Crash III: There's No Place Like Home by Michael Robertson Page B

the point where Michael couldn’t see George’s truck anymore, but he still watched out the window. Something may happen, and he didn’t want to miss it.
    When Lola walked over to his side, Michael shifted out of the way. He screwed his nose up at the smell of stale cigarette smoke.
    Lola pulled back from the window and said, “Alright, I think it’s dark enough now. I’m going to make my move. Wish me luck.”
    “You’re really going to rob him?”
    Lola rolled her eyes. “I said I was, didn’t I? Now wait here; I’ll be back soon, okay?”
    She glared at Michael as if daring him to answer. He didn’t.  
    They held each other’s stare for a moment before Lola left the room.  
    Michael listened to her footsteps as she walked down the stairs and across the laminated hallway. Then the latch on the front door clicked. Lola had gone. Now he had to wait.  
    Returning to the window, he watched Lola’s dark silhouette disappear up the road. Before long, the shadows had swallowed her whole.  
    Then it hit him. Maybe she wasn’t planning on coming back. Maybe she just wanted rid of him. Maybe she wasn’t going to George’s at all.
    With all of his anxieties forced to the back of his mind, Michael looked around the quiet and unlit room. Not only was he in a strange house in a strange part of London, but he was all on his own in the cold and silent darkness.  
    When a scuttling sound came from downstairs, Michael drew an involuntary breath and stared at the door. His tired eyes burned worse than ever.  
    A slow and rhythmic knocking ran through the house, calling to him from somewhere on the ground floor. Swallowing hard against his dry throat, Michael’s heartbeat ran rampant.  
    Maybe it’s the wind. Yeah right, like the wind has suddenly taken to rummaging around in the downstairs of abandoned houses.
    When he looked outside again, it was pitch black and he couldn’t see a thing.
    The cold had got under his skin again and Michael shook, closed his eyes, and thought of home. It was a home where his mum and sister were still alive, his dad was still working, and where all they had to think about was which channel to watch on the TV and how high to turn the heating up.  
    His pulse started to settle. Maybe he’d imagined the sound.
    A loud crashsounded out downstairs.
    His pulse skyrocketed again.

Visitors

    Michael stood in the bedroom and stared at the closed door. If he waited there, maybe the people downstairs would take what they wanted and leave. Maybe they wouldn’t check upstairs at all. Although basing a decision on 'maybe' needed a lot of luck and there wasn’t much of that in London at the moment. He needed to do something to get out! He had the element of surprise and maybe he should use it while he still had the advantage—Batman would!
    As he left the room, he pulled a golfing umbrella from a terracotta pot by the door. The door handle made no noise when he pushed it down, and the hinges glided open with little protest. Thank god.
    When Michael stepped out onto the quiet landing, he held his breath and listened for the sounds downstairs. Nothing—maybe they’d already left.
    The carpet that lined the stairs was soft and soundless beneath Michael’s feet. With every passing hour, his ankle got better and walking became much easier. He probably still couldn’t run, but it wouldn’t be long.  
    Michael stopped halfway down the stairs when he heard more sounds in the kitchen. He peered into the darkness in the direction of the kitchen.The intruder could be twice his size and was probably armed with a better weapon than a fucking umbrella. But he had to do something. He couldn’t just leave them there for Lola to come back to.  
    Michael pushed on and fought to keep his breath even.
    As he walked over the laminate flooring, his running shoes made a gentle tick against the hard surface. He took a step and then paused. He then took another step. It felt like playing 'What’s the Time,