Read Online A Vicky Hill Exclusive! by Hannah Dennison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hannah Dennison
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and I would make. We could hedge-jump together.
Safely over the wall, I was faced with never-ending piles of sodden, disused newspapers that, for decades, were tossed out of the basement door and left to rot.
Swiftly, I cast an appraising eye over the job, mentally running through Dad’s checklist:
1. Assess the situation
.
2. Check for hazards
.
3. Proceed with caution
.
Above the basement door, about four feet to the right, was a corroded burglar alarm. Pete had given up persuading Wilf to get a high-tech security system installed. He said it was an unnecessary expense.
Like many foolish property owners, he believed just the sight of an alarm bell, or a sign reading BEWARE OF DOG was an effective deterrent. Dad and I always laughed about that, but in this case, I couldn’t afford to take any chances.
Needless to say, there was no ladder of any kind for me to take a closer look at the alarm. Reminding myself that every obstacle built character, I cast around for an alternative and, literally five seconds later, had a brilliant idea.
I began to stack the old newspapers into a tower against the wall under the alarm. It was jolly hot work as they were heavy with moisture. Many had disintegrated, most were soggy masses of mulch, but I pressed on regardless.
After ten minutes of heavy lifting, I was boiling and had to take off my matching scarf and gloves, which I carefully folded and put to one side.
Half an hour of backbreaking labour later, the newspaper stack was almost as tall as me. I felt chuffed and stepped back to admire my handiwork. True, it leaned horribly to the left, but would have to do. I was utterly exhausted. As I wiped my hands across my brow, I realized I was sweating buckets.
It was time to put my efforts to the test. Using the hedge-jumper run-up again, I backed up several feet, sprinted a few steps, then threw myself into the climb with gusto.
For about one minute, I stood on top of the heap, breathless, but triumphant. When, to my horror, the pile slowly began to sink beneath my weight. I grappled for a handhold but was instantly pitched face-first against the rough brick wall.
My arms were splayed out like Jesus on the cross, legs spread, quivering with the effort of keeping upright. Although the ground was only a few feet away, it may as well have been fifty. I was stuck – but, alas, not for long. With a sickening jolt, the lopsided tower collapsed, catapulting me sideways and forward straight onto the basement door. It flew open at impact.
I tumbled, head over heels onto the sticky tiled floor, and sat there, dazed, bracing myself for the shriek of the burglar alarm. Never had I felt so close to Dad. Somehow, knowing he must have experienced these moments, too, gave me the courage not to panic. The basement smelled of mould and dampness but it was comfortingly familiar.
There was no sound. Just silence. I counted to one hundred and got to my feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in my elbow from the fall. My God! I’d done it!
Taking a flashlight from the kitchenette – kept handy for regular power outages – I took the stairs up to the inner hallway. It was cold, meaning the radiator would be, too. Removing the coroner’s report should be a piece of cake.
A sliver of moonlight peeped through the skylight above, enough to see what I was doing. Abandoning the flashlight, I plunged my hand down the back of the radiator but only my fingertips touched the envelope. It was still beyond my grasp.
Returning to the kitchen, I retrieved a knife from the drawer and scurried back upstairs. Carefully, I pierced the knife tip into the envelope and dragged it slowly upward.
The moment I saw the top of the envelope, I grabbed it and pulled hard.
The envelope ripped and emerged, scorched and torn.
Blast!
My heart sank. I’d been overeager, horribly careless. It must have caught on a loose screw or piece of metal. I could never casually leave it on Pete’s desk now. I’d
Safely over the wall, I was faced with never-ending piles of sodden, disused newspapers that, for decades, were tossed out of the basement door and left to rot.
Swiftly, I cast an appraising eye over the job, mentally running through Dad’s checklist:
1. Assess the situation
.
2. Check for hazards
.
3. Proceed with caution
.
Above the basement door, about four feet to the right, was a corroded burglar alarm. Pete had given up persuading Wilf to get a high-tech security system installed. He said it was an unnecessary expense.
Like many foolish property owners, he believed just the sight of an alarm bell, or a sign reading BEWARE OF DOG was an effective deterrent. Dad and I always laughed about that, but in this case, I couldn’t afford to take any chances.
Needless to say, there was no ladder of any kind for me to take a closer look at the alarm. Reminding myself that every obstacle built character, I cast around for an alternative and, literally five seconds later, had a brilliant idea.
I began to stack the old newspapers into a tower against the wall under the alarm. It was jolly hot work as they were heavy with moisture. Many had disintegrated, most were soggy masses of mulch, but I pressed on regardless.
After ten minutes of heavy lifting, I was boiling and had to take off my matching scarf and gloves, which I carefully folded and put to one side.
Half an hour of backbreaking labour later, the newspaper stack was almost as tall as me. I felt chuffed and stepped back to admire my handiwork. True, it leaned horribly to the left, but would have to do. I was utterly exhausted. As I wiped my hands across my brow, I realized I was sweating buckets.
It was time to put my efforts to the test. Using the hedge-jumper run-up again, I backed up several feet, sprinted a few steps, then threw myself into the climb with gusto.
For about one minute, I stood on top of the heap, breathless, but triumphant. When, to my horror, the pile slowly began to sink beneath my weight. I grappled for a handhold but was instantly pitched face-first against the rough brick wall.
My arms were splayed out like Jesus on the cross, legs spread, quivering with the effort of keeping upright. Although the ground was only a few feet away, it may as well have been fifty. I was stuck – but, alas, not for long. With a sickening jolt, the lopsided tower collapsed, catapulting me sideways and forward straight onto the basement door. It flew open at impact.
I tumbled, head over heels onto the sticky tiled floor, and sat there, dazed, bracing myself for the shriek of the burglar alarm. Never had I felt so close to Dad. Somehow, knowing he must have experienced these moments, too, gave me the courage not to panic. The basement smelled of mould and dampness but it was comfortingly familiar.
There was no sound. Just silence. I counted to one hundred and got to my feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in my elbow from the fall. My God! I’d done it!
Taking a flashlight from the kitchenette – kept handy for regular power outages – I took the stairs up to the inner hallway. It was cold, meaning the radiator would be, too. Removing the coroner’s report should be a piece of cake.
A sliver of moonlight peeped through the skylight above, enough to see what I was doing. Abandoning the flashlight, I plunged my hand down the back of the radiator but only my fingertips touched the envelope. It was still beyond my grasp.
Returning to the kitchen, I retrieved a knife from the drawer and scurried back upstairs. Carefully, I pierced the knife tip into the envelope and dragged it slowly upward.
The moment I saw the top of the envelope, I grabbed it and pulled hard.
The envelope ripped and emerged, scorched and torn.
Blast!
My heart sank. I’d been overeager, horribly careless. It must have caught on a loose screw or piece of metal. I could never casually leave it on Pete’s desk now. I’d
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