Heather's Busy Week Pt. 06

'Thanks for that, Hev. You know how to cheer a girl up.'

They took a tentative first step and were even more amazed when Carrie's feet stepped with them.

'Keep going, Naz,' said Heather. 'And steady with it. Carrie . . . if you can hear me . . . you are doing great. Solidarity, sister!'

Carrie's faltering steps became more assured as they went. She may have been sleepwalking but she did it well. As Heather had secretly hoped, the staircase was wide enough for three of them abreast. And, as if that wasn't a bonus in itself, Carrie was even steadier on stairs than she was on the flat. They were downstairs in next to no time.

'Hold on a sec,' Heather said before they tackled the hallway. 'I need to make that call.'

With her left arm still supporting Carrie, she dialled her usual taxi firm. The call was answered by a woman with a pure Lancashire accent. "Hattie", as the dispatcher called herself, sounded like the dizzy twenty-year old daughter of a former mill worker. Hearing her always conjured up images of long smooth legs and even longer, bleached blonde hair. In real life she was an Indian lady, well into her forties. Her hair wasn't blonde (obviously) and, barely scraping five feet tall, her legs weren't noticeably smooth or long. She did, however, have far and away the world's most suggestive telephone voice. And to be fair, she probably was the daughter of a former mill worker . . . or possibly two former mill workers.

'Hi, it's Heather Hunter. Is Majid Khan working today?'

''Ow do, chuck. Of course he is.'

'Can you ask him to pick me up, please? It's urgent.'

'He asked me to give him your fares anyway. Where are you, chuck?'

Heather gave the address and was assured Majid would be there in ten minutes. Hattie had never let her down before so, reassured, she pocketed her mobile and suggested they got the speed of light out of there. Naz was very much in favour of that idea and they passed the arty spider without incident.

Not that it wasn't still creepy.

Getting Carrie out of the house was surprisingly difficult. For some reason, she found climbing over the tiny doorsill infinitely harder than coming down fifteen or more steps on the staircase. In the end Heather and Naz resorted to a makeshift lift and drag technique. It wasn't exactly pretty, but it worked.

'Can you hold her while I lock up?'

Naz scowled. 'Why bother? Let him get robbed.'

'If the door's unlocked he'll know someone's been here straightaway, won't he? In fact he'll know straightaway if the key's not back in that basket. Anything to delay him a bit.'

Leaving the house secured they encountered another small problem. There was no doorstep as such, but there were three steps a few yards from the front door, taking them down from a paved landing sort of area, onto the gravel drive. Maybe it was the battle over the doorsill, but Carrie's legs didn't like them one bit.

Then Carrie's legs didn't like the gravel. They still sleepwalked . . . after a fashion . . . but they were clumsy with it. Sometimes they'd miss a pace, other times they would dig in ankle-deep, bringing the little procession to a stuttering halt.

Smothering curses, trying to encourage Carrie as they went, they stop-and-started their way halfway down the drive before hearing car tyres crunching along the strafed road.

'That'll be Majid,' Heather said. 'He'll help us from here.'

She nearly died when a gleaming black BMW turned in through the gates.