The House on Cold Hill

22

Plock.

A droplet of water landed on Ollie’s forehead. He woke up with a start and looked at the clock.

3.03 a.m.

Plock.

Another droplet struck him in the same place.

He raised his hand and touched his forehead. It was wet.

Plock.

‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Fuck!’ As another droplet struck his cheek, he reached down beside the bed, fumbling for the torch.

‘What is it?’ Caro murmured.

‘I think we’ve got a leak.’

He grabbed the torch, but before he could switch it on, there was a crack as loud as a gunshot above them, then a deluge of cold water, plaster and choking dust descended on them.

‘Jesus!’ Ollie shouted, leaping out of bed. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ He switched on the torch.

‘What the hell’s—?’ Caro sat up, sharply. In the beam of his torch, covered in white dust, she looked like a ghost.

‘What the — what the—?’ Caro said, scrambling out of bed.

Ollie swung the beam upwards. A large chunk of the centre of the ceiling had caved in, leaving a hole several feet in diameter, through which water was cascading.

He grabbed his phone from the bedside table, found the plumber’s number and dialled it. After several rings, when he thought it was going to go to voicemail, he suddenly heard a click, followed by a surprisingly breezy Irish voice.

‘Squire Harcourt, good morning, sir! Is everything all right?’