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There were always army lorries rumbling though the village, so it was not difficult to hitch a ride. We left the wheelchair behind in the café. Bertie said it would only get in the way, that he could manage well enough with his stick.
The journey felt like it took forever, we were both feeling anxious and terrified at the possibility of not finding the White Lion. Bertie fiddled with his walking stick for the entire ride. Finally, Bertie and I felt the lorry halt, we hobbled out the back carefully.
With anticipation we both stared at the house, hoping that we would see Bertie’s childhood friend. Monsieur Merlot’s house was big and old. It sat next to a murky river and an old decaying stone bridge. We walked towards the large wooden door at the front of the house. Ivy covered the walls, it looked abandoned.
Bertie’s hand was trembling as he knocked the door, we waited in silence.
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When Bertie pushed gently at the door, it opened. Eerily, there was no sound, no movement – only a space filled with pitch blackness. Floor boards creaked underneath our first foot step as we entered the darkness. As the speckled dots began to disappear from my eyes, I noticed Bertie’s figure creeping towards a windy, wooden staircase.
