Heathen/Nemesis

Sixty-Six

The cars stopped about twenty yards from the front of the cottage. One of them parked across the narrow track leading away from the building; it acted as a barrier.

Donna saw men scuttle from the vehicles, two of them running towards the house, slipping in the mud but keeping their balance.

She recognized one of them as Peter Farrell. Julie was busily locking the doors and windows, sliding bolts and turning keys. Donna seemed transfixed by the approaching men. She saw two more of them move towards the sides of the cottage. She turned and ran upstairs.

‘What’s happening?’ Julie asked breathlessly, hurrying to secure a window-lock on one of the kitchen windows.

The face loomed up out of the darkness and leered at her through the rain-soaked glass.

Julie screamed and took a step back.

The man held something in his hands.

Something he was swinging towards the window.

The iron bar struck the frame and the glass simultaneously, shattering the glass, sending shards spraying into the kitchen.

Julie screamed again and threw herself to one side, hissing in pain as a silver of broken glass sliced through the flesh on the back of her left hand.

The man outside struck at the window again, smashing more of the wooden frame, then he dropped the iron bar and snaked one hand inside, trying to slip the catch.

‘No,’ shouted Julie. She picked up a knife lying on the draining board by the sink, and drove it towards the man’s hand. She heard him shriek in agony as the blade pierced it, cutting through the web of skin between his thumb and index finger. Embedded in the wood, it momentarily skewered him to the window-frame. Julie saw blood pumping thickly from the wound.

With a shout of pain he tore his hand free, the flesh ripping as he dragged himself away from the knife, leaving it embedded in the wood.

Julie snatched at the knife as the man disappeared back into the blackness outside. Rain now poured in through the broken window, the wind also whipping through, buffetting Julie as she moved across to the back door.

The impact against it was enormous.

It seemed to bow in the centre; for one terrible second she thought that it was going to split.

The second blow sent the door flying open. For fleeting seconds Julie found herself staring into the rain-soaked face of the intruder. He fixed her in a maddened stare and she saw the blood running from his gashed hand.

‘Fucking bitch,’ he hissed and lunged towards her.

On the cooker to her right stood a frying pan the two women had used for their meal less than an hour ago.

Julie snatched up the heavy skillet and swung it with all her strength.

It smacked savagely into the man’s face, flattening his nose. The bones splintered under the force of the blow and blood spilled down his chin and the front of his jacket. He staggered.

She struck again, wielding the frying pan like a club, bringing it down hard on the top of his head with a blow hard enough to cut his scalp.

He dropped to his knees and tried to scramble away but Julie hit him again, kicking him hard in the ribs as he fell to the ground.

She dropped the frying pan and used both hands to push the back door shut, heaving with all her strength as the man tried to block it with his body.

She pulled the door back a foot or so then slammed it forward, catching him between the heavy wooden door and the frame. He grunted in pain.

She slammed it on him again.

And again.

He let go and ducked back into the driving rain.

Julie banged the door shut and slid the bolts into place.

Donna had been rummaging beneath the bed upstairs, where she’d pulled out both of the metal cases. She flipped one open and took out the Beretta and the .38, jamming one into the waistband of her jeans. Then she rushed back towards the stairs, almost falling in her haste to get back to the ground floor.

As she dashed into the sitting-room she heard movement outside the front door and immediately swung the automatic up into firing position.

It had been a while since she’d fired a pistol and the initial retort took even her by surprise. In the confines of the cottage the noise was thunderous.

The 9mm bullet left the barrel travelling at over 1,200 feet a second and cut a hole through the door. She fired again, and again.

Movement by the window.

Donna fired.

The glass exploded outwards and rain suddenly came pouring in through the hole. The curtains billowed madly as the wind caught them and Donna dashed across to the light switch and slapped it hard, plunging the room into darkness.

With her ears ringing from the massive blast of the weapon she threw herself down and crawled across to the wall by the front door, able to see back through the sitting-room to the kitchen.

She could see Julie also crouching down, one hand closed around the handle of the frying pan.

Outside she heard footsteps in the sucking mud.

The lights upstairs were still on; if she could only get to a window she might be able to see what the men outside were doing.

Rain continued to sweep into the cottage, driven by the strong wind that screamed around the building.

For interminable seconds the only sounds were the wind and rain and the heavy beating of her own heart.

Donna crouched where she was, the Beretta held close to her, the stink of cordite strong in her nostrils.

The attackers had obviously been surprised by the ferocity of their defence. Perhaps, she reasoned, they had left, not expecting to be greeted with guns.

There was no sound from outside, although it was difficult to pick out anything in the torrential rain that battered both cottage and landscape.

Donna got to her feet, still keeping low, and moved towards the small round window close to the front door in the hall.

If only she could get a look, see what they were up to ...

It was pitch black; she could scarcely see a hand in front of her. Her breathing was deep and she tried to control it, tried to stop herself hyperventilating. She gripped the pistol more tightly as she reached the wall beneath the window and rose slowly.

Just one quick look.

Her heart thudded madly against her ribs and the blood sang in her ears.

She steadied herself, ready to look through the window.

Then the first burst of gunfire tore across the front of the cottage.