiting hangers and clothes.