Page 108 of The New House

I don’t know what he knew about Felix and when, but he’s not responsible for the man’s death. That’s on Stacey. Whatever she tells herself now, she never intended her husband to walk out of this cellar alive. Dragging my son into it was just a sideshow to the main event. A bonus. She saw the darkness in him and she took pleasure in drawing it out and setting it free.

But he’sten. The fight for his soul isn’t lost yet.

I turn us around again, and once more we lurch across the cellar. My son deserves the chance to live. The better angels of his nature deserve the chance to win. I’m not going to let what happened here in this cellar with Stacey be the sum of who he is.

‘I’m hungry,’ Peter says.

‘Try not to think about food,’ I say.

He sags against me. ‘But I can smell McDonald’s, Mummy.’

It’s not McDonald’s he can smell: it’s woodsmoke. Someone must be burning autumn leaves in one of the gardens nearby. Air is getting into the cellar from somewhere. And if air can get in—

I tell Peter to keep moving, and clamber onto the top of the chest freezer. The air is cooler near the ceiling, and I hold up my good hand in the dark, trying to feel where the faint breeze is coming from. If it’s the hatch I saw above the pool pump, there’s a chance Peter could scramble through it: he’s slight and agile.

Inching carefully along the slippery lid of the freezer, I lean out above the pump cage. This is definitely where the air is coming in: I can just about reach the edge of the maintenance hatch above the pool pump with my fingertips. But it’s sosmall. It’s not designed for someone to access the cellar, merely for a mechanic to be able to reach in and fix the pump if required. It can’t be more than thirty centimetres in diameter at most. Even if I’m able to prise it open from the inside, I don’t know if Peter can wriggle through it. I’m not even sure I can lift him up high enough to try.

I climb back down and feel my way across the cellar in the dark. I need something to stand on so that I can reach the hatch properly and try to open it.

‘Stay where you are a moment, Peter,’ I call. ‘I have to move a few things.’

There’s an ugly thump when I roll Felix’s body onto the floor, like the sound of a bag of flour splitting when it hits the ground. I flinch, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. I drag the metal bed frame across the cellar in the dark, praying the sound of the legs screeching across the concrete floor doesn’t carry.

‘What are you doing?’ Peter asks.

‘Trying to get us out of here,’ I pant.

Standing on the bed, I grope for the hatch above my head, and then insert the blade of the Stanley knife and run it around the rim, trying to clear it from dirt and debris. My shoulder is already aching. Dust clogs my throat, and sweat trickles into my eyes as I work at the seam of the cover with the rusty blade. I can’t find any screws holding it in place, and unless it’s locked from the outside, it should pry loose, but despite my best efforts, it doesn’t budge.

‘Do you want me to try?’ Peter says, his voice small in the darkness.

I doubt he’ll succeed where I’ve failed, but I need to keep him occupied. And he has two hands to my one.

‘Can you climb up here next to me?’ I ask. ‘Careful now. That’s it. OK. There’s a sort of manhole cover above our heads, Peter, and I want you to see if you can push it open with both hands. It’s really stiff. I’ll need to lift you up for you to reach it.’

‘But I can’t see!’

‘Feel your way. Come on, Peter. You can do this.’

The throbbing in my left hand intensifies as I lift him up. My palm feels hot and inflamed: the beginning of an infection. If I don’t get antibiotics soon, sepsis will spread through my body and kill me, but I’m not worried: there are plenty of other ways for me to die down here first.

‘It’s stuck,’ Peter pants. ‘I can’t move it.’

‘Try again.’

Peter bangs on the hatch with his fists, dislodging dirt onto the two of us. ‘Help!’ he shouts. ‘Help! Can anyone hear us?’

I cough. I feel dizzy and light-headed from a combination of concussion and blood loss, but I can’t afford weakness now. ‘Save your breath, Peter. Hitting it won’t help. See if you can loosen the cover at the edges.’

‘It’s jammed, I told you,’ he says, banging the cover again. ‘Help! Someone help us! We’re stuck down here!’

‘There’s no point shouting,’ I say. ‘No one can—’

And then we hear it.

A familiar voice, faint but clear, calling my name.

‘Harper!’ I shout. ‘Peter, jump down. Harper!’

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