A Window Breaks

by C. M. Ewan

  I held my nerve and kept watching. It seemed like the smaller man was in charge. He had his hand up, shielding his masked mouth, like he was the one issuing instructions and the bigger man was receiving them and nodding along.

  So not Brodie, then?

  A short pause and then the bigger man crouched and picked up the handgun and the short-handled axe. The smaller man selected the shotgun. I felt a hot buzzing in my veins. Then the men swivelled and gazed up at the mezzanine.

  I flattened myself, pressing my body into the thick carpet fibres. My pulse pounded in my ears. Beyond it, I could just about hear the faint swish and crackle of the men’s coveralls. Then footfall, the note changing from a dull, brittle percussion to the hollow thud of a careful rubber tread.

  On the stairs.

  I swallowed something about the size and consistency of a golf ball.

  I couldn’t stay here. I had to move. But I couldn’t stand up and run because the men would see me.

  So crawl on your belly.

  I squirmed forwards, rocking my hips, digging into the carpet with my elbows and fingers.

  The men’s slow footfall made me believe I hadn’t been seen. Then, with a cold jolt of adrenaline, I realized: They think we’re asleep. They don’t want to wake us. They’re planning to sneak up on us.

  How many stairs were there? Fifteen at a minimum? Maybe as many as twenty, twenty-two? If the big man was coming first, his line of sight could be level with the floor of the mezzanine once he was seven or eight steps from the top.

  I guessed he’d climbed four or five steps already. More if he was coming up two treads at a time.

  I scrambled past the top of the stairs, tucked my feet up behind me and pressed my body against the wall. My heart skittered and thumped. I was breathing hard and sweating harder, blinking cold perspiration from my eyes.

  Think.

  Holly’s bedroom door was just a few metres away. I could see the light from her en suite on the inside. If I was quick I could dart through and slam the door behind me. Turn the key in the lock.

  And then?

  The men would hear me. They had guns and axes. A lock wouldn’t do any good against that. And what about Rachel? She’d be on her own. A chest of drawers wouldn’t protect her for long. I’d told her to arm herself with hairspray and razors. Hairspray, when these men had guns.

  And that’s when I knew. That’s when it hit me for real. I couldn’t just hide from this. I couldn’t just run. I had to defend my family. And right now – no matter how scared I was – defending my family meant I had to attack.

  But how?

  I pictured myself standing up with my back flat against the wall and the metal pole held back behind my shoulder. When the lead man came into view, could I swing with everything I had?

  But what if he ducked? Or I missed? What if I didn’t hit him hard enough? I’d never attacked a man before. And there was still the second man to think of.

  Time was almost up. My blood rushed in my ears but I could just hear the men’s slow footsteps, getting closer.

  So I gambled and went with a compromise. A classic lawyer’s solution. A fudge.

  I stood quickly, my legs like rubber, and flattened myself against the wall.

  Wait.

  My lungs were two heavy bags of damp sand.

  Wait.

  There was more sweat in my eyes but this time I didn’t blink it away. I stared wildly through the stinging burn.

  Wait.

  The gloved hands of the lead man appeared holding the handgun and the axe.

  Oh God.

  Now.

  I stepped out and faced him.

  And almost fell back.

  Almost dropped the pole.

  It was the bigger man. Up close, he was enormous. A great big bear of a guy.

  He had one foot planted. One foot in the air. Which meant – for that split-second – he was naturally off-balance.

  Time slowed down. That tiny split-second stretched and stretched, becoming endlessly elastic, until I experienced each separate moment of it with stark and terrifying clarity.

  I saw the man’s masked chin tilt upwards. I saw his eyes widen in surprise from inside the elasticated hem of his hood. Definitely not Brodie. That’s what my instincts told me. This was somebody else.

  Then time sped up again and I saw him crumple forwards from the waist, as if a giant bungee cord attached to the base of his spine had suddenly reached its outer limit and retracted very fast, snapping him backwards, pulling him back. He bent that way because I’d jabbed him with the end of the skylight pole – almost without thinking about it, in a kind of nervy, jerking flinch – in the centre mass of his chest.

  The blow wasn’t huge but it did more than I could have hoped because it reversed the bigger man’s momentum just as he had one foot in the air. And now he was rocking back.

  His gun arm went high to compensate but all it did was generate more momentum. His hand holding the axe followed suit. I watched, stunned, until he let go of the axe and made a wild grab for me, his fingers tightening on the front of my vest.

  He yanked me towards him. It felt like he was pulling out my heart. He couldn’t prevent himself from falling but he could take me with him, maybe push me off the staircase, a mighty drop to the ground below.

  And he would have done, except I swept up fast with the skylight pole in another desperate, jerking strike that smacked against his forearm and knocked his hand away.

  His gun flashed and sparked. It was blindingly bright. Something zipped past my head. There was an enormous, percussive explosion and – as I ducked and clasped one hand to my scalp, terrified I’d been shot – the recoil was enough to send him crashing backwards into the smaller man following from behind.

  A bullet thunked into the pitched ceiling somewhere overhead. Chunks of ceiling board clattered down. I heard the crash and crunch and grunts of the two men colliding and tumbling down the stairs.

  But by then I was already swerving into Holly’s room, my legs going from under me, slamming the door closed.

  I turned the key in the lock.

  15

  ‘Dad? What was that bang?’

  I flipped on the ceiling light. Dropped the skylight pole. My chest was heaving. I was twitching. Flinching. Scared out of my mind.

  I could still feel the grip of the man’s fist on my vest, pulling me forwards, like I was teetering even now. The racket of the gunshot seemed to be trapped inside my skull, thrashing around. I patted my hands across my torso and head. Hard to believe I hadn’t fallen with him or been shot. It didn’t feel real. None of this felt real. I kept waiting for it to stop. Like I could somehow wake up from a bad dream or reset the night and start it over.

  ‘Dad!’

  Holly peered at me from behind the bruising on her face. She was half out of bed, her covers thrown back, her legs hanging over the side. I saw her, and felt a sharp pinching in my chest. Her pink pyjamas were twisted and ruffled, one pyjama leg pulled up over her knee.

  ‘Holly, you have to get up. Find some shoes.’

  ‘What?’

  No time. I rushed over and grabbed her, lifting her out of bed and carrying her to her suitcase. I could feel my heart bouncing back off her ribs. But when I tried to lower her she clung on to my neck, just like she had when she was a little girl.

  ‘Holly, please. Listen to me. Just do what I say.’

  ‘I don’t under—’

  ‘There are two men in the house,’ I shouted, louder than I’d meant to. ‘Bad men. We have to get away from them.’

  The shock was immediate, like I’d slapped her in the dark. Her arms slipped from my neck and she stumbled backwards as I reached into her suitcase and flung clothes aside.

  ‘Where are your shoes?’

  ‘Where’s Mum? Is she OK?’

  ‘Your shoes, Holly.’

  ‘I want to know where Mum is.’

  Banging on the glass door behind us. It was Rachel, out on the
balcony, in the rain. She’d put on a red turtleneck sweater and dark jeans. There were old running shoes on her feet.

  I think seeing Rachel – seeing the frenzied panic she was in – finally convinced Holly how serious this was. She doubled over and clutched her stomach as Rachel banged on the door again – furious now – shouting for us to open up. She must have heard the gunshot too, I realized. No way she could have missed it. The massive bang was still bashing around inside my skull.

  Rachel’s mobile was in her hand. Please God, I hoped she’d got hold of the police.

  ‘Dad!’

  Heavy footsteps in the hallway. I turned and watched the internal wall shake. My heart seized. The handle of the bedroom door rattled hard. Stopped. Rattled again. Then there was a single massive thump on the timber, like one of the men had driven his fist into it.

  ‘Open up!’ he yelled. ‘Open this door.’

  For some reason, hearing his voice took my fear up another notch. It made it even more real.

  ‘Shoes, Holly. Now.’

  She didn’t react right away. She was just staring at the door.

  ‘Holly! Where are your shoes?’

  ‘Here.’ She ducked towards the foot of her bed, clutching a pair of pink trainers like she didn’t know what they were.

  ‘Put them on. Go to Mum.’

  And then what?

  I didn’t know.

  Rachel slapped her palms on the glass again. The men beat on the bedroom door. I swivelled my head between them, my legs buckling horribly as I pushed up to my feet.

  Even if Rachel had managed to contact the police, we had to be miles from the nearest station. Out in the wilds, they probably only had a handful of men available. And they wouldn’t get here any time soon.

  The bedroom door handle rattled again, so hard now I thought it might fall off. Then the door bulged sickeningly against the frame. A shoulder barge. Maybe a kick.

  ‘Holly. Go to Mum. Get out of here.’

  From the corner of my eye, I saw her hopping across the room, struggling to put on her second shoe.

  I spread my feet and hands out at my sides, trying to make myself as wide as possible. If they were coming through I was going to have to tackle them. Futile, maybe, but right then it was the only plan I had.

  Another huge thump in front of me. It felt like I’d been punched in the gut. The bedroom door was made from oak. Like everything in the lodge, it looked as if it had been expensively crafted and expertly fitted. But it wouldn’t withstand a sustained attack.

  How long could I stop them for? A second? Maybe two? Even with my life on the line – with Holly and Rachel’s lives on the line – I knew I needed a better plan that that.

  I looked to my right. There was a big wardrobe next to the door. Dark timber. A burnished, reddish gleam. I rushed to it, braced my feet wide apart, pulled.

  The wardrobe tipped slightly, barely a tremble, then rocked back again. I pushed against it a second time, gurning and straining every sinew. My back burned. My hands quaked.

  The wardrobe wouldn’t budge.

  Another crash against the door. It sounded like both men this time. I flinched. The door flexed and the frame bowed and swelled. Part of the frame had come away from the wall with a puff of dust, prising screws and Rawlplugs with it.

  I stared, filled with an absolute, vibrating dread that the men were only seconds from getting through.

  Then I felt a cold draught behind me and the next thing I knew Holly and Rachel were grabbing hold of the wardrobe on either side of me, bracing their feet, slanting their bodies, grunting and screaming and pulling. I pushed and strained even harder. I heaved with my arms. Thrust up with my legs.

  The wardrobe tipped . . . and tipped . . . and . . .

  Rachel yelped as the wardrobe tumbled down hard, tearing a gouge out of the wall and hitting the ground with a solid whump.

  We fell into each other, crashing to our knees, holding each other, crying. I could see Holly’s heart beating against the fabric of her pyjama top. Rachel was clutching me tight.

  The wardrobe was butted up against the door. This time, when the men attacked, the sound of the impact was firmer. More secure. The wardrobe barely moved.

  And there was an angry roar from out in the hallway. Like one of the men had hurt themselves. I pictured them on the other side. Rearing back. Rubbing their arms. Regrouping. Then I thought of the handgun and the shotgun. I thought of the men firing at the door.

  A terrible clamour of fear.

  ‘Move!’

  I dragged Holly and Rachel up, scooping my arms around them and urging them on across the room towards the glass door swinging in the wind.

  Holly’s legs gave way. She crashed to her knees. I shoved Rachel on ahead of us, then ducked low and picked Holly up by her waist in a fireman’s lift with her body jack-knifing over my shoulder and the backs of her legs clutched in my arms. Blood throbbed behind my eyes. I could hear the men kicking and banging on the door as I chased Rachel out onto the soggy balcony, splashing through the rain.

  16

  We ran into Rachel’s bedroom. There was nowhere else to go. I put Holly down. Rachel immediately took her into her arms and let go of a sob as I ducked back and looked along the balcony, my heart in my throat.

  No sign of the men. Not yet.

  When I stepped back into Rachel’s bedroom I could see that she’d dragged the dresser unit across behind her door like I’d told her to. It wasn’t pushed quite flush against the door and I ran over and shoved it hard. My hands slipped because I was sweating so badly.

  ‘Are you OK, baby?’ Rachel smoothed her hands over Holly’s hair, looking deep in her face.

  Holly was sniffling and shaking her head but not saying anything back. Rachel looked at me from over her shoulder, her face scraped white by fear.

  ‘Did they shoot at you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They have guns?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they say what they want?’

  I shook my head.

  But whatever it was, it wasn’t good. I thought again of the empty holdalls and a fresh chill swept across my heart. How could I tell Rachel about that? How could I begin to tell Holly?

  ‘Where’s Buster?’

  Holly leaned back from Rachel and stared at us both. There was a tremor in her cheek.

  ‘Dad, where is he? He wasn’t in my room.’

  A fast ticking in my blood. My daughter spun and looked between us again until horrified understanding burst behind her eyes. Her throat bulged and she clapped a hand to her mouth, her shoulders rounded and her body all bunched up, as if she was bracing for another hard punch like the one in the alley.

  ‘Where is he?’ she wailed.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Rachel said, and shot me a warning look. Don’t tell her. We can’t tell her.

  And how could we? Things were bad enough already. There was no way we could send Holly into a spiral now.

  I hate lying to my daughter. I’ve never been good at it. Even when she was little, she’d quiz me if she doubted something I had to say.

  ‘Holly, we’ll find him.’ I went over and squeezed her arms. ‘We’ll find Buster and make sure he’s safe.’

  ‘Find him where? How?’

  ‘Wherever he is. Holly, listen to me. The first thing we have to do is protect ourselves. Do you understand?’

  She didn’t say anything. She just stared blindly into the room. She was shaking and trembling and then she jumped, wildly, when we heard another crashing thud from down the hall. The men were attacking Holly’s door again.

  I stepped out onto the balcony. Like that would help. And seconds later I startled and spun back.

  An even louder bang had started up against the door to Rachel’s room.

  My heart iced over.

  The men had split up.

  Holly wailed and clamped her hands over her ears. Rachel hugged her tight, turning her back to the door like she was trying to shi
eld Holly from a bomb blast.

  The dresser unit bounced and trembled. It wasn’t as solid as the wardrobe. It wasn’t as big.

  And it wouldn’t hold out for long.

  ‘What do we do?’ Rachel screamed.

  I turned around, seeking inspiration, and ran out onto the balcony again, taking another look down past the thrashing treetops towards the ground. My stomach fell like I was cresting the top of a roller coaster and beginning the big drop. I already knew what I’d see. A nasty fall onto soaked gravel and puddles of mud. Enough, easily, to break legs and ankles. Or maybe something worse.

  I leaned out, craning my neck, looking through the pounding rain towards the timber carport and our Volvo. An idea skittered across my brain. If only we could get to it, we could drive it.

  The roof, then? I turned and looked up. Rainwater sluiced off of the glimmering black tiles, washing down in sheets and splashing in the gutters.

  I jumped and gripped hold of the overhang, but even as I clung on desperately with my fingertips, I lost grip and fell back.

  It wouldn’t work. The roof would be treacherous to climb. And even if we managed it, where would we go? The winds were ripping and tearing around us. The rain was slamming down hard.

  More banging from either side of us. It sounded even angrier and more frenzied than before.

  Again, I looked at the balcony railing. Rainfall bounced off it. I reached out and plucked one of the tensile wires. Water sprang away from it, but there was almost no give in the wire at all.

  Then I heard Rachel scream my name and I rushed back into the bedroom. There was more banging against the door.

  ‘We have to hide Holly, Tom. We have to do it now.’

  But hiding her wouldn’t help. Hiding was futile. Our only options were the wardrobe and the bed and the en suite. And I’d seen the three holdalls. Three body bags. For us. If Rachel knew about those, she wouldn’t be trying to hide.