Calling All Services (Calling All... Book 1)

by Tara Ford

  By the end of the evening, Alex had become very drunk, while spending her time with Grant, talking and occasionally dancing.

  After her two friends had gone off somewhere else, Alex had to make her own way home and proceeded to join a taxi queue that looked like it would be hours long, as hundreds of people poured out of the club.

  “I could give you a lift home, my car is over there in the car park. My mate’s around here somewhere. I’ve just got to wait for him,” said Grant shyly, realising his offer was turning into a chat-up line for a date.

  “Bet you haven’t got a car really. How can you drive when you’ve been drinking?” slurred Alex, swiftly putting her arm through his to steady her uncoordinated legs.

  “I haven’t been drinking. I don’t drink.”

  “Oh, okay. Let’s go,” she’d giggled, dragging him in the direction of the car park. Approaching the car with a wobble, Alex laughed. “This isn’t your car!”

  “Yes it is,” he said, pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket. “You can get in if you want to, while I wait here for my mate, Matt.”

  Wearily, Alex climbed in the back seat and looked around the neat interior of the Ford Capri. Hmm, bet it belongs to his dad, she’d thought to herself, and then told Grant later on in their relationship.

  Smiling again, Grant switched another light off and snorted a short laugh as he remembered her words of warning that first night they met.

  Foolishly, Alex had come to find herself sat in the back of a car with two beefy young men in the front, who she hardly knew, in the early hours of the morning.

  As Grant set off on the journey to her house to drop her off, she said, “I can fight you know, so don’t try anything funny ‘cos I’m tougher than I look.”

  The two young men had laughed at the endearing, vulnerable woman, saturated with alcohol, who could have potentially made a very big mistake when it came to her safety.

  Luckily for Alex, Grant thought he’d fallen in love with her at first sight and therefore she would be safe for as long as she wanted to be. That was the start of what turned out to be a beautifully romantic relationship which went from strength to strength as the months and years went by, culminating in a lifelong, loving pairing. Most importantly, they became best friends.

  Returning to the lounge, Grant flipped the handle of the reclining chair and pressed the remote control until he found an old western film. The 1950s movie was perfect material for his eyelids to view as he started to doze in the dim and flickering light of the television.

  What the hell was that?

  The awakening thought injected shock into Grant’s body and he bolted into startled consciousness. A loud bang from the back garden roused him like the firing of a starting pistol. Pulling himself up, he crept through to the dining room as his pupils adjusted to the darkness. Peering out of the patio doors, Grant was infected with an adrenaline rush as a dark figure of a man moved stealthily through the garden. Immediately Grant stepped back behind the curtain, his heart leaping to his throat and a cold sweat leaking through the pores of his forehead. Edging backwards into the darkness of the kitchen, Grant slowly opened the drawer and pulled out a carving knife.

  Inching back to the patio door, his heart pounding heavily in his chest, he cautiously turned the key in the lock – click!

  The startled hooded intruder turned towards the patio, caught site of Grant’s fearful, glaring eyes, and shouted an incoherent word across the garden as he darted to the fence and scrambled over.

  Grant halted in terror on the patio with the glinting, razor-sharp knife held menacingly in his fisted grasp. Fear and anger surged through his veins as his body began to tremble.

  To his left, another loud bang resonated along the fence panels from the side garden. This time Grant was sure he knew where the sound was coming from. Dashing around the side of the house, he caught sight of a second hooded figure leaping from the shed roof down on to the wheelie bin on the other side of the wall. The trespasser turned his head back towards Grant and their eyes met momentarily before he scurried away silently.

  Launching himself through the side garden to the six-foot gate, Grant scaled the wrought iron bars and pulled himself up and over the top, gripping the knife in his teeth like an action hero. Jumping down into the drive, he caught hold of the blade and sped out to the middle of the road.

  The two figures were fleeing from the scene a hundred yards up Pinewood Avenue as Grant stood motionless, catching his rapid breath. The knife held firmly by his side, thoughts racing through his head, Grant’s conscience battled over whether he should pursue them.

  Suddenly aware of his menacing appearance, standing in the middle of the road like a psychotic maniac brandishing a threateningly large knife, Grant came to his senses and returned to the driveway. Blood charged through his veins like an electrical current as his adrenal glands continued to seep a fight, flight or freeze chemical concoction.

  Historically, Grant’s past experiences and failings had always been due to the fight response kicking in, culminating in many unnecessary and foolish situations.

  Suddenly realising that he was locked out of his own home, Grant climbed back over the padlocked side gate, praying that no one would see him or suspect him of being an intruder, brandishing a carving knife.

  Staggering into the back garden, he noticed that Joe’s bike wasn’t in its usual place. Not another one, for God’s sake! Entering the house, he closed the patio door and paced up and down the dining room, powered by the adrenalin and pent-up fury.

  The thought that someone had dared enter his private grounds consumed him as he continued to tremble uncontrollably.

  Pausing on the laminate flooring, Grant had a burning question: where was Joe’s bike? He had not seen the two men running off with it, yet the bike was gone.

  Gently at first, Grant shook Joe’s shoulder in an attempt to wake him, and then jerked him more vigorously.

  “Joe, wake up mate. Joe!”

  Stirring and turning to look at his dad with half-closed eyes, Joe woke up, somewhat puzzled. “What?”

  “Where’s your bike?” Grant whispered.

  “In the garden.”

  “No it’s not mate, I’ve just seen two fellas in the garden. I chased them off. Your bike’s gone. I’m going to call the cops.”

  “What?” Joe called as his dad tiptoed back out of the room and down the stairs. Heaving himself out of bed, Joe groped around clumsily in the semi-darkness and got dressed. By the time he reached the lounge, his dad was already on the phone to the police.

  “I nearly caught them, can’t you send someone out now? I know they took it.” Grant paused. “Look, this is the third time this has happened to my boy... No, I don’t want a bloody crime number. I want you to do something about it!” Grant’s temper was rising. “Well if you’re not going to do anything about it, I’ll go and find them myself!” He slammed the phone down onto its base so hard that the table lamp wobbled and began to fall, before Grant caught it.

  “Come on Joe, we’ll go and find them. I saw one of them clearly, I would recognise him again. They’ve got your bike, I know it! I’m not sitting back and waiting for the cops to do nothing about it.”

  Sneaking into Emma’s room, Grant could see she was fast asleep. He pulled her door to and crept down the stairs, leaving a scribbled note on the kitchen top for her, just in case she got up and wondered where everyone had gone.

  Grant and Joe left the house, the front door locked safely behind them. Then they hopped into the car and pulled out of the drive at speed, in the dead of night.

  Trawling the streets in a two-mile radius again and again, Grant knew he would recognise them if he saw them. He was sure of it. At 2.45 in the morning there was no traffic and no pedestrians anywhere to be seen, not even any drunken late-night clubbers trying to remember their way home.

  The only vehicle they had seen was a police car passing by. The two police officers closely examined Grant’s car and the p
assengers within as they slowly slipped past.

  “I’m sorry about laughing at you earlier Joe.” Grant’s apology was now sincere after the ridicule earlier in the evening.

  “That’s okay. Suppose it was funny, but I was scared at the time.”

  “Yeah I know mate, but seriously, the cows wouldn’t have hurt you.” He leant over and ruffled Joe’s hair as they continued the rest of their circular search in contemplative silence.

  Twenty minutes later, Grant said they should give up the pursuit and return home. On the way back, they encountered the same two officers trawling the streets in their panda car. Grant was flagged to a halt as they approached and pulled up alongside his car.

  “Are you lost?” asked the round-faced woman.

  “Erm, no. We’re just looking for someone,” Grant replied guiltily.

  “Who are you looking for at this time of night?” The policewoman looked puzzled.

  “I caught two men in my garden and they’ve nicked his bike.” Grant pointed towards Joe in the front passenger seat, who looked bleary-eyed. “We were looking for them to get his bike back.” Realising that he was being far too truthful, Grant then started to worry that he could be getting himself into trouble.

  “What’s your name, Sir?”

  “Grant Frey.” Damn, was he in trouble?

  “I think you need to head home, Mr Frey. We will survey the area, don’t you worry. Looks like you should be getting that young man home to bed at this late hour. Call the station and report the bike stolen.”

  “Yes, I will, thank you. We were just on our way home anyway,” replied Grant hastily as he pushed the gearstick into first and slowly started to pull away.

  The two cars parted and went their separate ways. “Phew! That was close mate, wasn’t it?” said Grant, anxiously.

  Joe didn’t reply, assuming it was a rhetorical question as he smiled through a yawn.

  Exhausted and miserable, Joe went straight back to bed upon their return from an unsuccessful road trip.

  Back in the comfort of his armchair, Grant slurped some calming sweet tea and thought just for a moment that he sounded like a teenager eating breakfast.

  Retracing his steps and the events of the last 12 hours, Grant mused over just what a night it had been.

  One minute he was travelling at high speed in an ambulance and then in the same night he was climbing his gate with a weapon gripped in his teeth like an Indian fruit picker climbing a coconut tree. What would he have done if he’d caught one of the men? Not even wanting to contemplate that, Grant looked at the clock and wondered just how much sleep he’d really had in the last two days, as the time approached 3.25am.

  Finishing his tea, Grant turned off the TV and curled up on the sofa. His mind darted around, retracing his heroic steps frame by frame. Had he been brave or stupid? The pent-up anger began to rise again as he felt both pity at yet another of Joe’s bikes going missing, and fury at the invasion of his privacy – his castle.

  As sleep prevailed, Grant’s turmoil subsided and gave in to unconsciousness.

  Was someone knocking at the front door?

  Opening his eyes, Grant caught sight of a stream of light beaming through the fabric of the curtains.

  Was he dreaming?

  Bang, bang, bang.

  The front door shook again.

  Staring up at the clock above the mantelpiece, Grant could just see the large hands of the clock face in the gloom. Who the hell was knocking on the front door at 4.30 in the morning and shining torches through his windows?

  A bolt of anxiety raised Grant to his feet as he thought of the two hooded men. Surely they wouldn’t knock on his front door. Maybe they wanted to borrow a bike lock so they could secure Joe’s bike safely for themselves, he thought sarcastically.

  Hesitantly he advanced to the porch and peeped through the stained glass window. Fragmented images of two police officers wearing fluorescent jackets stood outside. Opening the door slightly, Grant peeped out and remembered the two officers from earlier.

  “May we come in, Mr Frey?” asked the plump policewoman who had spoken to him only an hour ago.

  “Err, yeah, sure, come in.” What the hell are they doing here? he wondered.

  Showing them through to the dining room, flicking the light switches on as he went, Grant fumbled and mumbled in a sleepy, confused state.

  “Have a seat. Do you want a cup of tea?” he asked, turning the corner into the kitchen and flicking the kettle on. Perhaps tea would be a good peace offering, should he need one. Overriding guilt filled Grant as he tried to convince himself that the police had turned up to tell him they’d caught the thieves, and not to tell him off for his telephone manner earlier.

  “No thank you,” said the man with a long, crooked nose.

  His piercing blue eyes sent a shiver through Grant’s aching body. The assault course over the gate earlier had highlighted his diminishing fitness levels since he’d given up playing football two years ago.

  “No thanks,” replied the policewoman as she held her hand up like she was stopping traffic.

  “Do you mind if I get one? I’ve just woke up.” Grant desperately needed a cup of tea. His addiction was quite extreme, he realised, but it could have been a lot worse; he could be an alcoholic or a heroin addict! He popped a teabag into his mug before either of the officers replied.

  “No, go ahead Mr Frey. We just have a few questions we would like to ask you. My name is PC Oakes and my colleague here is PC Gallimore” said PC Oakes, pulling a notebook from her pocket and smiling at PC Gallimore.

  “No problem, what can I do for you?” Grant stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, leaning back slightly so that he could see around the corner of the wide archway between the dining room and kitchen.

  The overworked kettle had just reached its climax as Grant grabbed the handle to pour…

  “Mr Frey, I’ll come straight to the point. We have reason to believe that both you and a minor accomplice have been involved in vigilante behaviour this evening,” the policewoman stated bluntly.

  The shocking news stunned Grant into absent-mindedness…

  “Argh!”

  A momentary halt of brain function had caused Grant to continue pouring boiling water from the kettle into his mug to the point of overflow. The blistering hot liquid gushed over the rim of the mug, flooded the worktop and poured down the units to his socks.

  “Ouch!” he yelled, thumping the kettle down and hopping away from the units like a one-legged kangaroo bounding around the kitchen.

  PC Gallimore stood up and peered around the corner of the arch in surprise.

  “Are you all right, Mr Frey?” he asked.

  “Yes – no!”

  Grant bent down and hastily grabbed hold of his socked foot as the water continued to seep across the kitchen floor.

  “Argh!” he moaned, squeezing the scalding hot sock and almost burning his hand. Crouching down, he carefully peeled the soggy, hot cotton mix away from his skin to discover that three toes on his left foot were bright red like a baboon’s bottom and blisters were already forming.

  “Can I get you anything?” asked the policeman, as he moved towards the kitchen area, stopping at the archway and looking rather uncomfortable at the embarrassingly ridiculous situation.

  PC Oakes rose from her seat and joined the fiasco in the kitchen.

  “Have you got a bowl?” she asked as she quickly and efficiently gauged the burnt toes.

  Grant pointed to the cupboard. “Argh,” he complained, hopping into the dining room and plonking himself down on a chair.

  “Dad, what’s going on?” A little sleepy voice turned everybody’s heads.

  At the same time, PC Oakes came rushing out of the kitchen, precariously carrying a large mixing bowl half-full of cold water.

  Grant sensed that his daughter could really be starting to panic at the sight of two police officers in the dining room, in the middle of the night. Knowing Emma, sh
e probably thought that the police were waiting to see her. She had frozen to the spot. Grant imagined the things that would be running through her head. Was she going to be sent to prison? She hadn’t meant to damage the school locker.

  Slowly Emma edged forwards into the room. “I’ll clean cars for the rest of my teenage years,” she whimpered, before her eyes began to fill. Her face turned a sickly pale colour as she was just about to burst into a sea of tears.

  “Em, it’s okay honey, go back to bed. Everything is all right, don’t worry,” murmured Grant as PC Oakes placed the bowl on the floor next to him and planted his foot into the cold water. “Argh!”

  “What have you done, Dad?” Emma looked horrified and puzzled at the unusual scene before her eyes. “Why are the police here then and why are they looking at your foot?”

  “Em, just leave it please. I’ll explain later,” replied Grant huffily.

  “I just want a drink, can I get one?”

  Grant nodded, and Emma stared at him, bemused. This rather crazy situation wasn’t about her and the crime she had committed after all. Her dad had hurt his foot somehow.

  “Did you accidentally call the police instead of an ambulance?” she asked innocently.

  Grant glared at her and Emma knew it was time to shut up.

  Stepping over the woman who was examining her dad’s damaged toes and picking black sock fluff from the soothing water, Emma headed towards the kitchen.

  “Be careful, there is water everywhere,” said PC Gallimore, leaning against the archway like a groom waiting for his bride.

  “I’ll clean it up,” said Emma shyly, unaccustomed to having a police officer standing in her kitchen and another one bathing her father’s foot in a mixing bowl in the middle of the night. She grabbed the tea towel and started to mop up the warm water from the floor.