4

I took stock. Stan in his chair. A man in the doorway, another behind him in the hall.

‘I told you not to come back,’ Stan said to the man in the doorway.

‘Who’s that?’ the intruder said, noticing me.

Stan looked at me. A mistake. The intruder took his chance. Quick. Decisive. Rush the man with the gun, jam up his decision-making process. He kicked the gun before Stan had a chance to react.

Stan’s shotgun clattered away, lost behind a pile of newspapers. Stan sat, frozen, eyes wide. The fear that immobilises you when your plan fails utterly and your enemy stands before you. He looked wildly for the gun, but it was gone.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t need it. Stan had another weapon.

Me.

The two intruders were only one threat. The second intruder was out of play, behind his partner, bottled up in the hall. As long as Mrs Leckie kept the kitchen door locked he was out of the picture unless his partner ducked forwards, letting him in. Job one for me was to keep him out of play. Divide and conquer, as my old CO would have said.

Added to that, I was worried about Stan. He was vulnerable. Probably immobile. Close enough for the intruder to finish him off with a fist or a boot. As long as that situation persisted I had little power in the situation. Job two was to take Stan out of the equation.

I strode forwards, putting myself between Stan and the intruder, getting in his face. He took a step back before he realised what he was doing, blocking the access to the room for his nervous partner. Now Stan was behind me, taken out of the geometry. I’d turned a triangle into a straight line, and if the intruder wanted to get along that line to Stan he’d have to go through me.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ the intruder said, trying to establish some dominance after I’d forced him onto the back foot.

I didn’t answer. There’s no rule that says you have to -answer every question a stranger puts to you. Especially not such an impolite question. Instead, I took the time to look the intruder up and down, gathering intelligence.

He was younger than me, and shorter. Five foot seven, compared to my six three. Possibly heavier, but softer. My weight was muscle from a life in the army and on the farm. His bulk was from long evenings sinking pints in his local. He wore brown overalls with a notepad and pencil in the breast pocket. He looked like the foreman for a removals company, or a warehouse, keeping track of things, assigning tasks, his own days of lifting and carrying already behind him. He would have been a bully at school, the strongest one in the playground, but now his childhood strength was turning to fat. He was on his way to being old, he just didn’t know it yet.

‘You’re not welcome here,’ I said. ‘The gun should have been a giveaway.’

‘They’re being evicted,’ the intruder said. ‘It’s all above board.’

Mrs Leckie hurried in, piles of yellowing papers in her hand.

‘Your grandfather said we could live here the rest of our lives. We’ve paid our rent every month on the dot.’

‘Grandad’s dead,’ the intruder said. ‘We’re in charge now.’

‘We’re not leaving,’ Mrs Leckie said.

‘You agreed,’ the man in the hallway said. ‘Twenty pounds to help you get set up by the sea.’

‘We changed our mind,’ Mrs Leckie said. ‘The money’s on the console, by the telephone. It’s all there.’

‘Sounds like the deal’s off,’ I said. ‘What’s your plan? Beat them up some more? How did that work for you last time?’

‘It’s not up to me,’ the intruder said, the refrain of the working man. It’s not me, it’s my boss. I’m just following orders.

‘Who’s it up to?’ I asked. ‘Let’s go and talk to him. We can take him the money and explain the situation’s changed. No harm done.’

I could see him thinking. He looked up, to the left, imagining. He’d be seeing pictures of me walking into a trap. Him and his boss teaching me a lesson. Serve me right.

‘It’s the best offer you’re going to get,’ I said.

He turned back to his partner, wanting to check. Curious. Clearly there was a pecking order, and clearly the man in front of me was at the top of that order. Didn’t seem like he’d seek approval from his mate, or even advice. Probably a misdirection.

His right arm whipped back towards me, and he pivoted his shoulders in the same direction. A solid backhand. A good move. A flash of metal. I was right, his show of consulting with his partner was for my benefit. Put me off guard, masking the set-up for his attack, focusing my attention on the conversation rather than what he was doing with his hand.

The knife flashed towards me. A bold move on his part. This wasn’t a polite schoolyard punch-up. He meant business.

The problem with a move like that – it’s all or nothing. You put all your hopes on the knife. If it does its job, you’ve won. If it doesn’t, your arm’s overextended, at the end of its swing, your face and body undefended.

I leant back, keeping my feet planted firmly, swaying from my hips enough that the knife flashed in front of my face, a miss. I grabbed his arm as it swung past my face, but instead of trying to stop it, I helped it on its way, completing the arc, smashing his forearm into the door frame. A long bone, smashed across a narrow, immovable object. Only one way for that to end. A loud crack as his bone snapped. A clatter of metal as he dropped the knife.

His face blanched as the pain hit him. He’d be going into shock in seconds, but until that happened, he’d have adrenaline on his side. No telling what he’d try next. So I put my knee into his groin, not holding back. Long-term damage, not the kind of thing you walk off. He sank to his knees. Not very sporting on my part, but we weren’t playing cricket. He’d put the bruises on Stan and Mrs Leckie. Now he’d come back to finish the job. He was lucky he was alive.

As he crumpled to the floor, gasping for air, I turned my attention to his friend.

‘Let’s go and talk to your boss,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’