Page 19 of A Winter Wish

What the hell?

Have we just been burgled?

Hands gripped together, I stare at the kitchen door, feeling sick. What if there’s someone still in there, hiding behind the partially open door? Filled with fear and indecision, I can’t seem to make myself move from the spot.

‘What was that?’ asks Irene, and when I turn, she’s standing at the top of the stairs in her baggy old pink pyjamas, bleary-eyed, staring down at me. ‘I heard the front door. Was it Lois?’

I shake my head. ‘I... don’t know who it was.’

‘What?’

Slowly, I stand up, although I have to hold on to the bannister because my legs feel like jelly. ‘Someone broke in. They smashed the glass.’

Irene’s eyes travel to the door and she gasps, covering her mouth with her hands.

‘We need to call the police,’ I say, creeping down the stairs.

‘Clara! Be careful.’

With Irene standing there, I feel a little braver. But all the same, my heart is beating frantically as I push the kitchen door flat against the wall.

Relief floods through me. No one there.

Irene follows me through to the living room. There’s no one there, either, and a quick check confirms that nothing seems to have been stolen. I rush back into the kitchen, open the blind and stare out into the dark night.

But the street is deserted.

‘Was it a burglar?’ Irene follows me into the kitchen. ‘He must have fled when you disturbed him.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘What do you mean, Clara? He must have heard you coming downstairs, so that’s why he left without taking anything.’

‘No, but the thing is, I don’t think he or she evensawme. So I’ve no idea what–’

‘Oh, my God!’

I spin round and Irene is standing rooted to the spot, a look of horror on her face.

‘What is it?’ I follow her gaze. And then I see it.

The bowl of fruit which normally sits on the kitchen table has been moved. And in its place, lined up precisely in order of size– small to medium to large– sits a row of five Russian dolls.

CHAPTER TEN

My heart leaps with shock at the sight of them. ‘What onearth?’

I stare at the sinister-looking figures. They gaze unsmilingly back at me, and when I approach the table, I see that their mouths have been painted over– a gash of ghoulish red paint for each one– and a shudder runs through me.

‘Are theyyours?’ I swing round to Irene, but she looks lost in some sort of private nightmare and doesn’t seem to hear me. All the colour is bleached from her face. She takes a step back but stumbles a little and has to grab onto a chairback to steady herself.

‘What the hell does it mean?’ I murmur, my deep uneasiness made worse by Irene’s silence. ‘Why would someone break in and put...those... on the table? It doesn’t make any sense. Does it?’

When Irene still doesn’t reply, I head for the door. ‘I’m phoning the police. Wait there while I go and get my mobile. They probably won’t be able to do anything, but it’s important that we tell them what–’

‘No!’ Breaking her silence, Irene moves to grab my arm. ‘Don’t call them, Clara. Please don’t call them.’

I stare at her, bemused. ‘But why not? Wehaveto.’

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