The Scribbler, Iain Maitland [inspirational books TXT] 📗

Or she could whisper to him, something about the birthday party and his invitation. And she could ask to see the teddy bear again. Make a move as he shuffled about, reaching into his pocket for the bear.

She could just ask him to help her. To let her go. That her little boy would miss his mummy, like the slow brother missed his mother. That her little boy would be scared, not knowing where she was and what was happening. Get him to stand up to his brother. While she made her escape. She hesitated, not sure what to do. Had to come to a decision.

“You’ve got two minutes.”

She jumped as the smart brother shouted downstairs. “Okay,” she answered.

“And then you’re coming back up, come what may.”

The barn wall behind her was soft, more damp and mould and rot than solid wood. She felt it with her fingers then pushed at it with the palms of her hands, trying to find the softest spot, wondering whether she could somehow force her way through it and away. It was so rotten.

Looked across at the slow brother in front of her, his back to her. Awkward. Uncomfortable. She did not think, if push came to shove, that he would shoot her. If he turned, as he heard the soft rotting wood giving way and saw her scrambling out, he would not fire, she thought, at least not straightaway, would hesitate for a second or two.

And then she would be gone, around the side of the barn, away from the line of fire from the windows at front and back, zig-zagging into the night. Her hands held high, no mistaking the surrender gesture, as she ran towards the police cordon that must by now surely be surrounding the barn.

She shuffled slowly to the left, feeling the wall. It was harder there, impossible to break through.

Back and to the right. Again, the wall was hard, and she knew it would not give way here, even with all her weight against it.

Now back where she started, the softest part. Here, then, her best chance. She took a deep breath, steadying her nerves, searching for confidence.

She knew if she did not do it now, the chance would be lost. That she’d be tied back up, taken upstairs, sat down and told to wait. Would sit there, ready to be caught in the crossfire.

Pressed hard against the wood, such as it was. More sponge than wood. Felt it give against her hands. This was it. Now. She changed position, pulled her trousers up, fastened them, and leaned her body against the wall. Felt it move. Clear and definite.

Stood up, pushed back harder this time. Yes, definitely some give here. She heard footsteps above. The smart brother moving. Looked at the slow brother, about to turn. This was it, she had to do it now.

She stood tall, ready to throw herself back against the wall as hard as she possibly could.

Then staggered, holding her hands to her face.

As the barn filled with sudden, blinding light. 30. SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER, 2.51AM

All hell broke out, all sudden panic.

Carrie dropped to the ground, expecting gunfire.

The two brothers running back and forth.

In the confusion, she thought she might escape. Pushed hard with her back, then scrabbling with her hands, at the wall behind her. It gave a little but not enough. Went so far, but no further. Her hopes of breaking through dashed. She stood, half up, half down.

Looked across, towards the barn door, thinking she might run to it and out, her arms held high, praying that none of the police marksmen out there were jittery. Feared one might instinctively shoot at an emerging figure.

The slow brother was there, twisting and turning. First this way, then that, holding his gun up, not sure what to do, which way to go, where to turn. She tensed, ready to tackle him if he loosened his grip on the gun or even dropped it.

“Bring her upstairs, cover the back window,” the smart brother shouted down.

She moved forward, saw the smart brother, shielding his eyes, looking at them.

“Let me go,” she gabbled as the slow brother came at her, ignoring her words, pulling her towards him in his haste.

She thought that she might struggle, fight back, push at the slow brother, demanding that he free her. But she hesitated, knowing that the smart brother would shoot her where she stood or as she ran out through the barn door.

She let the slow brother carry her upstairs over his shoulder. Suddenly angry at the indignity of it. That she should be used like this. An object. Something to barter over. To trade.

She knew, as he tumbled her clumsily to the floor and moved to the back window, that she had to control her anger. Her temper had always been quick and hot, and it had cost her dearly in the past, with friendships and relationships. If she were not careful, this time it could cost her everything, her life.

“Anyone there?” the smart brother at the front called to the slow brother at the back.

“No,” the slow brother shouted back.

“They’re at the front. Behind the light. It may be a distraction to sneak up on us at the back,” the smart brother called again, at the side of the window, shielding his eyes, peering out, careful not to provide a target. “If they come from behind, shoot at them. Over their heads first. Warn them off. Shoot to kill if they keep coming.”

Carrie watched the two brothers. Scared. Engrossed. Ready to fire their guns.

In the turmoil, they had forgotten her and her untied hands and legs.

She crouched down quickly, as if sitting waiting. But really, she was feeling carefully behind her for the shard of glass.

The smart brother turned to her as if alerted by her sudden movement.

“Do anything and I’ll shoot you. I’ve told you. You know that,” he said.

She stood up slowly, her hands behind