Robert Parker - Snow Storm

The headlights shone on the dark hulk of a house now making it look as if it had been abandoned for years, aside from the scene of crime notices which were too bright to be anything but modern. They entered via the front door, disabling the alarm system and fumbling for the lights in the hallway. The place still reeked of carnage

Something moved to his left. He turned to see a figure emerge from the gloom before it knocked him sideways. They burst through the front door as he turned trying to follow but lost his footing. A crashing sound behind told him there was a second intruder. He turned again to see another figure in black run towards him. Jones tried to get in the way but only managed a glance blow to the side of the runner. The man let out a growl as he ran for Burke who stood his ground knowing he had a weight advantage. His heart lurched as he saw something glint in the black gloved hand. He held on for a second more before shifting his weight sideways as the man threw himself forwards, top heavy, swinging the blade. The knife caught his left hand as it moved outwards to counter the side-step and he let out a yelp as he swung the rest of his body back round, catching his assailant with a well-placed blow to the side of the head sending him staggering headfirst into the doorframe. The man’s head made a sickening thump before his body gave way beneath, collapsing into a tangled heap on the floor. He felt the sting in his hand and he was only prevented from aiming an angry kick at the slumped would be ninja by Jones, who got in the way in her efforts to get the bastard cuffed.

Once he was suitably restrained, they removed the balaclava from his head to reveal the face of what could not have been more than a teenager.

Andy woke again, hearing the commotion outside. Had another plane landed? He’d heard trucks come and go; feed trucks, oil tankers, the kind of thing that wouldn’t normally cause him to bat an eyelid down here but now everything seemed to have a double meaning. Every movement, noise, flicker of disrupted light through the slatted wall, it all seemed like a sign of something, and all of it gave cause for alarm.

His life was now an endless night punctuated by a succession of shocks and starts. He was no longer sure what he’d dreamt and what was real at points.

In his more lucid moments he’d begun to take stock. His life played out before him, not so much in a montage as they said it did before you died, more like a very deliberate purge of hard drives. Every misdemeanour, from the seemingly insignificant, like the time he broke his mum’s favourite vase, to the gut wrenching, like the time he slept with Davie’s ex and hadn’t had to blame anyone as it still lay buried in the back of his conscience, unattended, along with everything else. It wasn’t so much a closet full of skeletons as a bone collection, like that church in Prague he’d read about at school while he should have been studying for his higher history exam. That was what he enjoyed above all else, apart from the sex and the alcohol and the cheap thrills that were part of the human condition. If they were to tell him he never had to work again, that he’d won the lottery that was what he’d do, not for money but just the sheer pleasure of it. He’d research the things he was interested in; history, politics, world wars, the industrial revolution, communism, fascism, capitalism and socialism, the rise and fall of empires and everything else in between.

That was what they said, wasn’t it? Work out what you would do to while away the hours if money was no object. That was it. In between girls and beer he would most like to find out about stuff.

But money would never be no object, that was the point, and anyway it looked as though he was going to end his days here. He’d have thought someone might have missed him, but then the parents were still away and his sister was at Vet school during the week. He wondered where Davie and Colin thought he’d got to though. He’d have thought he could have counted on those two, feckless arseholes that they were. In the darkness and encroaching cold of the now nearly empty prison, he had made himself a promise. If he ever did make it out of here he would go and study history and politics. Not agriculture, as he was sure would have made more sense, not business, which might have given him a broader outlook career wise, but history and politics, for the love of it and for the fact he had another shot and would not waste it. Not in between beer and girls.

That had been hours ago, maybe days ago for all he knew and it had kept him going since. Planning, considering each possibility in depth. What if he became a lecturer or a professor or something? Then he could nothing but study the things that interested him for the rest of his days. Was that even doable for a country bumpkin? Surely he had to have a good knowledge of tweed jackets or speak in a certain way to get on in that world. Did it pay well? Did it matter? They would probably have to sell the farm anyway. His sister wasn’t planning on taking it on and there wasn’t the income for both of them. The possibilities though, they were something that he clung to.

The commotion got louder outside it sounded like the goon squad were trying to move something. It almost sounded like livestock, like a struggling sheep who didn’t fancy the idea of getting sheared or a cow that didn’t want to go down the race to get its injections. A boom echoed round the lifeless room as the ancient steel door came to life on its rusty wheels. The winter sun had long since departed and the room was flooded with white halogen light. Three silhouettes emerged from the blazing artificial glow and he knew in his heart his time had come.

He hunkered down as best he could with his hands tied, keeping his eyes closed. He would not give the bastards the satisfaction watching his terrified expression as he waited.

But with the intensity of the light he could still make out shapes and couldn’t resist looking again at the three awkward forms. The one in the middle, smaller than the other two seemed disjointed somehow, struggling almost. They came only so far before one of outer pair struck the middle one, knocking him to the ground. They then began their advance once more, dragging the dizzied reluctant member of their group to somewhere behind Andy. It was then he heard the familiar sound of tightening cable ties and realised, with a guilty sense of relief that he now had company.

The squad car arrived ten minutes after the slicing of Burke’s hand and the subsequent admirably professional restraint of his assailant by Jones, who hadn’t used nearly as much unnecessary force as he would have liked. But then she hadn’t been stabbed in the hand, a factor that would have made all the difference.

There had been no blood for what seemed like a few seconds, though in reality it was unlikely to have been that long. He’d stared at the gaping white wound before being roused from his state of confusion by the distinctly red blood that began to flow rapidly, trickling down the palm of his hand and up the sleeve of his shirt as he held it aloft trying to unbutton the cuff. Multitasking had never been his forte.

Jones couldn’t help him, so he staggered through to the kitchen and began rummaging through drawers for a tea towel of some sort. A more sensible man might have gone looking for the kitchen roll but that was not his strong point either. More sensible still, a woman might have gone for the bathroom but he’d lost the energy, almost feeling it drain out of him. He hadn’t lost that much blood but realised there was maybe an element of shock in play. Eventually he found a bunch of clean towels in an airing cupboard and slumped against the worktop as he wrapped one around his hand and watched it change colour. This wasn’t his favourite jacket. That was something. In fact he was pretty sure Rachel would be glad to see the back of it though he was fairly certain she wouldn’t be happy about the stitches he was going to have to get.