His Name Was Walter

still she didn’t move, even when Grace discovered half a packet of chocolate biscuits and with a grand flourish put it on the table for everyone to share. The storm was sweeping towards them. Every now and then the window that looked on to the backyard vibrated with a buzzing sound as thunder cracked. It was fairly quiet in the kitchen, though. And at least we’ll be dry here, Colin thought, taking a biscuit. Safe and dry. Though in fact, he realised, he didn’t feel safe. Not really. There was an unpleasant feeling in the kitchen, somehow. It wasn’t just the rubbish in the box, and the general air of neglect. It was … an atmosphere that was cold and a bit inhuman. Again he looked at Tara. Her eyes were darting around the room. Colin looked around, too. He saw an ancient wood stove, a narrow electric stove that didn’t look much newer, a grubby electric jug, a deep, grimy-looking sink made of some sort of dark, speckled stone with a few chipped mugs upended on the draining board, a cream-painted dresser with tinted glass doors, a noisy old fridge and … And then he saw something that didn’t belong. At the far end of the big room stood an elegant little writing desk. The desk had been brought to the kitchen from somewhere else in the house, he was certain. Someone — maybe the tow-truck driver — had used it to keep notes about the renovations. Colin saw that instantly when

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