Whiteout - Ken Follett [127]
Moving as quickly as he could, lifting his feet high as he stepped in the deep snow, he went along the blind wall of the garage until he came level with the front of the house.
He was going to get the Ferrari keys. He would have to sneak into the lobby at the back of the kitchen and take them from the key box. Sophie had wanted to go with him, but he had persuaded her that it was more dangerous for two people than for one.
He was more frightened without her. For her sake, he had to pretend to be brave, and that had made him braver. But now he had a bad attack of nerves. As he hesitated at the corner of the house, his hands were shaking and his legs felt strangely weak. He could easily be caught by the strangers, and then he did not know what he would do. He had never been in a real fight, not since he was about eight years old. He knew boys of his own age who fought—outside a pub, usually, on a Saturday night—and all of them, without exception, were stupid. The three strangers in the kitchen were none of them much bigger than Craig, but all the same he was frightened of them. It seemed to him that they would know what to do in a fight, and he had no idea. Anyway, they had guns. They might shoot him. How much would that hurt?
He looked along the front of the house. He was going to have to pass the windows of the living room and the dining room, where the curtains were not drawn. The snowfall was not as thick as before, and he could easily be seen by someone glancing out.
He forced himself to move forward.
He stopped at the first window and looked into the living room. Fairy lights flashed on the Christmas tree, dimly outlining the familiar couches and tables, the television set, and four oversize children’s stockings on the floor in front of the fireplace, stuffed with boxes and packages.
There was no one in the room.
He walked on. The snow seemed deeper here, blown into a drift by the wind off the sea. Wading through it was surprisingly tiring. He almost felt like lying down. He realized he had been without sleep for twenty-four hours. He shook himself and pressed on. Passing the front door, he half-expected that it would suddenly fly open, and the Londoner in the pink sweater would leap out and grab him. But nothing happened.
As he drew level with the dark dining-room windows, he was startled by a soft bark. For a moment his heart seemed to bang against his chest, then he realized it was only Nellie. They must have shut her in there. The dog recognized Craig’s silhouette and gave a low let-me-out-of-here whine. “Quiet, Nellie, for God’s sake,” he murmured. He doubted whether the dog could hear him, but she fell silent anyway.
He passed the parked cars, Miranda’s Toyota Previa and Hugo’s Mercedes-Benz station wagon. Their sides as well as their tops were all white, so that they looked as if they might be snow all the way through, snow cars for snowmen. He rounded the corner of the house. There was a light in the window of the boot lobby. Cautiously, he peeped around the edge of the window frame. He could see the big walk-in cupboard where anoraks and boots were kept. There was a watercolor of Steepfall that must have been painted by Aunt Miranda, a yard brush leaning in a corner—and the steel key box, screwed to the wall.
The door from the lobby to the kitchen was closed. That was lucky.
He listened, but he could not hear anything from inside the house.
What happened when you punched someone? In the cinema they just fell down, but he was pretty sure that would not happen in real life. More important, what happened when someone punched you? How much did it hurt? What if they did it again and again? And what was it like to be shot? He had heard somewhere that the most painful thing in the world was a bullet in the stomach. He was absolutely terrified, but he forced himself to move.
He grasped the handle