*
There were horses, cows, sheep and goats grazing in the outer paddocks and rows of carrots and turnips within the fences closer to the farmhouse. The fences were straighter and in a better state of repair than the farmhouse itself, which had probably not seen its last lick of paint back in the recent century (Hope had started to become more aware of such things). Where the grey paint had flaked away, the splintering timber siding was now having its run-in with the elements. The subsidence of the house’s foundations were in evidence in the arthritically crooked angles of the walls, seemingly leaning over the hill it was built upon for a better look.
Hope did not suppose he was standing too straight himself. He rapped his knuckles firmly on the front door. This was the first house he had come to.
Waiting on the porch for action was akin to being stuck in the quarry mud. The man who opened the door was even less enthused.
‘What do you want?’ he barked and glanced past Hope to see if he was alone. He was a man of very little hair till the chin where it was thick, scraggly and reddish brown. His eyes carried a scornful look and his navel was also gaping at him from a shirt that had been stretched out of its last button or two. Not liking what he saw, he gave Hope a closer examination from head to foot and shook his head disparagingly. ‘You look like a debt collector to me. You’ll get a debt plus interest on this doorstep.’
‘Oh, well,’ sighed Hope as he took a step back. ‘I wouldn’t want that.’
Just as the door was about to close, he turned and charged, pounding his shoulder into it. The impact was enough to send the man back a step. Hope entered the house, writhing with pain, for he had inadvertently employed the shoulder with the crossbow bolt still embedded. He took his displeasure out on the man, punching him furiously, only getting his humour back when he started landing some respectable punches with his wounded arm, he was starting to get his strength back. Still, it was with his good arm that he finally took the big man down. The man was not unconscious, but he was swimming about his own murky pond, trying despairingly to focus on the surface. Hope finished him off with a tap to the back of the head. No point feeling bad about it. An enemy only liked you when you hated yourself.
It was a modest home he entered. The kitchen, living room and bedroom all simply depended on which direction a step was taken. In the living room there was a petite woman nursing her back in a rocking chair. She was working at some knitting on her lap with little clicks of metal. She had striking blonde hair on which a cream bonnet sat. She was also wearing a heavy woolen shawl over a light summer dress; her relationship with the man Hope assumed was her husband seemed even more incongruous. She was as young, pretty and sweet as he was not.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Hope, shaking off the sting from the knuckles. ‘I was wondering if I might use your telephone. It’s something of an emergency. I’ll be calling the police. If you would like to protest the treatment dished out to your husband, you can have the phone after me.’
The woman got out of the rocking chair and lay the knitting down after her - it seemed to fall apart off the needle.
Silently, she led Hope that way. The bedroom had a musty smell and thistles and straw had spilled from the primitive mattress onto the floor. A pile of clothes were neatly folded on a chair whose joints were sprung. The telephone was sharing the dressing table with a hair brush and cosmetics box. Hope snatched it off its cradle.
‘Operator, get me the police,’ he said.
He was concentrating on the clicking of the operator’s work and so was taken aback when the wife emerged right beside him; she swallowed a lump and patted his wounded arm as though it were a moping puppy. Hope shook her off firmly. Yes, the strength was coming back.
‘Sergeant O’Reilly.’ The voice had all the warmth of a do not disturb sign.
‘This is an emergency,’ yelled Hope back at him. ‘A young woman has been abducted. The Young brothers are the offenders and I am the witness. Their actions upon her will most certainly be of the most heinous criminal nature. They must be stopped now.’
‘What is your name, sir?’ said the police officer.
‘That is of no importance by my reckoning.’
A crackle of static followed. ‘What is the name of the alleged victim?’
‘Ask her yourself when you rescue her. The only names you need for that are the Youngs. I know you’ve got them on file. Find them and you’ll have her. If you won’t do it for her sake, do it for the Youngs’. Because I’m going after them too.’
‘There’ll be no taking the law into your own hands, mister.’
‘I won’t be doing that. It’ll be a Tommy gun and a shotgun. And there won’t be any law at all.’ He slammed down the phone. He returned his attention to the room he was in and found that the wife had only been shaken back an inch or two. She was looking on with a peculiarly intrigued expression. Hope went to walk around her only for her to step that way.
‘If it’s an emergency, you can take our car,’ she said hurriedly. ‘You came here on foot, didn’t you? The car will save time. It runs well. It really does.’ She swallowed hard again. ‘I can drive if you’d like. Take you home. I’m pretty good with bandages.’ She was back patting his arm. ‘You need care.’ The rest of the message was being implied by her large, sensuous eyes.
Hope smirked and shook his head. ‘Sure, that kind of help would be really nice.’ He gently lifted her head off him, noticing the old fading bruises upon her upper arm. ‘But I get the feeling you should be using the car for yourself. Get away from here before your husband wakes up. Pack a bag and don’t come back.’ He brushed past her and stopped again. ‘Don’t take long about it ‘cause unfortunately I didn’t hit him hard enough.’ He stepped over the unconscious man on his way out.
Death of the Extremophile Page 38