Finding Hannah: A pulse-pounding thriller you won't want to miss by M.A. Purcell

Author:M.A. Purcell [Purcell, M.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poolbeg Press
Published: 2024-06-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 28

Trout cat-footed forward, listening intently. Cautiously he approached the first tall rectangle of pale grey superimposed on the dark background, peered around the jamb of a doorless opening and saw what appeared to be a makeshift kitchen. A long, narrow window, nearly the length of the wall but almost at ceiling level, lightened the dark to some extent. A gas can with a two-ring top lurked in one corner, flanked by a small camping stove and a large Kettle barbeque. Sagging shelves held a small array of tinned foodstuff and a three-legged table with a pile of magazines providing a makeshift fourth leg, were ghostly silhouettes in the gloom and completed the furnishing. It looked relatively clean as if someone had made an effort to bring a semblance of order to a no-win situation. He moved on. Communal sitting room, he thought, eying the ancient sofa with its stuffing spilling out, a couple of wonky chairs, a tatty, rattan chaise lounge and a moth-eaten rug. So far as squats went, he had seen worse.

The next opening told a more graphic story. Here was a rougher feel and piles of newspaper and cardboard boxes, in pointedly territorial heaps, told a less hopeful story. The next three rooms had closed doors. He hesitated at the first one then tentatively turned the knob and peered in. Somebody was trying to make a sanctuary for themselves, he thought, a tight feeling in his chest as he noted a rolled-up sleeping bag on a shelf with a battery tent-heater nestled against it. A steel coat hanger was hooked over the edge of the same shelf and bulged downwards under the weight of a pair of jeans, a check shirt and a faded yellow jumper. Perched beneath it in an attempt to get what little light the high window offered was a once-elegant armchair, faded and torn, and leaning drunkenly against it was an orange crate of books. A pang of sadness went through Trout and he backed out of the room and quietly closed the door.

A snuffling sound distracted him as he opened the next door and quickly looked inside. A bleary-eyed individual untangled himself from a blanket on the floor and glared at him.

“You OK, mate?” Trout said quietly.

A mumbled “Fuck off,” answered him and a louder “Get the bloody hell out of my room!” had Trout scurrying away in case someone came to investigate. The last room had a door but it was stuck half-closed, half open. Here the real business of the warehouse was most in evidence. The newspaper and cardboard boxes were there but also half-melted candles stuck onto various surfaces, blackened spoons, discarded syringes and balled up tin-foil. Trout made a grimace – poor sods. He moved on.

Just past the last room another stairway swayed to the top level. It felt decidedly unstable but as Trout had seen no sign of those he sought, he continued his quest, more soft-footed than before. Here the walkway felt very close to the sturdy wooden trusses crisscrossing the roof.

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