FIFTEEN: DESPERATE PEOPLE
A knock at the door in the small hours of the morning is almost always bad news. Blott felt this time was no exception. The night was black when he was woken and his stomach pumped full of dread.
His father’s cautious steps passed his bedroom, heading down the creaking stairs to the front door. He answered the caller in hushed tones. There were three stern voices. Then two. Then none. They were gone.
Blott let out a relieved sigh and pretended to be asleep just in case his father peered around his door to check on him on his way back to bed – a habit that had formed after years of dealing with his night terrors.
Thanks to Primus’ position, the family were used to night-time callers. They usually addressed “urgent” council business that really could have waited
