Jason had an old pair of binoculars in the drawer downstairs and there was a torch in my car. I could look at the framed photo without interruption.
Sliding out of bed, I gathered up my clothes from the floor and stole across the carpet and out to the landing and the bathroom. I got changed in the dark.
I was almost ready when I fumbled with the lace on one of my trainers. The shoe dropped to the tiles with a thud. Across the hall, I heard Jason stir. Blood pounding in my ears, I waited to see if I’d woken him. There was nothing. Then I heard the telltale duvet rustles that meant he was turning onto his side. Only once I was sure he had properly settled did I finish getting dressed. All set, I tiptoed down the stairs and, after making a quick detour to the kitchen for the binoculars, I was out the door.
I worried that Jason might hear if I started the car while it was parked in front of the house and so I released the handbrake and let it roll backwards down the hill. As soon as I was a fair distance away, I put the key in the ignition. I hoped to get to the off-licence and back without Jason realising I was ever gone. However, if he did wake, I was counting on the fact that there had been plenty of previous occasions when, unable to sleep, one or the other of us had gone out pacing. There should be no cause for concern.
The motorway was predictably quiet, and I made it to Gateshead in less than an hour. I parked on Coatesworth Road, a short distance from Wine City, got out and walked up to the shopfront. The LEASEHOLD AVAILABLE sign was still hanging above the shop’s hoarding.
As would be expected at nearly two in the morning, the metal shutters were down, the door locked. However, despite the hour, there were some lights on in the flat above. Keith must still be awake. I’d need to be careful. I carried on to the end of the street, turned the corner and headed for the gap in the wall that led to the back alley.
As I moved forward into the darkness, I held the thin torch I’d brought in front of my body, but it was so small that it illuminated only tiny, ineffectual circles of light. Cursing myself for not thinking to bring something bigger, after a few minutes I gave up and turned it off. Gradually, my eyes began to adjust, and soon I could distinguish between the different gates and loading bays. Ten feet ahead was the brick extension that marked the back of the off-licence. I felt for the binoculars, on a strap around my neck, and continued on my way.
I was almost there when I heard rapid footsteps up ahead. A man was approaching from the opposite end of the alley. On instinct, I jumped behind a large industrial bin and crouched on the floor. Looking through the thin gap between the bin and the wall, I watched as the man slowed his pace. I worried it was because he’d seen me, but then I realised: he was counting doors. Tall and thickly built, he was completely bald and was dressed in jeans and smart shoes, his top half covered in a bulky Puffa jacket, the collar of which reached all the way to his ears.
He came to a stop outside the off-licence and took a step back, surveying the brick extension and first floor beyond.
Apparently satisfied with whatever he saw there, he moved in close to the door and raised his right hand, fist clenched. He banged hard three times, then stopped, listening. When a minute or so later there was still no response, he shook his head, disappointed, and then, as if he was sorry for what he was about to do, he began to bang on the door again. This time he didn’t stop. The dull thud of his fist against the metal was relentless. Each slam resulted in a dull thump followed by a tinny crumpling; the impact’s ripple effect on the door’s loose, metal outer edges.
Finally, a light came on in the extension’s single high, thin window. The metal door opened a crack, flooding the alley with a yellow glow.
The man in the alley held his fist in the air for a few seconds and then lowered it to his side. The