She had come to London as a student seven years ago, rented a room in the house-in return for light housework and baby-sitting duties-and had stayed on to become housekeeper and one of Alex's closest companions. She was in her late twenties with a sprawl of red hair and a round, boyish face. "Are you all right, Alex?" A young woman had come into the room. He had kept himself fit, had never smoked, and had dressed expensively. in fact, he didn't have any friends at all. A quiet, private man who liked good wine, classical music, and books. People said Alex looked a little like him. But what saddened him the most was the realization-too late now-that despite everything, he had hardly known his uncle at all. It was almost impossible to imagine that he would never again see the man, hear his laughter, or twist his arm to get help with his science homework.Īlex sighed, fighting against the sense of grief that was suddenly overwhelming. They hadn't just been relations, they'd been friends. Alex remembered the vacations they'd taken together, the many sports they'd played, the movies they'd seen. He had been brought up by his father's brother (never "uncle"-Ian Rider had hated that word) and had spent fourteen years in the same terraced house in Chelsea, London, between the King's Road and the river. They had both died in another accident, this one a plane crash, a few weeks after he had been born. Otherwise, he might have had a chance.Īlex thought of the man who had been his only relation for as long as he could remember. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt, the police said. Driving home, his car had been hit by a truck at Old Street roundabout and he had been killed almost instantly. It was only hours later, sitting in the kitchen, watching as the gray light of morning bled slowly through the West London streets, that Alex could try to make sense of what had happened. He could hear the two policemen talking down in the hall, but only some of the words reached him. The sort of voices people use when they come to tell you that someone close to you has died. that was how he would describe them later. But he also knew from the tone of their voices. He knew from the way the police stood there, awkward and unhappy. What is it? What's happened?"Īnd Alex already knew. The porch light went on and, at the same time, the door opened.
From his second-floor window Alex could see the black ID number on the roof and the caps of the two men who were standing in front of the door. For a moment he stood silently, half hidden in the shadow, looking out. His hair, cut short apart from two thick strands hanging over his forehead, was fair. Alex was fourteen, already well built, with the body of an athlete. The moonlight spilled onto his chest and shoulders. He rolled out of bed and walked over to the open window, his bare feet pressing down the carpet pile. There was a rattle as someone slid the security chain off the front door. The bell rang a second time, and he looked at the alarm clock glowing beside him. He heard a bedroom door open and a creak of wood as somebody went downstairs. His eyes flickered open, but for a moment he stayed completely still in his bed, lying on his back with his head resting on the pillow.
When the doorbell rings at three in the morning, it's never good news.Īlex Rider was woken by the first chime. Great Opening Lines to Hook Young Readers
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