Bombmaker by Claire McFall

Author:Claire McFall [Claire McFall]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781848777675
Publisher: Templar Publishing
Published: 2014-02-02T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When I woke up in the morning the flat was quiet, peaceful. The sun was up, filtering in through ill-fitting venetian blinds, but the clock on the wall told me that it was still early, not even eight. The door to the lounge was firmly closed, but I had the feeling that I was alone in the flat. I was also sweltering. Tossing the blanket aside I sat up and stretched the kinks out of my back and shoulders, then I tiptoed across the room, peeking out into the tiny hallway.

“Mark?” I called.

No answer.

“Mark, are you in?”

I paused for several seconds, listening for a reply, but there was only silence. I threw the door open and trotted into the bathroom. He’d left out a clean towel for me and I took advantage of the empty flat to have a long, luxurious shower, trying to wash the memory of the night before down the plughole. Unfortunately I’d no option but to put my dirty clothes back on.

Mark had left me a note in the kitchen, propped up against an ancient coffee machine still half full of steaming dark caffeine:

Didn’t want to wake you. Help yourself to anything in the fridge (I apologise in advance!). I’ll try and be back early. And for our date tonight – how about going out for dinner?

I smiled, feeling that flutter again at the word ‘date’, then grimaced as his letter triggered a flashback to my faux pas from the previous night. It was going to be a little awkward when he got back.

Mark hadn’t been kidding: there was almost nothing edible in the kitchen. I cobbled together some stale-looking cereal and milk that was definitely on the verge of going off. Taking my bowl back to the lounge, I tossed my blanket off the sofa then settled down, remote in hand. For once I was going to watch what I wanted on the television.

After about twenty minutes, however, the novelty had worn off. There really was nothing on! Since the government had introduced a tax on any programme made outside the UK, half the channels had closed down, and the ones that hadn’t had dropped the US shows like they were hot potatoes on babies’ fingers. Now morning TV was nothing but antiques shows and reruns of chat shows featuring the very worst dregs of humanity. Hitting the standby button, I killed the image on the screen before the fat girl could push her finger any harder into her pathetic-looking boyfriend’s face.

What to do? I drummed my fingers on the arm of the sofa, kicking my feet against the threadbare carpet. I was restless, itching to get up, to do something. At Alexander’s I’d be out on a delivery, or down in the basement sorting out imports, or loitering in a plump white leather chair in the office, listening to things not meant for my ears. Hanging around like this was strangely disconcerting. I’d been in Mark’s one-bedroom flat for maybe fourteen hours, and already I had cabin fever.

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