The Fifteen by Michelle Kidd

Author:Michelle Kidd [Kidd, Michelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Independent
Published: 2020-08-07T22:00:00+00:00

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Time: 2.30pm

Date: Friday 9th February 2013

Location: 5 Charlotte Street, Finsbury

He rapped loudly on the front door, noticing the peeling paint on the door frame and missing door number. A faint outline of the number five had bleached into the woodwork, the brass number plate itself long since gone and forgotten.

The frosted glass panel gave nothing away as to what lay on the other side of the door – but he could guess. He had been in these types of houses before. The unkempt tiny front gardens, if you could call them that, with grass and weeds growing rampantly to knee high; the odd rusty bicycle or tin bath lying forgotten underneath the window, an occasional discarded mattress lying on its side.

Terence Wakefield’s home was no different. It didn’t yet have the mattress, but it did have a rusting bicycle, minus one wheel, and several tins of abandoned paint stacked in one corner. The grass was, indeed, knee high, and weeds crawled unabated through the cracks in the crazy paving of the short path that led to the front door.

Come on, he breathed, silently to himself. Open the door.

The journey over had been uneventful. He had used three different disguises along the way, just to make sure. The street where Terence Wakefield lived was typically quiet; rows of Victorian terraced houses squashed together either side of the road, with tiny, square front gardens giving the allure of Victorian wealth and decadence, but in reality were just another space within which to discard unwanted items. Squinting along the street, he guessed that the vast majority of inhabitants were elderly. There were no cars parked illegally on the double yellow lines, and no visible comings and goings from within any of the narrow houses. Life would revolve around daytime TV and afternoon naps, not commuter timetables. Despite their age, most of the houses were well-kept, with freshly painted window frames and front doors.

Terence Wakefield’s house stood out like a sore thumb.

As he strode purposefully along the deserted road towards number five, he had noticed a twitching net curtain from opposite. A sly look to the side had revealed a neat, gravelled front garden with two pot plants either side of a gleaming UPVC front door. The one front window showed a set of crisp net curtains draped across. As he looked, he noticed a slight movement at the side; too far away to make out anything more than a figure hovering by the curtain. He had instinctively dipped his head lower and pulled down his woollen hat more firmly.

As he neared Terence Wakefield’s front gate, he had snatched another furtive look across the road – this time he could see a pale face at the corner of the window, the net curtain hitched to the side. He saw short white hair, and a pair of spectacles perched on top of a thin nose.

A busybody neighbour, he had thought to himself. He turned away and pulled up the collar of his long coat, walking steadily up to the front door of number five.

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