New Directions (16)

Walking slowly across the green, away from the van, I waited until I felt I was in the mirror’s blind spot then changed direction. As I approached there was no sign of movement. I noticed something odd, it had yellow Dutch plates, 26-HTD-6, but it appeared to be right hand drive – probably fakes hoping to fool the Cakes. I doubted it would get past their computers though. It might buy them time. I sneaked a look around the near side, the loading door was slid open. The van was deserted.

The cottage door was open slightly. Gently pushing it I crept into the small hall, I could hear shuffling and clunking. Taking a deep breath I went into the lounge. Two blokes had their backs to me busy emptying the drawers and spaces in Celia’s heavy oak bureau – papers flung all over the carpet. They’d moved it away from the wall. Several paintings were gone. There was nothing else to do; ‘ALRIGHT LADS GAME’S UP SLING YER ‘OOKS,’ I screamed.

The nearest one whirled round and came straight at me. There was a loud “crack” when I swiped the truncheon across the left side of his face – most likely his jaw breaking. He went down, crumbling into a heap rather than falling over.

His mate, dressed in a red chequered lumberjack shirt, ran at me. I was slightly off balance, but I managed to sidestep, grab the shirt and use his momentum to smash him into the wall behind me. I hoped he’d go down, but he just bounced off and came back at me. I was ready for him, in a fraction of a second he’d be kissing the carpet with my knee on the back of his neck . . . . Well, that was the plan.

Somebody came from behind, he must have been big because he gripped my arms and shoved me hard to my left. Off balance I staggered crablike into Celia’s coffee table sending it flying then tumbled over her chair falling head first into the inglenook fireplace. Pokers, stands, fire dogs and copper kettles clattered in all directions. Reaching out for the chair to support me I pulled on it, but it tipped back and I fell face down on the stone tile surrounding.

It took a few seconds to get my bearings, I heard one thug shout, ‘help me pick up Jock and get ‘im out to the van we need to get the fuck away.’ The other guy mumbled something which I didn’t catch. ‘Don’t worry about him he’s out of it,’ was the reply. But I wasn’t. Rolling onto all fours I heaved myself up and tried to run, but I fell over again. By the time I got on my feet all I saw was the big bloke’s back exiting the cottage. Limping after them as best I could I heard a thump as they chucked Jock into the van. The door slid shut with a clang and the engine started, another clang of the door then a cacophony of squealing tyres and over-revving diesel engine. When I reached the street all I saw was the van disappearing round a bend.

Looking around outside there wasn’t a soul about. Even on a cold dull November day I was surprised: it was lunchtime for Christ’s sake. There were a couple of cars outside the pub, but it didn’t look like it was open. . . . Welcome to Maplebury; dormitory village where the residents roll off the Intercity 125 at Newbury station every night and make their way home in their overrated, underused and oversized SUVs left to clog up the car parks from 8am to 7pm weekdays.

‘What’s going on Terence?’ Swinging round I faced a worried looking Dev.

‘They’ve tried to ro—‘

‘You’re bleeding Terence.’

At that moment an excruciating pain over my left eye said hello. I reached out and found a split pumping warm liquid. My hand came back covered in blood, I felt it dribbling down my cheek. Drops of blood began soaking into the weave on my jacket lapel. Dipping my hand into my trouser pocket I pulled out the white hankie my Nan instilled in me to keep in there from the age of seven. I used it to soak up the wound and stem the flow. Childhood habits are hard to kick.

For some reason I will never be able to explain I took my keys out the jacket and pressed the remote button. Three distant orange flashlets confirmed the car was locked. I handed them to Dev.

‘Is Miss Bowes alright?’

‘Oh fuck. I don’t know we’d better go and find her.’ Dev followed me through the passageway separating the lounge from the kitchen. You didn’t have to be Sherlock to see there’d been a struggle in there, broken crockery, glass and sugar cubes crunched under our feet; pots and pans scattered about. But no Celia. In the corner next to the outside wall stood a door. I tried it but it was bolted or locked from inside. I shook the handle rattling the door.

‘Go away you monster you can’t come in here I’ll call the police.’ Celia’s muffled voice sounded terrified and weak.

‘Celia, Miss Bowes it’s Terence I was here yesterday you’re safe now, open the door.’

‘Go away you horrible beast you can’t fool me you will not get in.’

Dev pushed past, ‘Miss Bowes it’s Dev Mullur. Terence and I came to see you. Those men have run away. They’re gone please let us in.’

A pause, then a weak voice, ‘Dev? Is that you?

‘Yes.’ Dev shouted to the door, I’m Dev I am here with Terence who came to see you yesterday.’

‘Please wait.’ After a faint shuffle we heard a bolt being drawn back. I opened the door slowly. Halfway down the steps leading to the cellar floor, Celia clung to the hand rail. When she saw me her adrenaline charged bravery fled, she started to collapse. I made the four steps separating us in one leap. My precious hankie forgotten, I grabbed her just as she fell and half carried – half dragged her out from the cellar.

Once she was in the kitchen, Celia regained some of her composure. She reached up and touched my bloodied brow. ‘You’ll find bandages and sticking plasters in the bath room, Terence. That looks very painful.’

‘Don’t worry about me, I’ve had worse. Let’s find you somewhere to sit.’ I saw Dev shaking his head and smiling, I winked at him. Dev rushed ahead and righted the chair and table while I led her to the lounge. Celia didn’t know how badly injured she was. Her white hair, a messy nest stained red from the cuts and swellings on the side of her head. The left side of her face the colour of raw meat and puffing up fast, in 30 minutes she wouldn’t be able to see out of the left eye.

Her wounds looked angry, but not as angry as I felt. Lucky for Jock his mate got him out. If he’d still been there I would killed him there and then – it wasn’t as if I didn’t know how. I guess it was lucky for me too. A killing needs precise planning.

I sat Celia in the chair, Dev went upstairs to find a blanket for her. ‘That dreadful man, I think he wanted to kill me, he kept hitting me when I refused to let him have the key to the cellar.’ She chuckled, ‘I saw my chance and smacked him with my frying pan. It knocked him down so I ran into the cellar and locked and bolted the door.’ I remembered the heavy French cast iron pan lying next to her range: Shit, that must’ve hurt. The effort of speaking was too much and she flopped over gasping for breath. Dev arrived and we wrapped her up in the blanket he’d found.

Standing upright after attending to the old lady the room started spinning, I made a grab for the other chair and sat heavily into it. Fighting to stay conscious I noticed Dev holding his iPhone©. I nodded, ‘You better call 999 or whatever number they use these days.’

Just as everything was going black I thought: Shit! Now I’m trapped in this fucking mess.