Free The Daydreamer by Ian McEwan

watch TV, so arrangements were made with Mrs Farrar. Peter was set up on the living-room sofa.
    ‘No bad thing if the house looks occupied,’ his father said when he came in to say goodbye. ‘Turn the TV volume right up. You’ll keep the burglar out at least.’

    Everybody left. Peter turned off the TV and stretched out under the blanket, listening to the creaks and murmurs of a house settling into silence. He did not expect a break-in just yet, not at half past nine in the morning. He was sure burglars did not get out of bed early. Soapy Sam probably slept until midday, and ate a long slow breakfast, planning his next move over cups of strong coffee, and reading the papers for news of the arrest of old friends.
    Sure enough, the morning was uneventful. Mrs Farrar came by with some homemade biscuits. Peter watched TV, read books, checked his equipment and went about the house turning out one or two lights and drawing the living-room curtains so that he could not be seen from the outside. From the street the house looked empty. He was beginning to feel restless. He ate the lunch that had been left him, even though he was not hungry. He was bored with television and books, and most of all, he was bored with waiting. He prowled through the rooms. He crept up to the windows and peeped out. The street was quiet, dull, thiefless. Perhaps this was all a stupid mistake. Perhaps he should be at school with his friends.
    Taking care to bring his anti-burglar equipment with him, he went upstairs to his room. By leaning out of the window he had a good view of the street in both directions. No one, nothing, not even a single passing car. He lay down on his bed and groaned. Catching burglars was supposed to be exciting, and this was the dullest emptiest day he had ever spent. Pretending to be ill and doing nothing all morning had made him feel weary.

    He closed his eyes and drifted away. It was not a sleep exactly, more of a light doze. He was aware of himself on the bed, and he could hear sounds from outside, through the open window. Footsteps first, approaching from a long way off and coming closer. Then a scraping, dragging sound, sharp and dry, like metal being dragged over stone, and that too grew louder and louder, then stopped. Peter was awake enough to know that he really ought to try to open his eyes. He ought to get off the bed and close the window. But he was comfortable where he was, his body was heavy and soft, like a balloon filled with water. It was an effort to move his eyelids. Now there was another disturbance outside, just below his window, a soft rhythmic padding, like footsteps, but slower, as though someone was coming up a ladder. And the sound of difficult bad-tempered breathing that grew louder by the second.
    Peter came to his senses and opened his eyes. The open window filled his vision. He could see the end of an aluminium ladder propped against the window sill, and a hand, an old wrinkled hand, followed by another, groping over the ledge. Peter shrank back into the pillows. He was too terrified to remember his carefully thought-out plans. All he could do was watch. A head and shoulders appeared in the window frame. The face was obscured by a check scarf and a tight black cap. The figure held still for a moment, staring into the room without seeing Peter. Then it began to climb through the window with irritable grunts and murmurs of ‘Blasted stupid thing!’ until it was in and surveying the room, still without noticing Peter who lay so still he must have looked like part of the pattern on the bedspread.

    The burglar reached into a pocket, pulled out a pair of black gloves and pulled them on quickly. Then he unwound the scarf and pushed the cap clear of his face. But it wasn’t a he at all. Peter couldn’t help himself. He let out a cry of astonishment. The burglar looked straight at him without surprise.
    ‘Mrs Goodgame!’ Peter whispered.
    She smiled her yellow smile at him and arched her eyebrows.