Henry felt nervous visiting his dad.
He hadn’t figured out why. You’d think he’d be glad to get away from Mum for a while. Which he was. But that still didn’t stop him feeling nervous. Once he was inside the flat, Dad would give him the glad hand and the big grin and say, ‘Come in, old man, come in!’ (Dad called him ‘old man’ all the time now since the split with Mum.) But for all that, Henry still felt nervous.
Maybe it was the area. Up to a year ago, you took your life in your hands going down by the canal. Now it was trendy. He hated to think what his dad had paid to live here. (He’d showed him the brochure once. It was a fat, expensive Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer production with tissue paper over a full-colour photo. And they didn’t call it a brochure. They called it a prospectus.) At least he didn’t have to stay long. He had the Hodge excuse ready. He was heading out to feed Mr Fogarty’s cat.
Henry thumbed the bell and waited. After a minute, he thumbed it again. With a peculiar feeling of relief, he began to think his father might be out. He thumbed the bell a third time, deciding that if nobody came inside ten seconds, he was heading for the hills. He’d phone later, say he’d called, and collect the Brownie points with none of the hassle. Not that Dad meant to hassle. It was just that he kept asking about Mum. It wasn’t the questions that upset Henry. It was the way his dad’s eyes filled up when he asked them.
… Nine… ten… eleven… twelve… thirteen… fourteen… There was definitely nobody home. He was free and clear, duty done. He could go now. It was like being let out of school.
For some reason his hand reached out and pushed the door.
The door was off the latch. It swung open a few inches. Henry stared at it stupidly, wondering what that was all about. Nobody went out and left their door open, not when the flat was empty. It was asking for trouble. Even his dad must know that. This stretch of the canal might be trendy now, but the area around it was still pretty rough. The new waterside apartments had to be a target for every scumbag in the district.
Henry pushed the door again and it opened even further. A horrible thought occurred to him. Suppose Dad hadn’t left the door unlocked when he went out. Suppose he’d locked it the way he always did. Suppose a scumbag came along and picked the lock! A scumbag who was inside now, rifling every drawer in sight…
The nerves in Henry’s stomach turned to a sick fear. He’d watched far too many horror movies. You pushed an open door and walked into an empty flat and something in a Scream mask lurched out of the shadows to smash your head in with a poker. But not all of the fear was for himself. He kept thinking maybe his dad might have come back and the thing in the Scream mask loomed up behind him. He kept seeing a body on the floor and blood staining the pale carpet.
Heart pounding, Henry pushed the door right back and slid into the flat.
The front door opened on to a postage-stamp hall with a coat rack, a wall mirror and a silly little polished table that was supposed to look eighteenth century. There were two doors off the hall. The far one led into what the prospectus called the ‘Master Bedroom’, which had shag-pile carpet, a double bed – what would Dad want with a double bed now he wasn’t living with Mum? – and mean little French windows leading on to a tiny balcony with a fire escape. There was also, Henry knew, a connecting door to the living room and an en-suite bathroom. The closer door in the hallway led into the living room as well. The prospectus called it the ‘Lounge’.
Henry cautiously turned the handle of the living-room door.
He was trying to move quietly, but his heart was thumping so loudly now you could hear it halfway down the street. It was making him feel sick in his throat as well as his stomach. The worst of it was he knew, he positively knew, he was going to find his father dead or dying on the floor. He wished he’d brought a weapon of some sort, but it was too late now.
The lounge was the largest room in the flat, furnished in poncy white leather with a squat spiral staircase winding up to a nun’s cell the prospectus called a guest bedroom. There was a door to a kitchen, a door to a second bathroom, a door to a study his father never used (possibly because it was designed for a dwarf), a door to the master bedroom. There were windows that opened up to another balcony, this time without a fire escape, overlooking the canal. The carpet, he saw at once, was clean and bodiless.
Henry sighed and felt his heart wind down. ‘Dad…?’ he called, frowning. But the frown was just a habit – there was no body on the floor, no blood on the carpet. Maybe best of all, the whole place was bright and cheerful, without shadows for characters in Scream masks to lurk in. ‘Dad…?’ There was no reply. The place was empty.
It was a relief, except it didn’t explain why his dad had left the door open. Maybe he was just getting forgetful. God knows he had enough on his mind these days. First there was Henry’s mum having an affair with his secretary. Then there was Henry’s mum kicking him out of his own home. (They claimed it was ‘by agreement’, but Henry knew better.) Then there was Henry’s mum insisting both children – Henry being the reluctant one – stay with her. When you started to think about it, Henry’s mum had a lot to answer for.
Henry supposed he’d better hang around for a bit. He couldn’t very well just wander off now and leave the front door open. But he couldn’t lock it either, in case his dad had gone out without his key, maybe just slipped down to the corner shop for a minute, taking his chances with Scumbags Anonymous. So the thing to do was make a cup of tea and wait. Once his dad came back he could say hello then go and feed Hodge.
He found the tea bags easily enough – Dad kept them in the fridge for some reason and there wasn’t much else in there. He brewed up in a mug that said, Beam me up, Scottie, there’s no intelligent life down here. Since there wasn’t any milk either, he tried adding a spoonful of plain yoghurt and carried the mug into the living room. He sat down on the poncy leather couch and stared gloomily into his tea. The yoghurt had been a mistake. It had separated out and was floating on the top in uneven globules. He debated whether to risk tasting it or go back and make some fresh.
He still hadn’t reached any conclusion when the bathroom door opened and a young woman walked out. She had wet hair, bare legs and a towel wrapped around her.
She caught sight of Henry and screamed.