1. Break-in

Arthur Chisholm leaned back against his pillows, placed the last of his pupils' practice exam papers on the pile on the bed and sighed deeply.

"Identify a feature that is characteristic of a Mozart serenade," he said, staring at the ceiling, not really expecting his wife, Harriet, to answer. "Simple enough question, one would think, no?"

But though Harriet was engrossed in one of her mysteries - her head deep in her pillow, sleep not far away - she did at least acknowledge he had spoken.

"Hmm?" she said, not taking her eyes off her Kindle.

"I can tell you what it's not," he said, knowing he was really just talking to himself. "It's not 'a cheesy tune' which is what Ryan Lomax has written here. A cheesy tune, Ryan Lummox? Do you really think that's what the examiner is looking for?"

"What?" said Harriet, still not really engaging. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't mind me, just torturing myself," he said. "You know, I really should leave the most promising candidates until the end. The high-flyers. Not the footballers who pick the music option thinking how hard can it be? Then at least I'd go to sleep with some faith that this year's cohort might actually get some A grades. Instead of which ."

He put the pile of marked papers on the bedside cabinet, his green pen (not red, never red, far too critical a colour these days, he had been informed) on top of them.

"Groan. I always finish with the bottom feeders. The no-hopers. And therefore - QED - I go to sleep feeling positively dreadful."

He checked the alarm clock by the bed and sighed again. Quarter to twelve already and he'd need to be up at six to catch up with the rest of his marking and finish the end-of-term reports.

Just two weeks to go until Christmas - the rest of the world easing off the pedal while teachers everywhere burned the midnight oil keeping up.

Slates needing to be cleared before one could so much as think about the upcoming Christmas festivities!

"Arthur, it's not good for your health, leaving all your marking until this time of night," said Harriet, finally closing the lid of her Kindle and turning to him.

"I know! I don't do it deliberately, do I? But there's only so many hours in the day!"

"Your choice to sing the Messiah this year," said Harriet, rattling her pill box and lining up the night's usual doses. "That's what is taking up all your time."

Arthur stared at each pill as she swallowed. Anxiety. Acid reflux. Hormones. The little pink ones for her blood - not that he really knew what they did.

The things we do . just to keep on going.

Ah, to be young again, Arthur thought.

Then, when she'd finished her medicinal ritual:

"Once every ten years the Cherringham choir sings the full Messiah. And I have never missed a single one, have I? To partake in a performance of Handel's great masterpiece? Would not miss it for the world! Not a one since we started back in 1990! Thirty years, you realise? And now, this year . even more spectacular! Just to think, we're joining choirs across the country at the Royal Albert Hall! There is no way I'm going to miss that! Three thousand of us! Imagine that! Three thousand voices filling the great hall!"

"Yes. I'm sure it'll be very . loud," said Harriet.

Arthur looked at her. Loud? Loud?

Was it even worth trying to explain?

"I've still got you that spare ticket, you know," he said. "I can't keep it forever. There's plenty of people in the village desperate to come and watch. Free ride in the luxurious coach, too."

"I know," said Harriet. "But they still haven't confirmed my shifts at the shop. I'd love to hear it. But it is our busy time too, you know!"

"Right. The wheels of commerce and all that. Just a week to go, though. Less than a week, in fact. You need to decide!"

"I said I know. All right?"

Arthur knew from twenty years of marriage that now was the time to back off. He also knew Harriet had no interest in coming to London to see the performance - the busy "shoppe" a convenient excuse for her - but he had to go through the motions.

Of course, he did.

This little ritual dance of pleading each time the choir had a concert.

Just enough so he sounded sincere.

"Of course," he said. "I understand. Maybe tomorrow they'll tell you?"

"I can't promise anything. Anyway, talking about tomorrow . You got another of these extra rehearsals right after school?"

"Oh yes. Seven until nine. Don't worry about dinner, I'll sort something when I'm home."

"You getting a lift from school?"

"Um, yes, probably."

He watched her lean across to her light and turn it off, leaving the room in semi-darkness.

"Well, if we don't cross paths in the morning, try not to wake me when you get back," she said, pulling up the covers and turning away from him. "Could do with a good night's sleep for a change."

He stared at her back for a few seconds, then got up, put on his slippers, picked up the pile of exams, and headed downstairs to his study to put them safely in his work briefcase.

By the time he had returned to the bedroom, Harriet was already snoring.

Arthur climbed into bed, found his foam earplugs, inserted them, then turned out the light and went to sleep.

*

He was dreaming he was conducting the New York Philharmonic, easing them through those tricky bars in the finale of Mahler's 8th, the lead first violinist giving him her special smile, the entire audience holding its collective breath, when he heard .

Smash.

Glass breaking. In the real world.

He jolted awake; his eyes wide open in the pitch black and glanced at the glowing digits of the alarm clock.

Three o'clock in the morning.

Quickly he pulled the foam plugs from his ears, straining to hear the sounds of the house.

The click, tick, of the central heating, the radiators cooling. Outside, somewhere in the village, the faint sound of a car.

Next to him, the steady rise and fall of Harriet's breathing. A slight snort.

Nothing unusual there.

But then - a thunk - a noise he recognised, the way you know all the sounds of your own house, a kind of audio map of the familiar.

And this - yes - the sound of the refrigerator closing.

There was no doubt. There was someone in the house.

Middle of the night . and there could only be one reason.

He gulped, aware now that his heart was racing. His breathing fast.

And damn, his mobile was downstairs somewhere, or he could have used it to call the police.

He thought quickly through other options.

Wake Harriet? No, she might say something loud, frighten the intruder, who knew what they might do if panicked?

Stay here, quietly, do nothing? No - what if they came upstairs looking for money, jewellery? Lying here - we're way too vulnerable!

But what was the intruder doing? What was he after?

His guitar? But who steals a classical guitar?

His laptop? Maybe .

Damn. All the reports he'd been writing for the last two weeks, not backed up! That would be a disaster!

He sat up, then as quietly as he could, he swung himself out of bed. Tried to think if there was any kind of weapon in the bedroom. He ran his hand over the bedside cabinet. Nothing, except .

The hardback biography of Berlioz? Nearly two inches thick!

It's heavy enough, he thought, picking it up. A regular brick of a book.

He almost laughed - a Berlioz biography employed as a weapon against an intruder! But then the fear quickly took over again. He pulled the cord on his pyjamas tight, then he crept out of the room - cautious about any creaks - and started slowly down the carpeted stairs, into the darkness.

As he did, he heard Harriet stir in the bedroom behind him and start to snore.

Much louder now!

*

At the bottom of the stairs, Arthur stopped, frozen, and listened hard as he looked around.

The hall was dark, but through the open doors of the sitting room and dining room he could see in the dim light from appliances on standby that those rooms were empty.

Nobody moving.

At least down here there were some more appropriate weapons. The umbrella stand held two umbrellas - and yes - Harriet's Nordic Walking sticks, with pointy ends!

Those would be good for a solid thwack and a sharp poke.

He gently put down the Berlioz on the hall table, picked up the sticks - and then stepped slowly down the hall towards the back of the house.

The hard tiled floor so cold on his feet.

The door to the kitchen breakfast room was open. He stopped, breathed in deeply, and peered in.

Nobody there.

Phew. He had quick thought, a hopeful thought: could the intruder already be gone? Moving on to pastures greener than this obviously modest home?

On the...