The Scribbler Iain Maitland (good books to read txt) 📖

shout, Mother, we are here for you, your best boys—”

“Best boys,” the slow brother interrupted, moving away from the window at the back and coming towards his brother. Carrie could see the look of excitement on his face.

“We are here for you,” the smart brother repeated. “And I will tell the police to let her go, let Mother go. To come to us here in the barn. And my brother will take you down. He will take you downstairs and let you out and he will bring Mother here into the barn with us. Mother and her best boys. And we will be together again.”

“Mother and her best boys,” the slow brother repeated slowly, as if in astonishment, the undamaged side of his face all shiny with pride.

“And then what?” Carrie said bluntly. “You, what, live happily ever after? In this barn?” She knew she should go along with this charade. The stupidity of it. And keep her big mouth shut. But she couldn’t. She knew her loose tongue would be the death of her.

“Mummy’s boys,” she added. Then wished she hadn’t. She saw the sudden rage on the smart brother’s face. The look of bewilderment on the other’s. The smart brother turned towards her. She bought her head up, defiant.

And then he stopped.

She could see him swallow.

At the sudden loud clanging noise from behind the barn. 28. SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER. 1.35AM

The smart brother rushed by Carrie and the slow brother.

Moved to the side of the window at the back.

Fired his gun, once, twice, randomly, into the night. Stepped back, watching.

Carrie ducked her head down, waiting for the return of gunfire, back and front, the police then storming the barn. She snatched a look at the slow brother, her only possible protector, but he had moved to the back window, too, standing behind the smart brother looking out. She scratched desperately once more at the material between her hands with the shard of glass.

“Get away,” the smart brother snapped. “Don’t give them a clear shot.”

The slow brother stepped backwards.

“I’ve got this side covered,” the smart brother whispered quickly. “Crouch down. Go and cover the front.”

Carrie saw the slow brother, bent over, move hurriedly to the front window, peer through the broken pane, then put his gun through it, ready to shoot.

Waited for the police response.

A trigger-happy brother at the back.

A slow-witted brother at the front.

The moment stretched into a minute, then longer, more minutes, and towards an unending and uneasy silence.

“What do you see?” the smart brother suddenly called over to his brother.

“Nothing,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“The two police cars with their lights on?”

“There are no lights. It is dark.”

“Farmhouse?”

Carrie saw the slow brother nod. The smart brother, still keeping watch at the back, did not. He spoke again, a hardness to his voice.

“Are there lights on in the farmhouse?”

“No,” the slow brother answered simply. “It is dark.”

“Keep watching. Say if you see anything,” the smart brother said, looking out the back of the barn.

The slow brother grunted slightly, half crouching by the window.

All Carrie could hear beyond that was the wind in the trees.

“What do you see?” she said eventually to the smart brother in a quiet voice.

He shook his head as if he wanted her to be silent; was still watching and listening intently.

“What was that clanging?” she asked a minute later, still speaking softly.

“I don’t know,” he answered, after a long pause. “I don’t see the police. Probably foxes by one of the other barns or the bins. We sometimes get thieves at this time of year. For the Christmas trees. They’d have been scared off now, though.”

Another silence. Longer this time. Seeming to stretch on forever.

The brothers stood still, as if they had been doing this for years.

Carrie guessed, if they had had thieves before, that maybe they had stood guard many times like this through long winter nights.

Carrie thought she could a creaking noise, then a rustling, the pitter-patter sound of someone creeping towards the barn. And then away.

More silence.

Then other movements. Further away this time. A crackling of leaves among the trees. The swish of a branch.

Silence again.

And voices. She was certain she could hear low, urgent voices. Whispering out there in the trees. Insistent whispers. Instructions. You stay here. You – over there, spread out. Lie low. Await the order to fire.

Even then she thought it might be her imagination.

Her ears straining for the sounds of police marksmen moving into place. She knew they were coming, the marksmen. Would circle and be ready, just as soon as they had worked out which barn they were in. Not that hard with the equipment they had these days and the two brothers moving continually to and from the windows and pretty much in plain sight.

Silence.

On and on.

Into the night.

All she could hear now, she thought, were the two brothers. The smart one at the back was taut and tense, ready to explode any second. Noises rumbled and whirred incongruously from his stomach.

The slow brother at the front kept moving his right foot back and forth, as if steadying himself ready to fire. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A slippery, sliding noise, almost a squeaking, on the rotting floorboard. Over and over. Stop-start. Again and again. This rhythmic endless noise.

“Shut up,” the smart brother shouted.

The slow brother jumped and then turned slowly. “What?” His simple face, uncomprehending.

“We need to be quiet and listen … watch for the police,” the smart brother said quietly.

“I am,” the slow brother replied.

“Keep still then,” the smart brother said.

“Like a statue,” the slow brother answered. Thought for a few seconds and then added, “I will not blink.”

Another long silence.

The slow brother’s foot began again. It was all Carrie could hear.

Front to back.

To and fro.

Back to front.

Carrie waited for the smart brother to explode in fury. Thought what he might do. This trigger-happy man with his loaded gun. An argument. Brother against brother. Two guns. She wondered whether the slow brother might fight back or not. Was