The Scribbler, Iain Maitland [inspirational books TXT] 📗

her back, and leaned against the wall as nonchalantly as she could. It took all her powers not to show she was shaking. She did not speak. The fear would be heard in her voice.

“Stand there and wait,” he added. “Move unless I tell you to and you’ll be shot before you’ve taken a step. The back of your kneecaps. You’ll not walk again.”

She nodded, yes I understand, and stood there silently, moving the shard of glass carefully from her left to her right hand, ready. It gave her a chance; to use in self-defence if – more likely when – the smart brother turned his gun towards her.

And so they all stood, motionless.

The smart brother at the front. The slow brother at the back. Carrie in between.

All waiting for something to happen.

* * *

They all jumped at the same moment.

A voice, a woman’s strong and steady voice, calling through a megaphone.

Blurred and somehow distant, though, blown in the wind.

The smart brother turned towards his slow brother, then to Carrie, before edging back to the side of the front window, peering out in the direction of the voice.

“Who was that?” asked the slow brother, moving away from the back window and forgetting he was keeping watch. He sounded puzzled. His brain turning it all over, working it out, making some sort of simple sense to it all.

The smart brother moved his head dismissively, ssshhh, I’m trying to listen.

“It was a lady,” the slow brother continued, taking a step or two towards his brother, his voice full of curiosity. “A lady was calling to us.”

The voice called out again. A little clearer now.

Ronald. Dennis. Talk to me. Then something else. Some other words lost to the wind.

That was the gist of it, though, thought Carrie. Talk. Engage. Let’s find a way out of this.

“Is it Mother?” the slow brother asked, taking another step forward, the astonishment clear in his voice. “Is Mother calling to us?”

A pause and then another comment. “Does Mother want us to pray with her?”

It would be funny, thought Carrie, if it weren’t so stupid. Tragically funny. The utter nonsense of it.

“Shut up,” the smart brother replied, his voice rising.

Carrie watched the slow brother move even closer to his brother, wanting to see out of the front window, to look at Mother.

“Mother is talking to us. Let us both listen,” he said. He sounds suddenly joyful, happy, thought Carrie.

“Get back.” The smart brother pushed the slow brother away with his arm. “It’s not Mother. Don’t give them a clean shot.”

The slow brother stepped back, bewildered.

“What does Mother want us to do?” the slow brother asked, as if he could not understand what he was doing wrong.

Another pause. One more comment. “We are her boys. Her …”

“She wants us to shut up and listen to what’s being said. Be …” The smart brother stopped suddenly, listening to the voice again.

Carrie strained to hear all of the words.

“Talk to us.”

That was about it. All that mattered.

The slow brother approached the front window again. He was pressed close to the smart brother, up by his elbow, providing a clear target and preventing his brother shooting back.

“Where is she? Where is Mother?” the slow brother asked, pushing forward and peering out of one of the dirty window frames. He wiped at it with the back of his hand.

“For God’s sake.” The smart brother swivelled and pushed the slow brother back as hard as he could. “Get over there and be quiet.”

The slow brother took two, three steps back, turning to Carrie, who had taken a step or two towards the stairs to get away.

The smart brother turned, too, saw Carrie moving, and fired his gun once, then twice.

* * *

Carrie stumbled forwards and fell to the ground.

One shot way above her head, the other closer.

She dropped the shard of glass on the floor behind her.

“Only chance …” the smart brother shouted at her, turning fast to the slow brother. “Tie her up. Her hands. Find the cloths you used before … over there.”

He moved back to the window, shouting into the wind, “It’s all right, it’s all right.” The fear that his gunshots might have been heard and would trigger an immediate police attack.

Silence, though.

Except for the slight grunting of the slow brother as he tied Carrie’s wrists, tight as before, and then sat her back down against the wall. Carrie could feel the shard of glass jabbing into the outside of her left thigh. Where she had dropped it. She moved slightly to the side.

Waiting.

The slow brother made his way, ducking down, to the back window. Seemingly chastened by the smart brother’s warning shots. He stood to the side, looked out, put his gun through the broken pane.

Nothing.

The smart brother peered out, half-shielding his eyes, into the light. Knew there must be several police out there, if not many more. And all around.

Half-expected to see two or three break cover, running through the light and to the barn door. Did not know if he would shoot to kill or to scare, as he had just done with Carrie.

Wound maybe, if he could. To bring them down. Cut them to their knees before they got to the barn door.

“All is well. All are safe,” he shouted into the cold night air, an almost echoing, empty sound. “We want Mother. Bring us Mother.”

A pause.

“Let her come into the barn. To be with her boys.”

Thinking what to say.

“And we will let the policewoman go … You can have her.” He stopped now, waiting for the reply from the woman with the megaphone behind the lights.

The longest pause. As if that was that.

Then more blurred shouts from the police.

The smart brother shouting back, exchanging thoughts, reaching some sort of agreement, assumed Carrie, too far away to hear clearly.

“They want to see you,” the smart brother said. “To show you’re alive. That you are safe.”

“We do not hurt ladies,” the slow brother said.

“Your brother did … would,” Carrie answered. “He hit me hard across the face