by Shaun Hutson
By mid-afternoon, they stopped.
The wood had been cut to the required lengths and, more to the point, tiredness was beginning to set in.
Ronni made tea and she and the residents sat around on the patio at the rear of Shelby House drinking it, enjoying the brief rest.
Few words were spoken.
Ronni paid particular attention to Harry Holland, but he seemed unusually chirpy considering the circumstances.
Jack Fuller finished his drink first and wandered off around the side of the building. He was joined moments later by George Errington.
“We’ll cover all the windows on the ground floor,” Fuller said, wiping perspiration from his face.
“Not all of them,” Errington murmured.
“Leave the office as it is.”
Fuller looked at him, then at the designated window.
He understood.
Three wooden slats across every window. Each one four feet across and three inches thick.
Fuller supervised the erection of the makeshift bars.
Ronni pulled at them, wondering if they would be strong enough.
“If they want to get in badly enough, then they will,” Fuller said.
“But these might be enough to put them off.”
“I hope so, Jack,” she muttered.
The office window remained unprotected.
If she noticed, Ronni said nothing.
The work continued into late afternoon.
As the time ticked around to 4.45 p.m.” the sky began to fill with clouds. Eva Cole thought she heard the first rumblings of thunder.
Fuller, Glazer and Gordon Faulkner finished the last few windows as quickly as they could, then retreated inside.
Dusk fell like a blanket within two hours.
By seven-thirty it would be dark.
THE RAIN THAT had been falling for the last hour or so had eased off to an irritating drizzle.
As Carl Thompson moved through the bushes, he displaced branches and water sprayed onto those behind him. There were some muttered complaints from Graham Brown and Tina Craven as they were drenched.
Thompson silenced their mutterings with a glance.
As he walked, he was constantly flicking his lighter on and off, the flame spearing up into the damp air like a miniature beacon.
“We should burn the whole fucking place down,” Brown offered.
“Let the old cunts fry.”
Liam Harper laughed loudly and, again, Thompson silenced him with a stare.
“We’re not burning anything,” the older youth said finally.
“We don’t have to.”
“So how are we going to see what the old bastards have got while they’re still in there?” Donna Freeman wanted to know.
“They’re shitting themselves. They’ll probably just give us their stuff when we get in.”
“And it wasn’t hard getting in last time, was it?” Brown chuckled.
“Even carrying that fucking dog.”
From their position in the bushes, the group looked at the looming edifice of Shelby House. There were lights burning in a number of the downstairs rooms as well as on the landing and in a couple of other places on the first floor.
“Just get on with it, will you?” Tina Craven complained.
“I’m soaked already. I don’t know why you just didn’t take whatever they had the last time you broke in.”
“Shut up, you slag,” Liam Harper hissed.
Tina spun round and swung a punch at him, but he ducked and scuttled away in the direction of the drive.
“This isn’t just about money,” snapped Thompson.
“It’s about teaching those old farts some fucking respect.”
Followed by Terry Mackenzie, Harper began to pick up some of the larger pieces of rock from the driveway.
Thompson watched them advancing towards the building.
“Go and help them, Tina,” he said.
“Why can’t I come in with you and Donna? Help you look for the money?”
“I told you, this isn’t about money,” Thompson snapped.
“Just move it.”
“Yeah, move it.” Brown grinned.
She sloped off to join the two boys in the driveway.
Thompson waited a moment longer then nudged Brown. Followed by Donna, they set off across the large open expanse of lawn, moving quickly and ducked low.
“What the fuck is that?” Brown said, pointing to the wooden slats that had been placed over every window.
“I don’t think they want us to get in.” Thompson smiled.
The phone call came at just after nine that night.
In the office upstairs, Ronni picked up the receiver.
“Shelby House,” she said.
The caller wanted to speak to Veronica Porter.
“That’s me,” she said, her heart thudding a little faster as she thought she recognized the voice.
The caller identified herself as Nurse Patricia Gallagher.
Oh, God, no. Not now.
Her father’s condition had taken an unexpected turn for the worse.
“What’s happened?” Ronni asked breathlessly.
The doctors had noted his blood pressure was rising alarmingly. They weren’t sure why, but they feared it could cause a damaged blood vessel inside his brain to rupture. He was being kept under constant observation.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Ronni said, her hand now shaking.
She pressed down hard on the cradle, then dialled a taxi.
“Please hurry,” she insisted.
“It’s very urgent.”
Ronni snatched up her coat and handbag and made her way downstairs to tell Gordon Faulkner what was happening.
It was 9.07 p.m.
THEY WERE IN the shadows at the side of the building now, and all three of them slowed their pace.
Thompson could see Harper, Tina and Mackenzie outside the front of Shelby House, occasionally illuminated by the lights from inside.
“They better not start chucking those stones until we’re inside,” Donna said, reaching into the pocket of her Kangol jacket.
“They know what to do,” Thompson assured her.
When she opened her hand, he could see a small round white tablet in the palm.
“Got any of those to spare?” Brown wanted to know.
Twenty quid each,” she said, holding out her other hand.
“Fuck off.”
She swallowed the speed dry and grinned at him.
“Fucking druggie,” Brown grunted.
Thompson moved away from the squabbling pair and discovered an unlit room. He tugged on the first of the wooden slats and found it was well secured.
So was the next.
He moved on.
“I’ll be fine on my own,” Faulkner insisted, practically pushing Ronni towards the main doors.
“Just go, Ronni.”
She unlocked the doors and stepped out onto the porch. The taxi was waiting, engine purring.
She hurried across and slid into the back seat. Faulkner watched as it turned around and disappeared up the driveway, its tail-lights gradually swallowed by the gloom. Then he prepared to lock the doors once more. As he did so he saw something move in the bushes to his right.
Thompson finally came to the ground-floor office window, smiling when he saw none of the protective wooden bars sported by the others.
“They forgot one,” he called.
He squinted through the makeshift bars, trying to see into the office beyond. There was a bar of light showing beneath the door, but other than that, nothing.
“This is going to be a piece of piss,” Brown sneered, pulling a black bin bag from inside his coat.
Thompson fumbled on the ground for a piece of stone to break the window. Once that was done, it was merely a matter of reaching in, slipping the lock and pushing the window open.
As easy as that.
His two companions looked on as he fina
lly closed his fist around a lump of jagged stone.
“There’s someone out there.”
Gordon Faulkner was still peering myopically into the gloom, his eyes fixed on the bushes that grew thickly at one side of the driveway.
“Don’t go out,” Donald Tanner urged.
“Look,” Faulkner insisted, pointing towards the waving bushes.
Tanner could see nothing.
“They can’t get in, Gordon. Leave it.”
“If I can catch them on the grounds, then the police will have to do something,” he hissed angrily. The bastards have got away with this for too long.”
“You don’t know how many there are,” Tanner warned.
To hell with it.” He pushed the keys into Tanner’s hand.
“Lock the door behind me.”
“I can’t.”
“Do it.”
The older man hesitated for interminable seconds, then nodded.
As Faulkner moved down the stone steps from the porch he heard the key turn.
The bush was still moving.
Perhaps whoever was behind there hadn’t seen him coming.
Right, you bastards.
He advanced across the drive.
To THE REAR of the building, Carl Thompson hefted the stone before him, then struck the glass hard.
Crystal shards sprayed into the office beyond.
He crooked his elbow and knocked out some remaining pieces of glass, then reached through and slipped the lock.
“Come on,” he said, clambering in.
It was pitch black inside the room and, as Thompson stumbled around, he was sure he could hear breathing.
He realized it must be his own or that of Donna and Brown, who were also now hauling themselves into the office.
When the lights exploded into life, he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the brilliance.
Just as he did he saw other figures in the room.
Old people their faces set in furious expressions.
He noticed that one was holding a claw hammer
Another gripped what looked like a baseball bat.
A third, a short plank of wood as thick as those that covered the other windows outside.
Thompson turned to look at Donna and Brown.
He was ready to shout that there was nothing to fear. That these old bastards were no problem.
He saw Donna struck with the plank of wood; saw her hit the ground with blood running from a gash on her head.
Thompson opened his mouth to shout a warning to Brown. To tell him that there was another of the fuckers behind him.
The younger lad turned straight into the powerful swing. Brown raised his arms to protect his head from the blow of the batlike object. The wood cracked against forearms and he shouted in pain. He thought his arm had gone numb so great was the agony.
The second frenzied stroke caught him in the stomach, knocking the wind from him. As he dropped to his knees, another thunderous strike drove his head down towards the floor.
Thompson prepared to fight back.
“You cunts!” he roared.
Then, there was a shattering impact against the back of his skull.
For fleeting seconds, the world first turned brilliant white.
Then blacker than he’d ever known.
HE HEARD THE crash of breaking glass.
Gordon Faulkner paused momentarily as the sound echoed through the stillness of the night. Then, stealthily, he continued to move across the driveway, all too aware of the loud noise he was making on the gravel.
The movement in the bushes had stopped, but Faulkner was certain the trespassers had merely retreated further.
A number of lights were switched off inside Shelby House, deepening the already cloying darkness around him.
He felt dangerously exposed.
The need for a weapon seemed more pressing than it had when he’d first ventured out of the building.
There was a length of tree branch about a foot long and an inch thick lying nearby. He stooped and picked up the damp wood, hefting it like a club as he continued to advance.
What if he was wrong? What if there was no one out here?
Then get back inside as quickly as possible. Find out what’s been broken.
Or what if Donald Tanner was right? What if there were more of the trespassers than he’d thought?
Then turn and run. Get back inside and phone the police. You should have stayed inside to begin with.
Thoughts tumbled through his mind as he pushed his way into the wet bushes.
With Ronni gone, he was the only one to care for the residents of Shelby House. What if this was all some elaborate ploy to lure him outside? To expose the residents to the full fury of the intruders.
Yeah, very good tactics. Leave the people you’re supposed to be protecting unguarded.
He gripped the piece of damp branch more tightly and moved on.
There was a loud crack to his right.
Like someone stepping on a piece of wood.
He spun round.
In the shadows, something moved.
Deeper into the bushes.
Further away from Shelby House.
Further away from the light.
Were they tempting him away from the safety of the building?
He swallowed hard and looked around.
More movement.
No going back now. Find them. Catch them.
He heard low whispering.
Or was it just leaves brushed by the wind?
And where the hell was the sound coming from now?
Left? Right?
It seemed to be all around him.
“What if there’s more than one of them?”
He gritted his teeth as he remembered Tanner’s words.
The ground was slippery beneath his feet. He almost overbalanced. The drizzle sheathed his face and he wiped it away from his eyes.
Go back inside now. Before it’s too late.
His heart was thumping hard.
Get a grip. They’re only kids.
More movement ahead of him.
The same kids that trashed your car and used battery acid on it?
Something struck him hard on the right cheek.
The stone split his skin and he slapped one hand to the cut angrily.
The blood looked black in the darkness.
Another followed.
It cracked against his collar bone and bounced off his shoulder.
He heard footfalls on the gravel drive now and rushed through the bushes, anxious to reach the open. If they were running, he would catch them. Outpace them and grab them.
As he reached the drive he saw two of them.
Small figures. Both boys.
“Come here, you little bastards!” he roared and set off after them.
They were close. He was gaining on them.
He heard a loud crack.
There was sudden pain in his right leg.
He stumbled and almost fell.
Ahead of him, the two boys were slowing down.
Another loud crack from away to his right.
The second air gun pellet hit him in the arm and drew blood.
The first of the boys had stopped running and turned to face him.
Faulkner saw him reaching into his jacket.
The knife came free and the boy waved it before him.
This is insane.
Faulkner made a grab for the boy’s arm, but missed. The blade slashed across his palm and he stepped back, blood dripping from the wound.
“I’ll kill you,” snarled Liam Harper.
Faulkner gritted his teeth, anger now replacing his initial shock. He lunged at the boy, diving full length and crashing into him.
The knife spun away.
He punched Harper hard in the face and heard him whimper.
Go on. Beat the little fucker to a pulp. This isn’t a normal kid.
This is a fucking monster.
Terry Mac
kenzie kicked at Faulkner, then dashed to find the knife. He scooped it into his small fist and ran back towards the older man.
Faulkner rolled over to avoid the thrust and was forced to release Harper.
The youth, his face streaming blood, scrambled away, turning once to drive a foot into Faulkner’s face.
“Fucking cunt!” he roared.
The kick loosened two of the older man’s front teeth.
He saw the knife sweeping down again, aimed at his stomach.
Again he rolled, kicking out and knocking Mackenzie’s legs from under him.
This time both boys ran for the end of the driveway.
As he struggled to his feet, Faulkner saw a third figure join them from the bushes to his right.
Tina Craven was still carrying the air rifle.
She turned and pointed it at Faulkner, who threw himself down. He heard the pellet slice through the air close to his face.
When he looked up, the driveway was empty.
“Bastards,” he snarled, his breath coming in gasps.
There was a coppery taste of blood in his mouth. The gash on his cheek hurt like hell; so did the pellet wounds in his arm and leg.
He touched a finger to his mouth, spat blood, then set about looking for the knife.
CARL THOMPSON WAS BLIND.
The thought caused him a moment of almost uncontrollable panic, then he realized why.
Understood why the darkness was so total.
Why, when he tried to open his eyes, he couldn’t.
They were covered by tape.
Several layers of it had been wrapped around his eyes and mouth. He could only breathe raggedly from his nose and, every time he inhaled, there was a peculiar combination of smells.
The cloying scent of blood. The more acrid stench of perspiration. And a smell like freshly washed clothes.
He tried to sit up.
He realized his hands and feet were bound.
Whoever had tied the rope was an expert. He could barely move his fingers. They were tingling and he wondered if the bonds that held him had been pulled so tight as to cut off his circulation.
He was lying on a cold stone floor and his head was throbbing madly. It felt as if his skull was expanding and contracting with each beat of his heart.
The back of his head was particularly painful and he remembered that was where he’d been hit. Blood had matted in his hair and trickled down his back.
He writhed around on the floor like some kind of spastic snake, then finally gave up and lay still.
