small, simple, silver key. A few months ago, I’d locked myself out of our office and needed to come in on a Saturday afternoon. Miranda was away and Brian was incommunicado, so the weekend security guard had let me use the master key to get in. He also said I could hold on to it until Monday because he wanted to nick off early and watch the FA Cup Final. Bloody football, causing problems for people, as per usual. I didn’t have a specific evil plan in mind when I ran out to Timpson’s to get a copy of the key made, it just felt as though a master key for the building in which I spent 75 per cent of my time could be a useful thing to have.
And right now, as devious as it seemed, I needed a helping hand. Was it wrong to break into a very antisocial person’s office and have a little poke around to see what you could see? Well, yes, of course it was, but desperate times called for desperate measures and a quick peep around Dr Page’s office might give me some pointers on who he was and how we could work together. And, it had also occurred to me that he might only be using the office as storage space, which would mean he wasn’t really a tenant at The Ginnel which would mean I could probably convince Martin and Charlie to let me trade him for someone else. Anyone else, really, I wasn’t fussy at this point.
The first floor was already empty when I stepped out of the lift. The strip lighting in the hallway buzzed quietly but the darkened offices were silent. Even though there was absolutely no need for stealth, something about the deathly quiet building demanded it and I tiptoed along, ignoring my racing pulse and screeching conscience. Once outside the doctor’s office, I stopped in front of his papered-over windows and pressed my ear against the plywood door.
Silence.
Sliding the key into the lock, I opened the door very, very, very slowly. He seemed just the sort to booby-trap his office with some Home Alone-style shenanigans and the last thing I needed was a night in A&E. Even though the sun was only just setting outside, down here on the first floor with only one tiny window that faced our infamous alley, I couldn’t see a blind thing. As dark as his office had been in daylight, it was pitch-black now.
Until something moved.
‘Fuck!’ I shrieked, grabbing for something heavy from the desk and hurling it in the general direction of the noise.
‘Ow!’ a voice grunted as my missile struck its target.
I fumbled frantically against the wall until I felt a click and the overhead light sparked into life. In front of me stood Dr Page, naked apart from a pair of boxer shorts, holding a heavy hardback awkwardly in front of his crotch.
‘Sorry!’ I cried, clapping my hand over my eyes and turning around. ‘I’m sorry, I’m leaving.’
Before he could reply, I turned quickly, bumping into his desk and then his bookshelf, like a human pinball machine. I reached out to make a grab for the door and the bright lights of the corridor, but before I could make my escape, I stepped on a stray piece of cardboard and felt my right foot go skidding along the carpet while the left one stayed firmly planted. I was certain I could catch myself as I swayed back and forth on the spot, but the yoga class I’d taken that one time had done nothing to improve my centre of balance. Grasping at absolutely nothing, my legs went out underneath me and before I could right myself, I fell flat on my back in the middle of the room.
‘Christ almighty,’ I heard Dr Page gasp. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Not yet,’ I choked out, winded. ‘But give me a minute.’
I wasn’t dead but I was in quite a lot of pain. My backside throbbed and, as hard as I tried, I didn’t seem to be able to sit up under my own steam. I turned my head to watch as Dr Page’s feet padded towards me and spotted a blow-up mattress and accompanying tartan blanket wedged in behind his desk.
‘Do you know what day it is?’ he asked as he knelt down beside me and slid a hand underneath my head. A shiver ran down my spine as his fingers caught in my hair. ‘Can you taste pennies? Do you know who is prime minister?’
‘It’s Thursday,’ I said, forcing myself on to my side and shuffling into an uncomfortable sitting position, shaking his hands away from my head. ‘No, I can’t taste pennies and honestly, I’d rather not talk about politics.’
Dr Page stared into my eyes but all I could see was beard.
‘I’m calling an ambulance,’ he decided. ‘Do not move.’
‘I’m fine,’ I told him, sitting fully upright with a gasp and not at all enjoying the shooting pain in the bottom of my bum. ‘Winded and bruised but fine.’
‘Your pupils look normal and you didn’t crack anything open, but you could have a concussion.’
He stood up and took a noticeably big step backwards as I heaved myself up to standing. I pressed a hand against my bum and winced.
‘You should go to the hospital.’
‘I think a bag of frozen peas taped to my arse will do it,’ I mumbled, unsure where to look. He seemed to have forgotten he was wearing nothing but a pair of Bart Simpson boxer shorts and some very elaborate red-and-green striped socks that looked as though they’d been knitted by someone’s blind nan. Until he saw me staring. ‘Sorry to bother you, I’ll be off.’
‘How did you get in?’ He fumbled for an enormous V-neck jumper and pulled it on quickly over what looked like a surprisingly buff pair of pecs, a deep crimson blush growing in his cheeks. ‘I’m sure I locked the door.’
We both looked down at the floor at the same time. A shaft of light from the hallway shone through the door, lighting up my ill-gotten key like a diamond.
‘I heard a noise and I had to come and investigate,’ I replied, reaching down on unsteady legs to pick it up and tuck it away in the pocket of my jeans. ‘Because I am the fire marshal.’
I was a quick thinker but a terrible liar.
‘You’re the fire marshal?’
‘A responsibility I take very seriously,’ I confirmed in a grave voice. ‘I was afraid there was a fire. Or a burglar.’
He did not look convinced.
‘And you decided the best course of action would be to assault me with my own book?’
‘What if someone had been stealing all your …’ I looked around his office. Wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Nothing but books. More books than you could shake a stick at. ‘Well. What if someone had been breaking in?’
He looked around at his mini library as we both tried to work out what anyone might want to break in for.
‘Imagine,’ he said, attempting to yank his jumper down over his boxer-short region in a casual fashion.
‘We haven’t been properly introduced,’ I said, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Annie Higgins, I work upstairs.’
‘As you mentioned yesterday,’ he replied, looking down at my hand as though I’d just offered him a turd on a stick.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, gingerly poking at my lower back. ‘I didn’t catch your first name?’
‘Because I didn’t tell you,’ he replied brusquely. ‘In the event of a fire, where are we supposed to meet?’
‘Down
