Copyright oggbashan April 2023
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
"Good afternoon, John. You going to use that?"
I was standing in the open doorway at the back of my garage examining a bill hook I had just been cleaning. The winter sun was about to move off the door and I was using it to see any tiny rust spots I might have missed.
My garage was on a back access track that led behind the street of houses but was rarely used. It and the wooden garages had been built in the 1930s for Austin 7 cars or motorcycle combinations. The track was too narrow for a modern car to access a garage, even if there had been any original garages left from the 1930s.
When my grandfather's street had been built as a cul-de-sac (dead end street) in the late 1960s, the developers should have widened the access track. They didn't. They put garages beside the front of the houses.
My garage had been my grandfather's man cave and was a precast concrete one for two cars, yet no car had ever been in it. He had used it as his woodworking shop and den, equipped with minimal cooking facilities and a toilet. My grandmother had used the front parlour of the house as her area to do sewing and entertain her friends. Whenever she did, grandfather would retreat to his garage, often with his ancient friends.
My grandfather hadn't been fit enough to maintain the garden in his later years and it was overgrown. I had inherited the house last autumn and my project for Spring was to bring the garden back to a tidy condition.
As part of my inheritance, I had my father's garden tools that hadn't been used for at least five years. The bill hook might help me to clear the brambles, but my next tool to renovate was an ex-Army Machete, a souvenir of grandfather's time with the Chindits in Burma.
"Yes, Harry, Next weekend, weather permitting." I replied. "The back garden is a mess."
"I know. Some of us helped to keep the front garden tidy, but your grandfather kept his gates locked and we couldn't get around the back."
"Thank you, Harry, and the others. I hope to sort out the back before the end of the Spring."
Harry went off pushing his wheelbarrow with rubbish to load in his car and go to the tip.
I had already sharpened the machete on the grinding wheel, but I was honing it with a handheld stone, standing in the weak sunlight.
Suddenly, from a garden a few doors down, a petite woman ran out. She saw me and ran towards me. Her blouse was torn, showing her bra, and she was holding the remains of her skirt around her.
"John, can you hide me, please?" She gasped.
I stood aside and let her enter the garage. I was surprised she knew my name. I didn't recognise her.
"There's a toilet at the back. You can hide in there and bolt the door," I said.
I heard her bolt the door.
A man emerged from the same garden holding a sledgehammer. He ran towards me.
"Has a woman just run past?" He asked.
"No," I said. After all, she hadn't run past me.
He lifted the sledgehammer. I raised my machete.
"That's a dangerous weapon," he said.
"Perhaps," I replied. "But I'm on my property with a garden tool. It was my grandfather's. He used to shave with it as a party trick. Now I've finished sharpening it, so could I."
He looked as if he was considering using the sledgehammer, but my machete deterred him. He gave me a dirty look and walked back the way he had come. I stood watching him until he went around the bend in the track towards the road.
I shut the heavy door behind me and put the two locking bars in place. Like his neighbours my grandfather had improved the security on his garage after a spate of break-ins about a decade ago. All sides of the garage were covered by CCTV, and my encounter with him, and the woman's arrival would have been recorded in colour and stereo sound.
I went across to the toilet and knocked on the door.
"He's gone," I said. "Are you OK?"
She unbolted the door and came out.
"I'm OK, thank you, John, but I'm worried about my grandparents. He broke down the front door. My grandfather stood in his way as I ran for it."
"Where do your grandparents live?"
"Number 18. And this is?"
"Number 24. I'll go and see if they're OK."
"I'd be worried if you left me."
"You'll be safe in my house. There is a panic room on both floors. My grandparents had them installed after a burglar broke in eight years ago and threatened them with a knife. Come on."
I took her up the garden and through the kitchen door which I locked and bolted behind us. The back of the rear living room was now a panic room. I took her in there and showed her how to lock herself in. There were several CCTV monitors mounted on the wall. The room was equipped with a basic kitchen, a toilet and washroom, and a bed. I opened a wardrobe and pulled out a suitcase.
"This contains my ex-girlfriend Mary's clothes. You might find something to fit even if they are too large. While you're in here I'll check on your grandparents. OK?"
"Yes, thank you."
I went out of my front door. I could see four elderly couples standing on the pavement outside number 18 and could hear shouting from inside. I ran to the front door which has been smashed. As I went past one elderly man shouted at me:
"We've called the police, John. They should be here in five minutes."
I went into the hall. The man I had seen earlier was shaking an older man and screaming at him:
"Where's she gone? You must know."
The elderly man's wife was ineffectually beating at him with her fists and shouting:
"He doesn't know!"
