Ane Riel - Resin

But still he hesitated. Why?

After the next gulp he had made up his mind. He wiped the froth off his lips and set the empty bottle down on the table. He would start by trying to get to the bottom of this himself. There was no need to make a big drama out of it, and the police officer wasn’t going anywhere.

There had always been a few days between the night-time visits, so Roald waited four days. On the fifth evening he went to bed early and caught a few hours of shut-eye before getting up around midnight. Then he tiptoed down to the kitchen and began his vigil. He had set out various items and had even fetched a pile of Donald Duck comics from the bookcase on the landing. On the rare occasions that children were among the pub’s visitors, the comics were usually a hit. Now they were laid out on the kitchen table.

If only he had been able to turn on the light, then he would have been able to read a book, or a Donald Duck comic, for that matter, but it was out of the question. Any kind of light would be seen through the windows. At one point he fell asleep, slumped across the small table where he was sitting, and around five in the morning he was woken up by pins and needles in his arm. The house was as quiet as the grave, and he tiptoed back upstairs to bed.

Another few nights passed in a similar fashion: no visits. And then, finally, on Monday night something happened. This time Roald had brewed himself a cup of strong coffee in the hope that it would keep him up until the early morning, and at two thirty he was still wide awake. His mind was focused and his thoughts moved calmly back and forth between tax accounts, whisky stocks, ex-colleagues and his ex-wife to pest control and pools football. He was even enjoying sitting here, thinking, while everyone else was asleep. Outside, the wind was blowing just enough for the pub sign to squeak on its hinges, and a branch from a bush scratched the wall softly.

And then suddenly another sound came from the back of the building. It was quite faint, but it was there. He got up as quietly as he could and retreated to his hiding place in the corner, next to the dining room. He was able to squeeze in next to a tall cupboard and stand unnoticed in the darkness.

Soon he heard the handle on the door to the corridor being pushed slowly down. It wasn’t in his field of vision. But the fridge was. And soon the boy was too.

Roald held his breath as he saw the small figure approach the fridge. If it hadn’t been for his eyes adjusting to the darkness over the previous few hours, he wouldn’t have been able to see a thing, but now he could clearly see the contours of a small boy. Shortish hair, slim build, and holding a large bag, possibly a rucksack, in his hand. He moved with impressive lightness and didn’t make a sound. Roald couldn’t hear a single one of his footsteps.

The boy didn’t turn on the light, but he evidently knew his way to the fridge. He opened the fridge door, only very slightly, but enough to see what it contained. As he had his back to Roald, his face wasn’t revealed by the fridge light, but Roald had time to catch sight of dark, straggly hair and a brown-and-orange-striped sweater. The next moment, the boy took out a foil tray and closed the fridge door. He stayed where he was, sniffing the tray, which contained the leftovers of the meal Roald had cooked for himself the night before. Spaghetti Bolognese. It wasn’t at all bad.

The boy ate a little with his fingers before putting the foil tray back, quickly and noiselessly, apart from the hissing sound which the door made when the rubber strips found one another again. Then he licked his fingers clean and turned to the table where Roald had been sitting. His hand reached the Donald Duck comics and, for a brief second, a tiny beam of light revealed Scrooge McDuck’s face. Then it was dark again. The boy put his rucksack on the table, took some magazines from the bottom of the pile and put them in his bag. Then his hand sought out the small glass bowl with sweets, and there was a momentary flash of multiple colours. He grabbed a handful and let liquorice pastilles and gummy bears trickle into a side pocket of his rucksack. A single pastille missed; it hit the floor with a small ping and rattled over the floor tiles.

The boy stood stock-still and listened out while he waited. Roald did likewise. No noise came from the rest of the house. Then the boy bent down, felt with his hands across the floor until he found the pastille and popped it into his mouth.

Was he going to take anything else? Continue to the stock room? Roald didn’t want to reveal himself yet. To his amazement, he was not only intrigued but also overcome with a strange tenderness towards his shy guest. There was something infinitely tragic about how skilled the boy was at executing his routine. Roald felt no anger at all, only compassion. And wonder.

The boy began exploring drawers and cupboards with great caution. At times the small cone of light would strike something, but only ever as a flash. Something was fished out of a drawer and put in the rucksack. Roald tried guessing what it might be. A hand whisk, possibly. The boy also took a pair of oven mitts, or possibly just the one. Then he suddenly hoisted up the rucksack and went back to the door.

Roald hesitated. Was now the time to make himself known? Should he step forward, clear his throat? The boy would probably get the shock of his life if he did. Perhaps he had better wait until the kid was on his way out of the window? Why the hell hadn’t he made a plan of his own?

The boy disappeared out of Roald’s field of vision. A faint squeak revealed that the door had been opened and closed. Soon afterwards there was a barely audible sound from the corridor; it came from the door to the stock room. If Roald hadn’t been expecting the sound, he would never have heard it. It might easily have been the wind. For a moment he hesitated in his hideout next to the cupboard, trying to collect his thoughts.

Finally he came forward. He didn’t head for the door to the corridor, although he knew that his stock room was in the process of being raided. He slipped out of another door – through the living room, out into the hall, out through the front door. He moved more silently than he had ever done, and thanked the wind for being a little noisier now. When he had closed the heavy front door carefully behind him, he turned to the small reception area in front of the pub. In one of the flower beds a couple of large bushes were swaying in the glow from the streetlight. Apart from that, everything was quiet.

The road to the north was just as deserted as the reception area. At that time of night any human activity would have been strange. Roald walked softly along the front of the pub until he reached the corner, from where he had a view of the driveway round to the back and thus the open basement window. The light from the nearest street lamp didn’t reach this far, but a crescent moon threw a faint glow over the gravel and the pub.

The first item to appear might well be toilet paper. An economy pack of twelve, which you could just about squeeze through the window frame. Afterwards, followed… a roll of some sort? Maybe oilcloth. Then the rucksack. Two skinny arms in a stripy jumper arranged everything outside to make room.

And then the child followed.

After he had climbed out, the boy left the window ajar, as he had found it. Then he put on the rucksack, picked up the toilet paper and the oilcloth and moved almost silently across the gravel and out on to the tarmac road. Roald stared after him. He still couldn’t decide whether to make himself known to the boy.

So instead he followed him. In the shadows.

The boy didn’t run, not really, but neither did he walk. There was something floating about his gait. Roald was reminded of indigenous people and Asian field workers who carried heavy loads over long distances.