The Lost

Carefully, he reached for the handle. But it began to move before he could take hold of it, slowly revolving as though of its own accord. There was the faintest of creaks as pressure was applied, but Jonah had locked the door after Dylan left. As the handle swung back to its original position, he readied himself with the keys. Crutches or not, he had to see who it was. Taking hold of the handle in one hand, he gently fitted the key into the lock.

Click.

It was as though a bubble had burst, releasing the tension that had been building. Jonah heard a floorboard creak again on the landing, then another. Shit! Abandoning any attempt at silence, he unlocked the door as heavy footsteps began pounding down the stairs. Flinging it open, he rushed to the stairwell and started down. Too fast: his crutches skidded off a stair edge and suddenly he was falling. He grabbed for the banister, jarring his knee and hurting his arm and ribs, but managed to keep from tumbling down the stairs. Breathless, he hauled himself upright and listened.

The stairwell was quiet. Whoever it was had gone.

Jonah banged the side of his fist against the wall in frustration. Jesus Christ, was that him? Was that Stokes? The anti-climax was crushing. Snatching out his phone, he started to call Fletcher. If they could get people around there straight away, they might have a chance of catching the bastard before he got too far.

But he stopped. What was he going to say? Fletcher wasn’t going to believe it was Owen Stokes just on his say-so, and Jonah was beginning to have doubts himself. When it came down to it, he hadn’t actually seen who it was on the landing. It could have been anyone. He’d already been jumping at shadows the day before, when he thought he’d seen the young woman from the warehouse again at Slaughter Quay. What if this was more of the same?

None of the other residents had come out to see what the commotion was, so at least Jonah was saved from having to explain. Feeling tired and flat, he went back to the bedsit to lock up before making his way downstairs. More carefully, this time. It was harder than climbing up, and he almost fell again when one of his crutches caught on the worn carpet, pulling the rubber ferrule off the end. He had to tamp it back into place, jaw set against the pain from his protesting knee, before continuing.

He saw no one on the way down, although on the third floor the hushed creak and click of one of the doors being closed announced the presence of the same silent watcher as before. Maybe that was who he’d heard creeping around outside the bedsit, he thought wearily. Some neighbour wanting to see what was going on.

Right then, that seemed more likely than Owen Stokes.

By the time Jonah reached the ground floor, he was exhausted. His arms ached from the crutches and his knee was throbbing constantly. The prospect of having to phone Fletcher when he got back to his car depressed his spirits even further. Opening the front door, he started lowering himself down the steps before he realised there was someone on the path.

‘Going somewhere?’ Bennet asked.