Page 7 of The Shadows Beyond
“Huh?”
“These are the keys to your new home. Number five. It’s sparsely furnished, but it should do for now.”
Keys… ahouse… a home all to himself? It was more than he could have ever hoped to dream of.
Shame it was in Switzerland, and he’d be back in London by tomorrow night.
He reached out to grab the keys, the metal cool to the touch.
“I would come in with you, but I’ve got urgent business to attend to. I imagine you’ll want to relax and sleep properly, anyway. Someone will ring ahead to let you know when you’ll be taken to the Institute.”
“It isn’t here?” he asked, then winced.Obviously, it’s not on this road, Cinn.
“It’s a short drive away. We’re currently in the town of Talwacht, where lots of us live. You’ll like it here.”
Cinn scanned the sleepy row of houses, unsure why she would think that. He climbed out of the car.
“Oh, and Cinn?” Madame Sinclair had rolled down her window. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
The car roared to life and was at the end of the road before Cinn opened his mouth to reply.
He jogged to the front door, desperate to stretch his legs after sitting for so long in the holding cell, aeroplane and car. Once he was inside, he dumped his bag onto a wooden floor and stood still for a moment. The last lingering residual pressure from the plane thumped silence into his ears and he became acutely aware of the sound of his own breath, his own heartbeat. He’d never lived alone, and he didn’t want to, either. It must be incredibly lonely.
Even though he wasn’t staying, Cinn allowed himself a short tour of the homely house. One bedroom, a double bed claiming most of the floor space. A bathroom with an actual bath. When had he last taken a bath? Back when he was living with his first set of foster parents? A small living room, with a sofa and a tiny television. A dining table big enough for two. A modest sized kitchen, with a loaf of bread and a foil-wrapped block of real butter waiting for him. As he wolfed down two slices, he inspected the kitchen further to find ample cupboard space and a decent stove. Shame he wouldn’t be able to use it.
He glanced at the front door. The longer he lingered here, the more tempting it became to stay. To go to this mysterious institute wheresomeone might be able to finally help him, after all these years. Or cut open his brain. Who could say? If he was so special, why had they waited until now to track him down? He didn’t trust them as far as he could spit.
But what if…
No.Tyler needed him, and that sealed the deal. He had to get back to London. Lay low until he figured out if he was still a wanted man or not.
Then a last glance at the plush sofa sent a wave of exhaustion cascading down upon him. He blinked, his eyes remaining shut for a fraction too long. He’d ‘slept’ on the plane, if you could call that drug-induced coma sleep. Before that, he’d only had twenty minutes here and there in the holding cells at the police station. Every inch of his body cried out for rest.
So what would be the harm in a quick nap? Surely he’d be more likely to get home safely if he was fully alert and functional.
He half stumbled towards the sofa, to sink deep within its embrace, letting the darkness of sleep drag him under.
He awoke to far less natural light streaming in through the window. Cinn groaned, pushing his head back into the cushion. It was twilight—he’d slept all day.
Wiping a hand over his face, he peeled himself off the sofa. After one last lingering look around the room, he forced himself towards the front door. His time here was up. He wasn’t meant for here, not meant for a life living in a house with a bath and a fancy stove. And if that crazy woman thought for one second he’d do what he was told, she had another thing coming.
Patting his pockets, Cinn stock-checked. In addition to the clothes and cassettes in his bag, he had one lighter, five mints, and zero money. What currency did they even use in Switzerland, anyway?
Well, you’ve done far more with far less.
He set about rooting through the sparsely furnished apartment for anything worth anything—he’d beg, barter, and steal his way home if he had to.
Cinn briefly contemplated stuffing the wall clock into his bag—it had silver edging and looked vaguely antique—before deciding against it, and leaving empty-handed.
Not a single other soul could be seen on the street, but Cinn crept along the shadows, regardless. He knew exactly what he had to do: find a main road, hitch-hike to the train station, and lock himself in a toilet cubicle at the first sign of a ticket inspector. Simple.
He inserted hisBlunted on Realitycassette into his Walkman, thinking the title of the Fugees’s album apt for his situation, put on his headphones, and walked.
And walked.
And walked some more.
God, what he’d do for a cigarette right now.
