16
I slip on a pair of Edith’s thick, green-coloured gardening gloves, and then tuck my sleeves into them so that there’s no flesh exposed. I do the same for my ankles, pulling my socks up over my trousers. I then wrap one of her pink scarves over my mouth.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the landing mirror and decide I look like a b****y idiot.But who cares. I’m not here to look good.
Clutching an old, scuffed-up cricket bat Edith found under the stairs, I feel every muscle tighten with dread as I watch her untie the scarf from the banister.
“You ready?” I whisper.
She nods to me when the scarf drops to the floor, still attached to the door handle.
“I need you to wait downstairs,” I tell her. “It’s too dangerous up here.”
“No. I can’t. I need to see for myself.”
“Don't be st
