I carefully made my way to the far end of the attic, quite a long walk, really when I was trying to be stealthy and silent, and eased into the landing and down to the ground level, again watching for all the squeaky stair-treads I remembered from my childhood.
I went that way because the workshop had a wide wooden double carriage door on the side of the house which was padlocked closed, but there was a bolted wicket-gate in one leaf of the double doors, and that was my way out of the house. As far as I could tell, there was no way for them to patrol the entire perimeter of the house, it was too big for just a couple of men, so with luck they wouldn’t see me if I stuck close to the walls; the windows were set higher than my height, so anyone looking out wouldn’t be able to see me plastered to the wall right under them as I worked my way around to the front of the house unless they opened the window, leaned out, and looked down.
Slipping behind the perfect cover afforded by my mother’s carefully shaped conical Yew topiaries, her pride and joy, that had taken her years and endless effort to create and perfect, and which blanketed the front of the house, I managed to slip up beside the battered, filthy old Ford Transit that had been concealed behind those same topiaries, hiding it from a casual observer on the main road.
I was just wondering how to silently disable that rusty shit-heap when I heard voices coming from the portico.
“Go find Gary, he went upstairs looking for the safe, find out what’s going on; that fat idiot Max was so sure the safe was here, but he never found it, and that girl…” said the first voice, the same voice I’d heard threaten Aunt Kay.
“Slap her around a bit more, she’s lying…” grated a different, harsher voice, “she knows something, we should work her over a little, she’ll soon talk…”
“I dunno, she’s just a girl, time enough for that later. For now, go find Gary, find out what the fuck he’s up to, and if he hasn’t found the safe, we start hurting the old bitch; maybe that will make the girl cooperate. Get the crowbar from the van…”
They were coming this way! As I saw it, I could continue to hide and evade them, or I could get them while their guard was down. Neither appealed, but I’d heard their plan: they weren’t ready to stop at just asking questions. Time to stop thinking and start doing, I’d never have a better chance, not while they didn’t know I was there. My mind made up, I slipped around the front of the van in a low crouch, trying to make as little noise on the loose surface of the gravelled driveway as I could.
I could hear them coming closer, heading for the back of the van, so I kept the bulk of the vehicle between me and them. If they opened the rear door they’d likely be fully occupied with whatever they were coming to get, that would be my only chance. I could see their shadows as they approached, but not enough to tell whether they were carrying the sawn-off shotgun, but it was literally now or never; I’d never get a better chance.
When I heard the doors open I slipped alongside the van; the open door shielded me as I worked my way along the side. When one of them went to close the door I was ready, and he froze as he saw me. I was expecting him, but he wasn’t expecting me, and that split second was enough for me to kick him in the crotch just as hard as I could. His eyes crossed, and I pushed him aside as his mate, still bent over the rear of the van bed started to turn.
“Whaa…? Was all he managed before I slammed the heavy old van door on his head as hard as I could, sandwiching his head between the bulky steel doors of the old van.
He dropped like a bad idea, twitching and shuddering, but I kicked him in the chin as hard as I could just for good measure, watching his head snap back and his eyes roll up. The first man was curled up on his side in a foetal crouch, vomiting as he cradled his smashed crotch, and I briefly considered flattening his head with the 8-pound sledgehammer lying inside the van, but settled instead for yanking him up by his collar and giving his chin a solid uppercut, letting my loaded glove send him off to La-La Land.
The shotgun was lying on the van bed where the second man had laid it, so I took it, popped it, shit, it was loaded, and pocketed the shells, and then chucked it into the shrubbery in case anyone got any ideas. There was no shortage of bungee cords, industrial cable ties, duct tape, and nylon washing line in the van, and something that nearly made me use the sledgehammer on them: a flat case of syringes filled with purple stuff. A squirt of one confirmed it was drain-cleaner: so this was how they were going to ensure Georgy and Aunt Kay could never identify them.
Holding in my anger, because now I was in a killing mood over what they’d planned for my family, I trussed them up the way I’d been taught to deny them even minimal hand movement, wrists securely tied back to back with the largest-size of zip-ties as tight as I could get them, along with cut lengths of nylon cord, and then their thumbs zip-cuffed together to allow no movement. I yanked their boots and pants off and tied their ankles and knees tightly together with elastic bungee cords, duct tape, and nylon line looped and tied several times around the van’s tow-hitch, leaving them face down on the ground with their knees bent and their feet in the air.
As a final measure I balled-up their socks and shoved them in their mouths, and ran a length of duct tape several times around their mouths, gagging them securely. Those jokers weren’t going anywhere.
All this had taken just a few minutes, and there had been no alarm raised inside the house, but I wasn’t taking any chances. First I immobilised the crappy old van by just disconnecting the battery and yanking wires out willy-nilly, ensuring they couldn’t get away if they somehow got loose, then turned my attention to getting back into the house silently.
The front door was ajar, and the inner storm door was open as well, so I moved up as softly as I could, listening for any movement inside. Nothing, so I cautiously made my way inside. The portico had been the main reception area in days gone by, the main staircase up to the next floor was in the exact middle of the reception area, and double doors on either side of the stairs led into the back of the house, where the salon and ballroom had once been.
The doors on the left side were still closed, but the other pair were half open, so that was where I looked first; sure enough, Georgy and Aunt Kay were sitting on the floor, their hands tied behind them to a leg each of the large couch in there, and their feet tied. I peeked in and Georgy saw me, her eyes widened and she shook her head slightly, warning me.
“How many…? I mouthed, and she looked around before slowly mouthing back “Three, shotgun…”
That was good, it meant I’d taken them all out, and lost about three years of my life, but it was worth it. I darted into the room and made short work of untying her.
“Will, no, there’s three of them, hide, now, they’ll come back…” she gabbled, so I kissed her to calm her down.
“It’s okay, Georgy, they’re toast, the two outside are finished, and the other one on the back stairs is discovering what his own balls taste like, he’s not going anywhere.”
I jumped over and started cutting Aunt Kay loose while Georgy called the police.