The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [195]
There are still a couple of signal bars showing so I thumb out a message: Don’t worry am fine. As an afterthought, to keep him happy, I add: with Ed and press send.
The phone tinkles to tell me the message is gone. Downstairs, something else tinkles, and my blood freezes.
CHAPTER 55
My first reaction, hearing the unmistakable sound of breaking glass, is: it’s OK, all I have to do is keep quiet, the alarm rings through to the police station at Marlborough, they phone the main key holder, who is Michael, and he’s even closer at Broad Hinton. He’ll be here in five or six minutes to find out why the alarm’s going off…
Which alarm would that be, Indy? The one you turned off about fifteen minutes ago when you came in through the staff door?
To quote Frances Robinson, Bugger.
I’m surprising myself with how calm you can be, alone in an attic with no one in shouting distance except whoever is moving about, quietly but not in absolute silence, downstairs. He or she–or they–not bothering to tiptoe, either because they think no one is here (please, God), or because they know that I am, and my only way out is down the stairs.
The phone–
No bloody signal, now, of course. I stare at the screen, willing the satellite to orbit over Wiltshire, praying for a sudden surge of power in the phone masts. The signal bars remain obstinately blank. Rising to my feet as carefully, as silently as possible, I cast around the room: piles of bound periodicals teetering on every surface, old issues of British Archaeology, a feather duster, J-cloths, an aerosol of furniture polish with congealed silicon dribbles oozing under its cap, a box of disposable gloves, someone’s lost reading glasses…but no telephone. Since the attic office is no longer used except for storage, the extension has been taken away. The nearest landline will be in the staff kitchen, downstairs. Down a set of bare-board, creaky stairs.
The alternative is to stay where I am, at least until I hear furtive footsteps creaking upward. I throw one last, despairing glance at the mobile in my hand–What do you take me for? radiates its bland, blank face. Technology that actually improves your life?–then I edge cautiously round the table towards the door.
Downstairs there’s a rattle, a faint screeching sound, and the tinkle of more falling glass. A muffled thud. What the hell is going on? And do they know I’m here? The attic office has a single window, in the end wall. If they came through the churchyard, past the Manor, they’d have seen it lit up. But if they approached the museum from the other side, and broke in through the gallery, there’s a chance they’ve no idea there’s anyone upstairs…
A gentle snick: the sound I’ve been dreading. Quietly, furtively, downstairs the door from the gallery is opening, somebody stepping through. They only have to take a couple of steps, peer up the stairwell, and they’ll see the light’s on. Shit, shit, shit. Anywhere to hide?
None of the attic cupboards India-sized. The only place is under the table.
A stair creaks.
I’m under the table so fast I don’t remember how, crouched on all fours, back pressed against a strut, heart pounding, trying to control my breathing. I’d like to shuffle into a more comfortable position but there isn’t time: already the door is edging open. Two sandalled feet appear, hairy toes, the hem of faded green corduroy trousers.
Then everything goes crazy. A car horn blasts from outside, an engine revs, tyres crunch on gravel. There’s a shout downstairs of ‘Fuck! Get out’, the crash of a door bouncing off a wall, running feet, car doors