Vanished

Начало книги

Avril Jenkins was in her early 70s, but, tucked beneath an old heavy duvet in her king-size four-poster bed, she could easily have been mistaken for a child. Avril’s messy grey hair was piled up into a top-knot and held in place with a pink ribbon, then tucked beneath a hairnet. A frilly eye-mask finished her night-time look. She wasn’t snoring, but she was breathing loudly as the air escaped through her slightly blocked nose.

The thin hairs on Avril’s exposed arm suddenly stood on end, gently stirring in a new breeze — a window, or a door, had been opened. Avril lifted her eye-mask, held her breath and listened. Her eyes involuntarily flicked from left to right, as though it might help her to hear better.

The second she heard a landing floorboard creak, she flung back the duvet and sat bolt upright. Her toes landed in her fur-trimmed slippers. She bent quickly, put one finger behind each heel and pushed her feet home. As she stood, her hand slipped beneath her pillow and by the time she was upright she was armed with a fire poker.

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