Read Online Warned Off by Joe Mcnally, Richard Pitman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joe Mcnally, Richard Pitman
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the centre of the building but well to the
left like it was trying to sneak around the back. Mustard coloured curtains
sagged in tatters behind the two windows, one of which had a smashed pane. The
other had a crack which spread each leg to touch a corner of the wooden frame.
What was left of the glass was filthy.
Broken guttering hung from the roof and
rainwater streamed over the green moss clinging to the end of it onto the mud
below. Enough grey tiles were missing to make the roof look like a big wet
crossword puzzle.
As I got out of the car the wind
snatched at my collar and rain peppered my face. I hurried toward the house,
hands deep in pockets, gathering my jacket close round me. I stood at the door.
The dark green paint was cracked and blistered, tiny pools over-flowing from
the open paint bubbles.
I knocked hard. Nobody came. I tried the
handle. It turned half an inch, no further. Going to the window I squatted to
look through the hole in the pane but the dirty curtains hid whatever was
inside. In the glass I saw the reflection of something move quickly behind me.
There was a slapping, rustling sound. I spun to see a plastic rubbish sack
blowing across the yard.
I realised I was holding my breath.
My pulse was pounding.
The black muck sucked at my boots as I
skirted the side of the building, trying to be cautious. I’d decided to adopt
the lost tourist routine if anyone was round the back but I realised it
wouldn’t fit with the way I was slinking along, so I straightened and strode
out boldly till I reached the yard behind the house.
A barn-type block with a huge brown door
joined the house at the far side. The door was fixed on runners top and bottom
and I grasped the handle and leaned back, pulling. It wouldn’t budge. Using
both hands, I tried again – solid. For a derelict property things were kept
pretty secure. I stepped away from it ready to turn toward the back door of the
house when I heard a noise. I stopped; it came again ... moaning, like an
animal, long and low and guttural.
Whatever was making the noise was behind
the sliding door. I looked up. There were two small windows, both too high to
see through.
Along the wall beneath a broken
drainpipe was a metal beer barrel lying in the gutter. I hauled it out. It was
so heavy I thought it was full. I rolled it through the mud toward the big
door.
The rain fell steadily and by the time I
got the barrel across the yard I was mud-splattered and soaked. My hair clung
flat and rivers of water ran down my face and neck inside my collar. My
trousers and hands were filthy and though the jacket I wore was waterproof the
rain streamed from it onto my thighs till my trousers stuck to my skin
I climbed onto the barrel with the
thought that whatever was in here would probably get the fright of its life
when it saw me. It also occurred to me that if anyone came out of the house now
I was going to have a hard time convincing them I was a lost tourist.
My hands clasped the ledge and I looked
in. There were three stable boxes, each with its own door. Metal bars ran from
the ceiling into the front wall of each box. From the bars of the middle box
hung an empty hay net.
I heard the moan again. It was long and
painful and, I decided, human. I jumped down, two arcs of mud splashing away from
my feet as I landed.
Going back to the door I looked more
closely at the lock. The keyhole was large and empty. I went to the car and got
the lockpicks. The mechanism, though heavy, was crude and it clicked open in a
few seconds.
Leaning back on my heels I pulled at the
handle and the door trundled on its runners, sounding noisy as a train in a
tunnel. I took an anxious look round the yard before going inside.
The first thing I noticed was the smell.
It brought back vivid memories of a bad fall I’d taken on the schooling grounds
years before. I heard the horse’s neck crack as he came down behind me and
rolled over to rest on my lower legs. I lay trapped, my feet under
left like it was trying to sneak around the back. Mustard coloured curtains
sagged in tatters behind the two windows, one of which had a smashed pane. The
other had a crack which spread each leg to touch a corner of the wooden frame.
What was left of the glass was filthy.
Broken guttering hung from the roof and
rainwater streamed over the green moss clinging to the end of it onto the mud
below. Enough grey tiles were missing to make the roof look like a big wet
crossword puzzle.
As I got out of the car the wind
snatched at my collar and rain peppered my face. I hurried toward the house,
hands deep in pockets, gathering my jacket close round me. I stood at the door.
The dark green paint was cracked and blistered, tiny pools over-flowing from
the open paint bubbles.
I knocked hard. Nobody came. I tried the
handle. It turned half an inch, no further. Going to the window I squatted to
look through the hole in the pane but the dirty curtains hid whatever was
inside. In the glass I saw the reflection of something move quickly behind me.
There was a slapping, rustling sound. I spun to see a plastic rubbish sack
blowing across the yard.
I realised I was holding my breath.
My pulse was pounding.
The black muck sucked at my boots as I
skirted the side of the building, trying to be cautious. I’d decided to adopt
the lost tourist routine if anyone was round the back but I realised it
wouldn’t fit with the way I was slinking along, so I straightened and strode
out boldly till I reached the yard behind the house.
A barn-type block with a huge brown door
joined the house at the far side. The door was fixed on runners top and bottom
and I grasped the handle and leaned back, pulling. It wouldn’t budge. Using
both hands, I tried again – solid. For a derelict property things were kept
pretty secure. I stepped away from it ready to turn toward the back door of the
house when I heard a noise. I stopped; it came again ... moaning, like an
animal, long and low and guttural.
Whatever was making the noise was behind
the sliding door. I looked up. There were two small windows, both too high to
see through.
Along the wall beneath a broken
drainpipe was a metal beer barrel lying in the gutter. I hauled it out. It was
so heavy I thought it was full. I rolled it through the mud toward the big
door.
The rain fell steadily and by the time I
got the barrel across the yard I was mud-splattered and soaked. My hair clung
flat and rivers of water ran down my face and neck inside my collar. My
trousers and hands were filthy and though the jacket I wore was waterproof the
rain streamed from it onto my thighs till my trousers stuck to my skin
I climbed onto the barrel with the
thought that whatever was in here would probably get the fright of its life
when it saw me. It also occurred to me that if anyone came out of the house now
I was going to have a hard time convincing them I was a lost tourist.
My hands clasped the ledge and I looked
in. There were three stable boxes, each with its own door. Metal bars ran from
the ceiling into the front wall of each box. From the bars of the middle box
hung an empty hay net.
I heard the moan again. It was long and
painful and, I decided, human. I jumped down, two arcs of mud splashing away from
my feet as I landed.
Going back to the door I looked more
closely at the lock. The keyhole was large and empty. I went to the car and got
the lockpicks. The mechanism, though heavy, was crude and it clicked open in a
few seconds.
Leaning back on my heels I pulled at the
handle and the door trundled on its runners, sounding noisy as a train in a
tunnel. I took an anxious look round the yard before going inside.
The first thing I noticed was the smell.
It brought back vivid memories of a bad fall I’d taken on the schooling grounds
years before. I heard the horse’s neck crack as he came down behind me and
rolled over to rest on my lower legs. I lay trapped, my feet under
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