After six weeks, away with work, I was looking forward to getting the dust knocked off my kit, getting something decent to eat and getting a cold beer in me. But as I passed the gate onto my property, I knew those things might have to wait. I slid the Land Rover to a stop on the track, still 50 metres from the house, next to three mopeds; the type popular with pizza delivery drivers and reprobate teenagers.
I climbed out of the cab and scanned the line of trees that ensured my privacy. Nothing unusual. Then I turned my attention to the house; the door was open and one of the small windows to the side of the frame had been smashed. I was going to be annoyed with myself later for making a break-in so easy. I reached into my pocket for my phone and was about to dial the emergency services operator when I noticed the door to the garage. I had converted it from an old stable and it never had a car inside it, rather I used it as a workshop when I was home. The padlock had been knocked off the small door and through the open gap I could see a bench tipped over with the paint tins that been on the top spilled onto the cement, splashing onto table I had been restoring.
I have no idea why that small act of vandalism bothered me more than the invasion of the house, but I felt the muscles in my shoulders and back flex and tense while the shutters came down on my emotions. The police probably wouldn't arrive on time, I reasoned. And if they did, all these scumbags would get was probably a slap on the wrist. I was going to handle this one myself. I used the phone to access my home security app and switched the recording from saving onto the hard drive in a fire-safe upstairs to saving on a cloud-based server. I did not want what was likely to happen next being recorded somewhere the police would easily find it if something went wrong.
Quietly approaching the house, I swung right to avoid being visible from the front doors or windows. At the gable end of the stables, I skirted the wall until I reached the open door of the garage. I waited just outside for a long 30 seconds, listening for any movement within before I stepped inside, treading round the expanding puddle of white gloss on the floor. From a shelf, I picked up a bike lock consisting of a padlock and about three feet of chain, wrapped in rubber to quieten it. Perusing my options, I also selected the two-foot-long, hickory handle for an axe that was waiting for the head to be attached. It had been on my 'to-do' list for months.
Suitably equipped I made my way back outside to the front door of the house and, after listening again, entered the house. As soon as I crossed the threshold I could hear the sounds of plunder. Somewhere in the back of the house drawers were being opened and things were being turned over. The noise was not frantic - there was a lot of deliberation in the actions. I thought about the mopeds and decided that their low carrying capacity was forcing them to be very picky about what they stole. The time this was taking had definitely played to my advantage.
I used the bike chain to secure the door, wrapping it through the letterbox and the broken window frame. It was not exactly weatherproof, but no one would be able to get out this way without the key that I tucked into the pocket of my jeans. I took the time to slip my jacket off as well, carefully hanging it up next to the door.
Happy that I had cut off the likely means of escape, I went looking for my prey. They were probably in the dining room from the sounds of it so, swinging my axe-handle loosely on my right side, I stalked slowly down the hall. As I got to the bottom of the stairs I froze; someone was jogging down them, two at a time. The wall prevented me from seeing them but the speed of their approach meant I had no choice but to go noisy earlier than I had planned. Gripping the hickory in both hands like a baseball player I focussed on where the guy was about to appear and visualised placing one solid hit on the side of his neck and what I would do if my strike went high or low.
In a matter of heartbeats, a flash of grey tracksuit bounced the last two steps and landed in the hall, facing towards me. As I started to swing, everything seemed wrong. The head and neck were much lower than I had expected and rather than the shaved side of the head I was going to hit just below, there was long, black hair, pulled into plaits.
I managed to stop my swing, just before it would have taken the head off the girl that was now stood in front of me. My reward for this chivalry was to see her eyes go as wide as saucers as a high-pitched squeak escaped her lips. I paused for only a fraction of a second; with no idea who else was in the house with her, I had little choice but to keep the initiative. Shifting my grip on the axe-handle as I stepped forward, I drove the wider end into her stomach with enough force to drop her on the spot but not do any real damage. Confident that she wouldn't be going anywhere for a few seconds I strode purposely towards the dining room - with her sputtering on the floor, the amount of noise I made was irrelevant now.
Again, I had my expectations confounded when the dining room didn't contain the boyfriend of 'Little-Miss-Winded' but two more girls instead. The girl in the corner of the room went rigid and pulled a rabbit-in-the-headlights face but the one closest to me saw me enter and immediately started sprinting for the door to the kitchen; she was obviously the quickest on the uptake. I didn't even consider playing softball with her head this time, instead I closed the distance fast, reached out and caught her collar, setting my feet as soon as my hand closed around her top. As the material snapped tight, she did a cartoon stunt; legs coming up level with her shoulders before she crashed down onto the floor. Her top had ripped in the process and was now unintentionally 'off the shoulder.' The third girl still looked terrified and had not moved an inch, but to be safe I pointed the hickory shaft at her and growled in my best Batman voice "Don't move an inch" - that should do it, I thought, pleased with myself.
I knelt down with my weight partly on the chest of the girl on the floor and summoned my inner Christian Bale again. "How many of you are there?" I roared at the prostrate girl. It was my main concern now. While there had only been three mopeds, I didn't want to get on the phone to the police only to have some Council Estate Bane appear from behind me and bust my head open.
"Three of us!" squeaked the girl in the corner, un-asked. "And we're really sorry!" she added. I glanced over at her; she was in her late teens or early twenties and pretty, although painfully thin. "Shut up, Rachel!" snarled the girl I had trapped under me. I let a bit more of my weight rest on her ribs and she gasped. I was going to have to watch her. She was at least as pretty as the skinny thing in the corner but had twice the presence. Her eyes burned with anger and she was wriggling constantly to try to test my hold of her.
"Rachel," I said (in a Bruce Wayne voice this time, hoping to not scare her further), "Go get your friend from the corridor and bring her in here." She didn't even look me in the eyes, just slunk from the room and returned a moment later supporting the girl I had first encountered. Taking my first proper look at her, I saw another millennial, but with a fuller figure than either of her partners in crime. She was of mixed-race and obviously had beautiful caramel skin normally, although right now she was looking a little green around the gills. I waved them both to the far side of the room and told them to sit down on dining room chairs before I released the defiant one to join them.
In about ten minutes of questioning, I established some basic facts. There were only three of them. The girl that was clearly their leader was called Kaitlyn and she liked to talk on behalf of the others. The human punchbag from the bottom of the stairs was called Nikka (to rhyme with Guernica) and that she was really, very pretty when her colour returned. Rachel was as nervous as she looked, constantly asking what was going to happen to them. It was this line of questioning that forced the issue.
"What is going to happen to you, Rachel, is that I am going to call the police, then you are going to wait in here until they arrive, I am going to show them the security footage of you breaking in, then you are going to go to jail." While I had addressed Rachel, I had said every word to Kaitlyn who had held my gaze throughout. I felt like she was waiting for her chance to talk so I paused.
"Do you have to do that?" she asked, clearly opening negotiations.
