John Marsden - Circle of fight

I did the only thing I could and went in, closing the door behind me. Jesus, sometimes as I write this stuff the hair on the back of my head stands up like I just had a crewcut. I won’t go on about it but it was not easy for me to go into that house. The hardest thing though was when I closed the door. I had to do it so no-one in the house would feel a draught blowing through the place and get suspicious, but there was a finality about doing it that had me wondering if I were coming to the end of my journey.

The journey of my life that is.

As I went through the door I pulled out the thing that had been a heavy weight in my pocket since I got it from Toddy. I don’t care what anyone says, there are times when a gun is very comforting to have. There is something cold and sinister and cruel about hand guns, but I didn’t want to go through that house without one.

I was half-a-dozen steps down the corridor before I realised something was leaning against the back of the square wooden table. In a way it was a good thing to see, in another way it was the most horrible of sights. There may have been families who liked to have a couple of firearms lying around in their front corridor for the kiddies to play with, but I didn’t think it was very likely. Not a high-powered automatic rifle, so new it looked like it had just been unpacked.

For a moment I debated whether it was best to leave it there or do something with it. Every second that I wasted in the corridor increased the chances of someone finding me. On the other hand, if this thing was loaded and ready for action, it might be in my best interests in the long term to do something about it. So I crouched, put my own gun on the floor and, with the stealthiest movements I could make, eased out the magazine. From the weight of it I’d say it was jampacked. There was nowhere to hide it, so I shoved it down the front of my jeans.

Picking up Toddy’s handgun I went on my merry way. The doors were closed and there was no light underneath them. It was possible Gavin was in one of these rooms, but for some reason I assumed he was upstairs. For the sake of security, surely that would be where you kept a prisoner.

I reached the end of the corridor still not able to see the source of the light coming from the right-hand side. I assumed there would be a kitchen and probably a dining room out there. But I heard the murmur of voices, and the scrape of a chair, so it seemed like people were awake, even at this hour of the night. I had to take the staircase, even though I was scared to do so. I don’t know what it is about staircases, but they always creak, and I knew it would be impossible for me to get to the top without making some noise. But it seemed better than the alternative, of bursting in on a couple of terrorists as they enjoyed their late-night coffee.

So I started up the stairs. I did it really heavily and slowly, putting all my weight on each step, trying to suffocate any noise the steps were tempted to make. That seemed to work OK. There were creaks, but they were reasonably minimal, and I didn’t think they would bring anyone from the kitchen or the back of the house.

It took me about ten minutes to get up that staircase, or that’s what it seemed like. I knew it was important to go slowly, for the sake of silence, but my problem was to make myself move at all. The higher I got, the slower I went, because it became a mental battle to get up to the next step. I’ve never climbed Everest, and don’t have any immediate plans to, but those stories of people battling their way to the summit, metre by weary metre, as blizzards smack their bodies with snow and hail and ice probably go pretty close to what I was feeling. But with me it was all in the mind. There was no blizzard, just the one in my head, bombarding me with fearful advice. Reaching the summit brought no feelings of pride or delight, just made the fear worse, so that I stood on the top step diseased with it. There were no lights up here, but there were too many choices. Another staircase ahead of me led to the next floor, and a staircase behind seemed to go to a couple of rooms at about the same level. But there was also a corridor to the right, which I thought probably went to the next house, as though they were joined. My instinct was to go further up, as far away from the voices below as I could. Trying to put myself into the minds of these guys, and wondering where they would store an abducted kid, I decided going up further was probably the smart thing to do.

It seemed like the staircase behind me was the less important, the less impressive. It was like it went up to a little out-of-the-way corner. Knowing Gavin I figured that they would want him as out of the way as possible, so I took that staircase.

This one was narrower and it creaked badly. The first step screeched and groaned as though it were playing a song from the flames of hell. I nearly bit my lip with the anxiety of trying to stand on it without any sound. I waited a full minute and then tried the second step. It was even worse. My throat was as dry as Antarctica. I couldn’t believe no-one had burst out of the room brandishing a gun and looking for the intruder. I decided to go for the big one and, stretching my right leg as far as I could, which isn’t very far, managed to skip the next two steps and go straight up to the fifth. Landing on it like that made even more noise, but I hoped one huge noise was not as bad as three big ones. I brought my left leg up as well, and stood there trembling, with sweat pouring off me. If only I could have sweated as much on the inside, then my throat might not have felt so parched, and my tongue might not have been sticking to the roof of my mouth.

Still no-one came, and I took the last two steps in another single movement. Well, a double movement by the time I got my left leg up there as well.

The darkness was pretty severe. There was a shape on my right that felt like a large photocopier, which surprised me a bit. I suppose terrorists have to photocopy stuff. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t a photocopier but a nuclear reactor or a superweapon. I’ve never seen a nuclear reactor, so I wouldn’t know.

On my immediate left was a door, and I thought there were two doors ahead of me, one further up on the left, and one straight in front. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I became more confident about what I was seeing. It was definitely a photocopier.

The difficult part was knowing what to do next. I chose the stupidest way of all, and did ‘eeny meeny, miney mo’. The winner was the door straight in front. So, on tiptoes this time, I went towards it.

I was almost touching the handle when I heard someone coming up the steps. This was another entry on the list of sounds you don’t want to hear. I broke out in a sweat that made my previous efforts seem like a faint mist compared to a torrential downpour. The footsteps were heavy and confident, as though the person had climbed these steps many times and felt right at home. I got down low to my left and squeezed in between the end of the photocopier and the wall, hoping that the person was not planning on running off a few copies of his favourite poem in the middle of the night.

He reached the landing below the one I was on, and paused. I shifted a little, to make myself more comfortable, although that’s a pretty silly word to use, as comfort wasn’t really a factor in my situation. I did want to avoid cramping though.

He turned up the other flight of steps, and as his footsteps started moving away from me, and I realised that I was safe for a few more moments, I peeked out. He opened what was the furthest door from me, although I could not see that until he turned on the light inside the room. From the glimpse I got it looked like a regular bedroom, but with a lot of stuff — just clothes — strewn on the floor. Then he shut the door, and the only light left was the thin ribbon down at carpet level.