Page 135 of The Sleepwalker

‘Could you give me your number in case the line drops?’

‘There’s no time, she’s using the axe—’

There is another loud thud and a splintering sound as the blade breaks through the panel.

‘Talk to me. Are you alone?’

‘Yes, I’m alone!’

‘Do you know who the woman is?’

‘Please, just send help, I don’t know what’s going on.’

The next blow causes pieces of broken wood to fall to thefloor.

Ida realises she is out of time, and she ends the call, opens the door to the linen cupboard and shoves a pile of towels to the floor. She then climbs up onto the shelf, pulls the door shut behind her and crawls forward. Using her shoulder, she tries to move Oliver’s big wooden cupboard, but it is too heavy.

From the bedroom, she can hear more loud bangs and cracking.

‘Please, God. Please, God,’ she whispers between quick breaths.

She manages to find a foothold, and she pushes back using her legs. The cupboard budges slightly, no more than around ten centimetres.

The woman kicks the door to the bedroom open.

Ida whimpers as she tries again, pushing as hard as she can. This time, the heavy cupboard slides across the floor. She can taste blood as she squeezes through the gap onto the carpet on the other side.

Oliver’s roller blind swings in the draught from her movements.

Ida gets up on shaking legs, straightens her robe and tightens the belt, then tiptoes as fast as she can over to the door.

She steps on one of her son’s toys, making it squeak loudly.

Back in the main bedroom, a window breaks.

Ida opens the door.

Her feet barely make a sound as she runs through to the kitchen and down the stairs, but the woman comes after her, stomping loudly.

Ida swings around the corner at the bottom of the stairs and reaches the door to the boiler room. Between the steps, she can see the woman’s legs, and she quietly opens the door, hurries through and pulls it shut behind her.

The ground source heat pump, underfloor heating manifoldand boiler make the cramped space hot.

Ida blinks in the darkness, breathing heavily through her nose.

She can’t see a thing as she fumbles her way over to the narrow door to the garage.

Something clicks, and there is a hissing sound.

She has almost reached the door when the hem of her robe catches on a pipe.

Her heart is beating so hard that she can hear her blood roaring in her ears.

The fabric strains as she tugs on it, and she has to take a step back and unhook it from the pipe before she can keep going.

The nightlight on the ceiling casts a pale bluish glow over the plastic boxes of Christmas decorations, bikes, roof racks, summer tyres, lawnmowers and bags of compost.

The rough concrete floor is cold beneath her feet as she runs over to the button for the automatic garage door and presses it.