Captives

SEVENTY-THREE

He'd been dozing in his sitting room when the noise from upstairs woke him.

Doctor Robert Dexter sat forward quickly, sucking in a deep breath as he regained his senses. He looked around the large sitting room, catching sight of the clock on the mantlepiece. The hands had crawled around to 1.26 A.M.

Again the noise from upstairs.

Footsteps.

Dexter got to his feet, glancing up at the ceiling. He swallowed hard and headed for the door that opened out into the hall. Outside the wind was blowing strongly. The house stood on top of a low hill, joined to the main road by a narrow driveway flanked on both sides by dwarf conifers. As he moved into the darkened hallway he could see those conifers bowing deferentially to the strong breeze.

Dexter stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up into the gloom at their head. He reached across to the bank of switches at his right hand and flicked a couple. The darkness at the top of the stairs was dispelled swiftly by bright lights.

He put one foot on the bottom step and prepared to ascend.

The crack came from behind him.

A sharp slap of wood on glass. He spun round to see that a skeletal branch from one of the bushes beneath the hall window had been blown against the pane.

Dexter felt his heart beating a little faster as he began to climb the stairs.

From above him the sounds of movement had all but ceased; only the creak of a solitary floorboard broke the silence now. As he reached the landing he paused, looking around at the five closed doors that faced him.

He knew which one the sounds were coming from.

Dexter sighed and made his way across to the third door, halting outside it.

He found that he was shaking.

After all these years he was still afraid.

Afraid of the occupant of that room, afraid of what he might find, yet, simultaneously, knowing exactly what he would find. The same sight would confront him that had confronted him for the past fifteen years.

He stood by the door, listening for movement, and again heard the slow footsteps, pacing back and forth over the carpet. The creak of the one loose board.

Dexter closed his eyes for a moment. Perhaps it would just be best to walk away this time. Go to bed. Go back downstairs.

He heard breathing on the other side, close to the door. As ever, he was aware that the occupant was listening for him, was perhaps aware even now of his presence there. The time to turn back had passed. He knew he must enter.

Dexter unlocked the door, turned the knob and walked into the room.

His heart was thudding hard against his ribs and he felt the first droplet of perspiration pop onto his forehead.

The occupant of the room was sitting in one corner. Dexter closed the door behind him.