Page 54 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
Dexter tugged the wooden handle and, after a few tries, the door unstuck itself and lurched towards him. He glanced at Imogen, squeezed her hand, and stepped into the dark.
‘I think there’s a light switch somewhere,’ he murmured, as Imogen registered that the banging was a whole lot louder, and that it was close, coming from somewhere below them. A second later a sickly yellow light illuminated a rickety wooden staircase leading down into the gloom.
‘Oh my God,’ Imogen murmured. ‘These spider webs could beactualHalloween decorations. Seen from space.’
‘They are impressive.’ Dexter’s voice had lost some of its certainty. She squeezed his hand then let go, because if they tried to go into the cellar side by side they would fall.
She followed him down the creaky staircase, her heart climbing higher in her throat as they went lower, as the banging got louder, as piles of boxes, broken bits of furniture – a lamp without a shade, a table with a leg missing, a bookshelf split down the back – came into view. The cobwebs were draped over everything like dust sheets.
‘Fucking hell,’ Dexter said. ‘Maybe it’s a giant fucking spider making all the noise.’
Imogen’s laugh was pathetically terrified.
‘Maybe we should leave them to it,’ he said. ‘It’s not the boiler.’
‘You’ve just decided that, without even finding the boiler?’
‘Yes. I have decided that—’
‘Cooooooooo!’
Imogen jumped as Dexter sprung back, knocking into her. ‘Sorry! Sorry.’ He reached a hand behind him, and Imogen thought he must have been aiming for her waist, but he squeezed her thigh and she felt dizzy. This was altogether too many sensations in one go.
‘Whatisthat?’ she squeaked, then tried to modify her voice. ‘Is that what ghosts sound like?’
‘Ithinkit’s what pigeons sound like.’ He sounded relieved, and that made Imogen feel relieved.
‘Oh. Phew.’
‘Now we just have to find it and get it out.’
Imogen looked at the sea of broken things, the impressive cobwebs and dust, and decided that she was prepared to help only because it was Dexter, and what did that say about how complicated things had got? ‘Let’s do it,’ she said, and followed him to the bottom of the steps.
They waded through the clutter, coughing when their movements sent clouds of dust into the air, Imogen shivering when she imagined eight-legged beasts crawling over her neck or down her arm. They followed the bangs and coos and squawks, and Imogen realized Dexter was right; these were the sounds of a trapped bird, not a lost soul.
They reached the far corner of the cellar, where the dimlight barely reached and the shadows were as thick as the dust, and the banging was loud. Dexter slowly took off his hoody, and held it out in front of him. ‘It’s just …’
The bird squawked and flew-jumped out from behind a box, and Dexter said, ‘Fuck’, and flailed his arms, his hoody acting as a net. The pigeon flew straight into his waiting trap, and he let it hit his chest and then bundled his hoody around it, and Imogen grieved yet another piece of delectable clothing that he was prepared to sacrifice to the Mistingham Manor estate.
‘Got it,’ he huffed, while the bird struggled to get free.
‘What can I do?’
‘Lead the way, open the doors – we need to get it out of here before it escapes back into the cellar.’
‘Right.’ She retraced their steps, hurrying up the creaking staircase, ignoring the dust, the tickling sensations, and the muffled squawks behind her. She burst out into the hallway, raced to the double doors and flung them open, the bright blue cold like a slap in the face.
Dexter jogged past her, down the steps and onto the driveway, where he opened his arms wide and the pigeon flapped out of the hoody and thumped onto the ground. It sat there, stunned, then took off with a screech, its flight haphazard to begin with, but soon it was soaring towards the nearest copse of trees.
Dexter was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed, a triumphant smile on his face. Imogen was finding it hard to breathe too, not so much from the race out of the cellar, but because of how Dexter looked, all dishevelled curls and high colour, the grey T-shirt clinging to his torso. He examined his hoody, then rolled his eyes and dropped it to the ground.
‘Not a ghost.’ He strode towards her.
‘No.’ Imogen stepped back, her shoulder blades connecting with the solid stone wall of the porch. ‘Not a ghost.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, getting closer, his chest still heaving, ‘for coming with me.’
‘I couldn’t let you go alone.’ She licked her lips, trying to bring some moisture back to them.
