Rushmoor Writers Group

A thrilling short story by Rushmoor Writers’ Jill Lamond. Enjoy

Something wakes me. I lie here, still half in my dream, annoyed to be woken up in the middle of the night. Then I hear it again. A bang as if someone has knocked into one of the chairs in the kitchen. I hold my breath, listening hard. Was I mistaken? There is no more noise but the silence feels loud and threatening. 
       I reach over and shake Gavin’s shoulder. He has been lying there snoring softly. It would take more than a noise downstairs to wake Gavin up.
       “Gavin, Gavin,” I whisper urgently, “Gavin, wake up.”
       Finally he stirs and mutters, “What, Fiona? It’s the middle of the blasted night and I have to be up early.” He didn’t seem happy.
       “I think there’s somebody downstairs.” I am shaking. Emergencies are definitely not my forte.
       “Oh for goodness sake,” he looks ready to bury his head under the covers again but suddenly there’s an almighty crash from downstairs and the sound of a loud masculine voice swearing.
       We glance at one another and Gavin now looks as panicked as I am. Sleep is no longer an option. Gavin reaches for his glasses and his mobile and fumbles to turn it on. 
       He has managed to get to the phone functioning and is calling the police as we hear the sound of somebody heavily making their way up the stairs.
       I leap out of bed and look for my dressing gown. I’m not going to face an intruder in my nightie. 
       Gavin is still sitting in bed waiting for the phone to connect. 
       “The en-suite,” I say, “quick.”
       As the footsteps grow nearer Gavin and I rush into the bathroom and bolt the door behind us. 
       I move the linen basket against the door as I hear the bedroom door opening. At the same time a voice on Gavin’s mobile chirps up with, “Which service do you require?”
       “Police,” Gavin half whispers into the phone. 
       There is silence from the bedroom. Can he hear us? I sit on the lid of the loo, palms wet and clammy, heart hammering away. Gavin is answering questions from the voice on the phone but he is sounding more and more stressed and his voice is rising. His remaining grey hair is sticking straight up in an Einstein-like style. Still, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror I can see that I’m in no position to criticise. I guess nobody looks their best at 3am. I try to silently motion to Gavin to keep the noise down while I strain to hear any sound from the other side of the door.
       Suddenly the door handle rattles. Gavin and I stare at it in horrified fascination as it moves up and down. It stops. There is a bang on the door, which fortunately doesn’t open, and then the intruder tries the handle again. 
       The voice on the other end of the phone is saying something about staying calm and not confronting the intruder and help being on the way. Good to know, though I’m worried that we might not have any choice about confronting the intruder unless they get a move on. My friend Deborah had to wait six hours for an ambulance when she had a fall in Marks & Spencer last week. I just hope that we don’t get a delay like that with the police. 
       For a minute or two there is no further sound from the bedroom. Is he still standing outside the door? I can hardly breathe.
       Then suddenly there is a further crash. I whisper to Gavin, “He’s ransacking the place, he’ll be taking my jewellery.”
       Gavin just shushes me.
       There are a further few bangs, sounding like the wardrobe doors being opened and closed roughly and then nothing.
       We wait five minutes. It seems like twenty. 
       “Do you think he’s gone now?” Gavin says softly
       “I didn’t hear him leave,” I respond, just as quietly. “I think maybe he’s going through our things.”
       “You think?” Gavin responds. “Well, good luck to him then. Other than your rings I don’t think we’ve anything in the bedroom worth robbing. And it’ll take him ages to go through all the clutter in the cupboards. In fact I’d pay him to take some of that stuff away!”
       “Some of those things are heirlooms,” I hiss indignantly. “I bet he could get a fortune for my mother’s vases at auction.”
       Gavin looks at me sceptically. “Well, anyway,” he replies, “it doesn’t sound like he’s doing anything at all. I can’t hear a thing.”
       I leave my position of safety on the loo and shuffle across to the door and press my ear to it. Nothing.
       Then all of a sudden a deep noise reverberates through the door. I jump out of my skin and fall backwards on to Gavin who is standing just behind me.
       “For goodness sake, Fiona” he moans rubbing his chin which I appear to have inadvertently headbutted.
       “Is… Is that… snoring?” I ask hesitantly.
       My question is answered as another unmistakeable snore issues from our bedroom.
       “Right,” says Gavin decisively. He no longer seems in the mood to wait for the emergency services. Scanning for a weapon in the decidedly weaponless bathroom he grabs the manky looking toilet brush. I guess that would be quite scary brandished in your face. I make do with the air freshener spray. A hearty dose of springtime lilac in the eyes might disable him perhaps?
       Gavin slowly unbolts the door. 
       “If he’s asleep we’ll quietly leave the bedroom and make a run for the front door,” he instructs me.
       Gavin turns the door handle and the door opens with a squeak. I bet he wishes now that he’d oiled the hinges last week when I asked him to.
       Fortunately it does not wake our sleeping beauty. In the moonlight filtering in to the bedroom I can make out the shape of a large person sprawled across our bed. A large person clutching what looks like an open can of Stella dribbling onto our duvet. A large person who looks remarkably familiar. 
       Gavin is slowly edging past the bed on his way to the door. I lay my hand on his shoulder. 
       “Gavin,” I say in low but normal tones. “It’s Dan.”
       At the sound of my voice the intruder lets out a huge snort and then wakes up. 
       “Hi mum,” he slurs. “Decided to come home for a little visit.”
       We both stare at our son in disbelief as flashing blue lights illuminate the room and somebody yells ”Police!” downstairs. It looks like we will all have some explaining to do.

© Jill Lamond, 2026