Whiteout - Ken Follett [115]
He opened the big loft door. A freezing wind blew a dense flurry of snow into the attic. The lamp over the back door spread a small half circle of light, showing the snow lying thicker than ever on the ground. The trash-can lid looked like Ali Baba’s hat.
There were two windows at this end of the house, one from the pantry and the other from the boot lobby. The sinister strangers were in the kitchen. If he was very unlucky, one of them might step into the pantry or the boot lobby at just the wrong moment, and spot him—but he thought the odds were in his favor.
“Come on,” he said.
Sophie stood beside him and looked down. “You go first.”
He leaned out. There was a light in the boot lobby, but not in the pantry. Would anyone see him? On his own he might have been terrified, but Sophie’s fear made him braver. He swept the snow off the ledge with his hand, then walked along it to the lean-to roof of the boot lobby. He swept a section of the roof clear, then stood upright and reached out to her. He held her hand as she inched along the edge. “You’re doing fine,” he said softly. It was not difficult—the ledge was a foot wide—but she was shaky. At last she stepped down to the lean-to roof. “Well done,” Craig said.
Then she slipped.
Her feet skidded from under her. Craig still had hold of her hand, but he could not keep her upright, and she sat down with a thud that must have reverberated below. She landed awkwardly and tipped over backwards, sliding down the icy slates on her bottom.
Craig grabbed at her and grasped a handful of anorak. He tugged, trying to arrest her slide, but his feet were on the same slippery surface, and all that happened was that she drew him along with her. He skated down the roof after her, struggling to remain upright and trying to slow her down.
When her feet hit the gutter at the lip of the roof, she came to a halt; but her bottom was half off the sloping side edge. She tilted sideways. Craig tightened his grip on her coat and pulled, drawing her toward him and safety—then he slipped again. He let go of her coat, waving his arms to stay upright.
Sophie screamed and fell off the roof.
She dropped ten feet and landed in soft new snow behind the trash can.
Craig leaned over the edge. Little light fell in that dark corner, and he could hardly see her. “Are you all right?” he said. There was no reply. Had she been knocked unconscious? “Sophie!”
“I’m okay,” she said miserably.
The back door opened.
Quickly, Craig lowered himself to a sitting position.
A man stepped out. Craig could just see a head of short dark hair. He glanced over the side. The extra light spilling from the open door made Sophie just visible. Her pink anorak disappeared into the snow, but her dark jeans showed. She lay still. He could not see her face.
A voice from inside called, “Elton! Who’s out there?”
Elton waved a flashlight from side to side, but the beam showed nothing but snowflakes. Craig flattened himself on the roof.
Elton turned to the right, away from Sophie, and walked a few steps into the storm, shining his flashlight in front of him.
Craig pressed himself to the roof, hoping Elton would not glance up. Then he realized that the loft door was still wide open. If Elton happened to shine his flashlight that way, he could not fail to see it and investigate—which would be disastrous. Moving slowly, Craig crawled up the lean-to roof. As soon as he could reach, he got hold of the lower edge of the door and gently pushed it. It swung slowly through an arc. Craig gave it a final shove and released it, then quickly lay down again. The door closed with an audible click.
Elton turned. Craig lay still. He saw the beam of