Six Impossible Things Read Online Free PDF Page A

and patting his bedding into shape. He’s very fussy and doesn’t relax until he’s satisfied. Then he curls up, heaves an almighty sigh and is snoring inside a second. I’m getting used to his sounds at night – it’s like having a little engine sleeping next to you.
    ‘When we got here, Howard ran upstairs and scratched like a maniac at the door of Adelaide’s room. When we let him in, he went and got that and followed me to my room.’
    Howard cocks up one ear, as he always does when he hears his name.
    ‘He remembered where his bed was? That’s pretty good,’ says Fred.
    ‘And I think it reminds him of Adelaide. It’s a bunch of her old cardigans knotted together.’
    Howard snuffles down deeper, listening and agreeing.
    ‘Who’s that?’ Fred asks, peering out the window.
    There’s a guy with luggage, letting himself into the building at the foot of the garden.
    ‘Must be the stables guy. He gets to live out there for as long as he wants. Like us and the house.’
    ‘It’d be worth the trust’s while to knock off him and your mum.’
    The same thought has occurred to me.
    ‘I’ve told her to watch her back. She says it’s the least of her worries.’
    ‘Which side’s Estelle on?’
    ‘Over there,’ I point to the left.
    ‘So, you’d be able to hear her if she’s in her garden.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    He looks up and around.
    ‘You share a party wall with her,’ he says. ‘That’s something you’ve got in common.’
    ‘Knockout icebreaker, Fred. I’ll try that one.’
    ‘Where’s your laptop?’
    ‘School took it back. You know how they’re leased . . .’
    I can see Fred wants to kick himself. He hasn’t had much time to adjust to my new no-money life.
    ‘I was emailing you from our friendly municipal library when you were away.’
    ‘This is bad.’
    ‘Bad for me,’ I say, desperately trying to lighten it up for him. ‘Means I have to see you in person . . . actually talk to you.’
    ‘What about your phone?’
    ‘Gone. But when I get a job, I’ll get a pre-paid.’
    ‘Where does that door go?’
    ‘It’s like a storeroom, airing cupboard, upstairs hot-water service, linen press sort of room.’
    Fred tries the handle. It doesn’t open because I’ve locked it, and the key is in my pocket.
    ‘It’s jammed,’ I lie. Howard snorts. Even in his semiconscious state he’s onto me. How does he do that?
    Fred heads off to do his holiday homework, chomping on a piece of wedding cake sample – it’s our only snack food – and I go back upstairs to feel bad all over again about my visit to the attic.

8
    I T HAPPENED ABOUT A week ago, when my mother was getting frantic about ‘rodents’ and the impending council health inspection, which would mean she could, or could not, start operating her business.
    We’d both been hearing the bumps in the night and even though it sounded more like possums or cats than rats to me, I said I’d check it out. That night I dreamt of morose health inspectors, large rats in suits carrying clipboards, stepping around the happy little attic rats who’d come down to party in the kitchen, and I woke to a distinct scratching noise followed by a bump from overhead. It sounded like something being dropped, and it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I stuffed my head under a pillow but heard the scratching again. I sat up and dinted the pitch darkness with my torch. Paper- sharp slices of wind were sighing through gaps in the window frames, moving the heavy curtains gently, so they looked to be breathing in and out. I shivered with cold and horror, and zipped the light around the room once more.
    There was a dark shape near the door – it was Howard doing the scratching. I put on a jumper, grumbling but happy to take him out – better by a long shot than cleaning up something biological in the morning. And besides, I’ve promised him he’ll never have to suffer the indignity of having to pee inside again.
    As we walked along the