Read Online Breeding Ground by Sarah Pinborough - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Pinborough
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tinkling of the glass giving way. Once again, no alarm sounded despite the red box on the wall, and I reached my arm carefully through the gap and released the snib lock. With the gentle ring of the connected brass bell, the door swung open before me. The first hungry customer of the day had arrived.
Within moments, I’d lifted the wooden flap that served to separate the public from the workforce and found the kitchen, pleased to hear the humming of the fridge creating a sense of normalcy. Yanking the door open, I peered inside and pulled out some eggs and bacon and a loaf of sliced white bread that the management obviously kept in there to keep it fresh longer. I’d started to fill the kettle when I spied the coffee machine and grinned. Fresh coffee and a fry-up. I couldn’t think of anything that would satisfy my grumbling appetite more, and if there was a morning for spoiling myself, then this was it.
Ten minutes later and the dirty pans were soaking in the large stainless steel sink. I sat down at a small round table covered with a chequered cloth, a steaming mug of strong coffee in one hand and a large plate
62
of food in the other. After the second mouthful, my spirits had lifted further and I was almost humming to myself. I should have been tired; in fact, I should have been exhausted, but at that moment I think I was feeling the exhilaration of survival. For a while, my grief was suppressed, part of too big a picture to be real in itself, and all that mattered was that I was alive, that I’d heard the footsteps of another living soul, and that my eggs were perfectly cooked.
Having devoured my breakfast, scraping the last dregs onto my fork, I took my plate to the kitchen and then leaned against the counter, sipping my second cup of coffee and contemplating where to go and what to do next.
I was so lost in my own thoughts that at first I didn’t hear the noise. It was almost not there, a furtive invasion, hoping for recognition rather than demanding it. Getting ready to step back out into the world, I’d just decided to make myself sandwiches to take with me when I finally noticed the gentle tapping coming from upstairs. Staring up at the white ceiling, I tilted my head, focussing on the sound; my body once again fully alert. Perhaps it was just the water pipes or the boiler. This building was old and bound to have quirky characteristics.
The coffee forgotten in my hand, I listened quivering with stillness, my breath short and raspy. There it was again, a rhythmic knocking above my head. It was too regular, too intent to be anything other than manmade. Slowly I put the mug down, ignoring the slight shake in my hand. What was it? Morse code? My heart thumping hard, I moved quietly back through the kitchen and gently opened a door that led into a
63
small, carpeted hallway. A dull blue coat and tatty umbrella hung from a hook on the wall. Beside them, the stairs rose up to what was more than likely the owner’s flat and home. The tapping was louder here.
Hesitating in the doorway, not wanting to investigate but knowing I really had no choice, my breakfast felt greasy in my stomach. The uplifted spirits of earlier were fading fast, each tap from above sending a slight bout of nausea through me, and cursing silently I pulled a large knife from the block on the counter and crept forward, leaving the door fully open in case I needed a hasty retreat. The carpet was soft beneath my shoes, and keeping my eyes focussed on the hallway above, I very slowly made my way up the steep and narrow stairs.
The flock-papered walls on either side of me were lined with family photos old and new, and the landing above was no different. A mahogany sideboard was covered with silver and wood photo frames. A darkhaired, plump woman of about forty-five and a balding man of about the same age smiled out from most of them, in the company of two teenage children. A happy family. I paused and absorbed them for a
Within moments, I’d lifted the wooden flap that served to separate the public from the workforce and found the kitchen, pleased to hear the humming of the fridge creating a sense of normalcy. Yanking the door open, I peered inside and pulled out some eggs and bacon and a loaf of sliced white bread that the management obviously kept in there to keep it fresh longer. I’d started to fill the kettle when I spied the coffee machine and grinned. Fresh coffee and a fry-up. I couldn’t think of anything that would satisfy my grumbling appetite more, and if there was a morning for spoiling myself, then this was it.
Ten minutes later and the dirty pans were soaking in the large stainless steel sink. I sat down at a small round table covered with a chequered cloth, a steaming mug of strong coffee in one hand and a large plate
62
of food in the other. After the second mouthful, my spirits had lifted further and I was almost humming to myself. I should have been tired; in fact, I should have been exhausted, but at that moment I think I was feeling the exhilaration of survival. For a while, my grief was suppressed, part of too big a picture to be real in itself, and all that mattered was that I was alive, that I’d heard the footsteps of another living soul, and that my eggs were perfectly cooked.
Having devoured my breakfast, scraping the last dregs onto my fork, I took my plate to the kitchen and then leaned against the counter, sipping my second cup of coffee and contemplating where to go and what to do next.
I was so lost in my own thoughts that at first I didn’t hear the noise. It was almost not there, a furtive invasion, hoping for recognition rather than demanding it. Getting ready to step back out into the world, I’d just decided to make myself sandwiches to take with me when I finally noticed the gentle tapping coming from upstairs. Staring up at the white ceiling, I tilted my head, focussing on the sound; my body once again fully alert. Perhaps it was just the water pipes or the boiler. This building was old and bound to have quirky characteristics.
The coffee forgotten in my hand, I listened quivering with stillness, my breath short and raspy. There it was again, a rhythmic knocking above my head. It was too regular, too intent to be anything other than manmade. Slowly I put the mug down, ignoring the slight shake in my hand. What was it? Morse code? My heart thumping hard, I moved quietly back through the kitchen and gently opened a door that led into a
63
small, carpeted hallway. A dull blue coat and tatty umbrella hung from a hook on the wall. Beside them, the stairs rose up to what was more than likely the owner’s flat and home. The tapping was louder here.
Hesitating in the doorway, not wanting to investigate but knowing I really had no choice, my breakfast felt greasy in my stomach. The uplifted spirits of earlier were fading fast, each tap from above sending a slight bout of nausea through me, and cursing silently I pulled a large knife from the block on the counter and crept forward, leaving the door fully open in case I needed a hasty retreat. The carpet was soft beneath my shoes, and keeping my eyes focussed on the hallway above, I very slowly made my way up the steep and narrow stairs.
The flock-papered walls on either side of me were lined with family photos old and new, and the landing above was no different. A mahogany sideboard was covered with silver and wood photo frames. A darkhaired, plump woman of about forty-five and a balding man of about the same age smiled out from most of them, in the company of two teenage children. A happy family. I paused and absorbed them for a
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