THE FEAR OF GOD MARK II
By Ivan Maximus the Third
"Being a grandmother is hard graft, and it begins in earnest when you retire," Ira muttered to the car, standing on tiptoe to scrub the middle of the windshield. Her spine clicked, and her biceps flapped, she noticed with stern disapproval.
She wasn't your normal, run-of-the-mill grandma. With an I.Q. of 180, a pHd in philosophy and physics and a sound knowledge of DIY, she spent most of her time either bringing up her grandchildren for her children, or fixing something her husband managed to break.
Her refuge from everyday hassle was the garage. Ira was giving her mind a well-earned rest.
"After this I'll have a kip," she grumbled to herself, when her mobile phone made an alarming noise in her pocket.
It was alarming because she was desperately hoping there wouldn't be any calls.
She sighed and pressed a button. YOU HAVE 1 TEXT MESSAGE.
Hay, gran! How r u? Thins not gud here. Biznis has gon bust. I owe a man a lot of munny, woz wunderin if u cud help me out? Luv form Charlie xxx (HELP!)
"Now what?" Ira wondered.
Charlie was her youngest grandson, and one of the silliest. She'd thought he would never learn to stand on his own wide feet, then six months ago he had surprised everybody by setting up his own business as a chocolatier. Privately, Ira had asked herself how soon it was going to go pear-shaped (the business, that is, not Charlie - but he was already pear-shaped, or perhaps not so much pear-shaped as MELON-shaped).
"What kind of businessman has a 'biznis'?" she snorted, deleted the message and went back into the house.
Two hours later, a tapping noise jerked her awake. She groaned, took her arm from over her eyes, and looked at the clock. Three in the afternoon.
That tapping noise again. Now what?
"John!" she called. "John?...JOHN!"
"Oh, WHAT?" her delightful husband enquired. "What the bleeding hell is it now? I'm trying to mumble mumble mumble."
"Stop tapping!"
"I'm not mumble mumble."
"What?"
"I SAID, I'm not tapping! Do you take me for a demented gerbil?"
"Well, somebody is -" The noise came again, from the kitchen, behind her. "Never mind!" She rose to investigate.
"WHAT?"
"I said NEVER MIND!" Ira yelled. "God, if you've got something to say come downstairs and say it!"
A high-pitched, squeaky voice - albeit incomprehensible - answered her.
"John, that sounds nothing like me," she told him. "And - GORDON BENNETT!"
She turned around and jumped at the sight of Charlie, standing on the other side of the kitchen window, right in the begonias, smiling sheepishly and tapping on the glass.
Ira opened the window and greeted her grandson.
"What the heck are you doing back here?"
"Don't have much time," Charlie panted. This wasn't unusual; Charlie always panted. The fact that he was covered in mud and wearing half the contents of somebody's washing-line was what gave Ira cause for concern.
"What happened to you? I thought I'd got rid of you ages ago!" Ira hissed.
"No time - let me in."
"Not looking like that, you're not. What will the neighbours think?"
"Let me in the back door, not the front. Don't want to be seen."
"Why...? Oh, come on then," she growled and lifted the back door latch.
Charlie tiptoed in. "I snuck through other people's gardens to get here," he explained, obviously thinking it would help circumstances. "Less chance of being spotted."
"Are you out of your mind?"
"There are men after me. I'll explain later. Hide me in your garage. Now. Please."
Ira was taken aback. Charlie had never spoken to her like this before, not without beating around the bush.
"This way," she said.
"Oh, and if anyone knocks on the door," he added, "you didn't see me, OK?"
"Whatever." She showed him into the garage, and slammed the door in his face just as the front doorbell sounded.
"I'll get it then, shall I?" she shouted up the stairs at John before wrenching the door open.
Standing on the doorstep was a mob. Not an angry mob, but the sort of mob that doesn't look very pleased, and wants its money back.
Ira made her excuses and shut the door, bolting it at top and bottom, then went into the garage. Charlie was hiding beneath a piece of tarpaulin, which made him resemble a half-constructed piece of heavyweight machinery.
"What," said Ira, "was that all about?"
The tarpaulin fell to the floor as if ashamed of itself. Charlie blinked like a long-distance truck driver caught in traffic lights.
"There's a bunch of morons in suits on the doorstep," she said wearily, "along with a weirdo who looks like he raided an Army Surplus store."
"Um."
"I'm getting too old for this."
"It's a long story. You know Chris, that guy I went to school with? The one you said would probably end up a criminal?"
"Rings a bell..."
"He's an international crook."
"Oh, what a surprise."
"And, well, I didn't realise until it was too late, and, he lent me some money, to get my business up and running, and I can't pay him back."
"Why? Didn't you sell enough chocolate?"
"I ate all the chocolate."
"You idiot."
"I know, I know...I couldn't afford to buy any other food. And he's been threatening me ever since, said he'd get his gang together and that he's going to lynch me..."
"You idiot."
"So I was wondering if you could hide me until the heat's off."
"Can't you just call the police?"
"I tried. They won't make arrests without sufficient evidence."
"You...you...idiot."
"You're not helping my self-esteem."
"Sorry."
The next morning, when Ira woke, kicked John awake and looked out of the bedroom window, she saw the Army-surplus-man nonchalantly sitting on the wall next to the garden gate. Further up the road was a white van. The men in suits were grouped around it, some of them smoking while others took it in turns to wander innocently along the pavement in front of the house and back again. The sun glinted off a pair of binoculars.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered, went into the kitchen, armed herself with a saucepan, and stormed down the garden path to investigate.
"What are you doing?" she snapped at the military-looking man. "That's MY wall, and you're on my property. Kindly get off it."
The man glanced over his shoulder and gave her a knowing smile. "There's a fellah hiding in your house. I'm waitin' for him. I'll go when he comes."
"You'll go now," Ira informed him. "I never heard of anything so preposterous. Man hiding in my house, indeed!"
The man's smile didn't falter. "You don't like it, you talk to my boss."
"And get mugged or something? Not on your nelly." She turned to go back inside. "The only man I have in the house is my husband, and I use the term 'man' very loosely."
"You tell Charlie," the man said, "there's an old friend waiting outside for him. Wants a chat."
"I don't know a Charlie," Ira said before closing the door. "Go away."
But the men stayed put.
They stayed surveilling the house for a week, and by the end of that week Ira had had more than enough. She stalked down the steps into the garage and found Charlie devouring a family-sized bag of crisps.
"What?" he asked, looking up. "I eat when I'm stressed."
"You think YOU'RE stressed? I can't even go to the corner shop to buy milk. The bread's gone mouldy. They nearly kidnapped John yesterday, although that wasn't so bad."
"I can't just go out there and...negotiate!" Charlie spluttered. "They'll kill me!"
"What, in public, in broad daylight? Don't be silly, you're not in a gangster film!"
"They'll take me somewhere else, in private. THEN they'll kill me."
"How do you know that?"
"They graffitied it on the side of my shop."
"Didn't the police think that was evidence?"
"I phoned them, but when I went back outside to show them, it had been washed off."
"Sneaky."
"I know..."
"Well, we've got to do something," Ira said. "I don't fancy being under house arrest for the rest of my life. I'm calling the peelers."
"Don't DO that!"
Ira ignored his protests and dialled 999. Five minutes later she put the phone down, looking smug.
"There you are, what did I tell you? They'll be down here as soon as they can, the evil men will go away, and you can bugger orf back home."
"They know where I live."
"...Then you can bugger orf to a different town."
"I'm skint."
"Spend less."
"You have a cruel sense of humour."
"Mm. I wasn't joking."
"Besides, you're meant to be the genius mechanic in the family. Why don't you invent some infernal bomb or something that'll explode them to bits?"
"Because a) it's illegal and b) as I said when you told tales on them when you were younger, 'I can't fight your battles for you.'"
"Yes, but this is different. My life is at stake here. Talking of which, can we have steak for tea?"
"We don't have any."
"What do we have?"
"What do we have left? Half a tin of baked beans, mouldy bread and a stick of chewing-gum."
"Can I have -"
"You're not having it. It's for John's halitosis."
There was a knock at the door. Ira answered it. Two police officers stood in the doorway.
"Good afternoon." Ira peered up and down the street. The van and the men were nowhere in sight. "I take it they took fright and drove off, then?"
"Yes, madam. Did you happen to take note of the vehicle's number plate?"
"There wasn't one."
Ira invited the police in, gave them a cup of tea, answered their questions, and waved goodbye when they left.
Ten minutes later, the van and the men were back.
"I told you so," Charlie remarked when she told him. "I hate to say it, but I did tell you so."
"Shut up. We need a plan."
"OK."
"That means you should suggest something, dimwit."
"But you told me to shut up."
Ira sighed. "How much money do you owe them again?"
"A lot."
"So you keep saying."
Charlie bit his lip. "Forty thousand pounds."
Ira's nostrils flared.
"I don't suppose -?"
"Forget it," she said. "We're old age pensioners. And even if I had that kind of money, I wouldn't be spending it on the miniscule equivalent of the Mafia, I'd be off on a beach in the Maldives. Without John. Preferably."
"Yeah, what is it with you and him, anyway? You're never in the same room."
"Bad enough being in the same building. And don't change the subject, it's annoying."
"Sorry."
"What I propose is, we should bluff."
"Bluff?"
"Earlier, you know you said we should threaten them with a bomb, and I said it was illegal?"
"Yeah?"
"We'll threaten them with a bomb."
"Uh?"
"But the bomb's going to be you."
Charlie's face drained of all colour.
Later that night, after a meagre tea of beans on beans, Ira pushed a myterious heap in a wheelbarrow out of the back door. It was covered in tarpaulin. In the side passage, under cover of darkness, she adjusted a couple of the metal tubes sticking out the front of the shape.
"Ow," it said. "Watch where you're poking that thing!"
"Shh! Stay still."
"I don't know about this. I think we should go back inside. I never should've come here. I never should've started a business. I never should've left!"
"Oh, shut up and stop being such a yellow-belly. You've got no gumption."
"All right for you to say."
"Quiet."
Ira straightened her shoulders, blew out a long breath, seized the handles and wheeled the "contraption" to the front garden.
Some of the besuited men paused, and looked ready to rush at her, but she carried on until the thing was in line with the headlights of the van, pointing at who she presumed was the boss - Chris - because he was leaning nonchalantly against the bonnet with his arms folded, while the rest of them looked bemused.
"Hello, Chris," she said. "Long time, no see."
The man raised an eyebrow.
She went on. "Last time you were here, you were a little tot, just up to my knee. I'm sure you remember. Disgusting little bugger, you were, always picking your nose and eating it."
A couple of the other men sniggered, until Chris shot them a horrible glance.
"Funny time of day for an old bint to go walking around," Chris remarked. "It's dark. You could fall over and get hurt." He sounded genuinely concerned, but his face was bored. "How's Charles doing? Still cowering away, is he? He never was up to much. Wouldn't join in. Used to sit in a corner of the playground yakking to himself, instead of helping me get people's lunch money. Gone loopy yet, has he?"
Ira narrowed her eyes.
"Don't do that face at me," he drawled. "It enhances your crows' feet."
She patted the hummock under the tarp. Charlie remained still.
"This," she said, "is a little invention of mine. I'd like you to meet the Fear of God mark two."
Chris raised his other eyebrow, found the effort too taxing and frowned instead. "What happened to mark one?"
"It was so unstable it exploded. A long time ago. Before your time."
"Unstable?"
"That's right. The nuclear reactor had too much plutonium in it, but now I've got it just perfect. A tiny bit unreliable, but still...once I push the button...BOOM!"
"BOOM?"
"Yep. BOOM. It'll wipe out, say, a van and a mob of ten men."
Chris stood upright. "Are you threatening me?"
"Not at all." Ira blinked innocently. "I was just saying, hypothetically, of course, that if a bunch of morons started hanging about where they're not wanted, I would wheel this baby out and let them have it."
"Oh, isn't that nice," Chris said to the street at large. "This old lady's giving me a big present. Isn't that sweet?"
"I WILL give it you, in a second," she said, trying not to sound desperate. The men were closing in, she could feel it. "You won't even know what hit you."
"I think I would," Chris said. "Though somehow, I don't think little Charlie-wahlie would be able to hit me very hard with a lead pipe." He yanked the tarpaulin off Charlie, who froze in terror.
"Now look here," Ira began, but someone shoved her out of the way.
Just as two of the men were trying to drag Charlie out of the wheelbarrow and fit him in the van (then just trying to wheel him in when they realised he was wedged tight) something happened.
"GERONIMO!" A voice caterwauled overhead, and a strange, black-clad figure swooped down on the end of a washing line. He rolled to his knees, stood and brandished a bazooka at the assembled men, who became motionless.
Ira looked at the figure, and chewed her lip.
"Lady!" Chris bellowed at her. "Do you know this buffoon?"
Ira raised her hands in the air and tried to appear scared. She shook her head.
"Let the boy go," the figure growled behind his balaclava, gesturing to Charlie. "Or the boss gets it."
The military Army-surplus man strolled up behind the figure and pressed the muzzle of a pistol into the small of his back.
"Actually," he said into the figure's ear, "I'm the boss."
While everyone else was distracted, Ira noticed Charlie easing out of the wheelbarrow, but didn't react. She wondered what he was doing. Was he running away? He wouldn't get very far if he did, probably die of a heart attack - but no - he was lifting the wheelbarrow and sneaking into the shadows.
Chris looked around. "Hey. Where did Fatso go?"
The other men glanced at each other, bewildered, embarrassed. No one replied.
"Don't tell me you let him slip through your fingers again, Chri--" the man with the pistol began, before a wheelbarrow whacked him around the head and sent him reeling. He hit the ground unconscious, revealing a grinning Charlie. Ira was surprised at his strength.
The mysterious figure brandished the bazooka once more and the men had had enough. Chris and his cohort piled into the van, started the ignition, then...nothing happened.
"I slit your tires," the figure growled. "Waste of road space, that thing. Did you a favour."
The figure handed Ira the washing line, telling her to tie up the unconscious man. She did so, with Charlie's help.
Blue lights flashed, and a police car pulled up. The two officers from earlier that afternoon got out. One of them drew a long, hissing breath through his teeth and said, "Right. You're all under arrest. Apart from you, Ira, we'll need a witness testimony from you later."
"But what have I done?" Charlie protested.
"You're holding a wheelbarrow with blood and hair stuck to it," the policeman pointed out, "and there's an injured man, tied up, with head wounds, lying at your feet. It's obvious."
"It was in defence," Ira said kindly. "That bloke was threatening my husband with a gun."
"Your husband?" Charlie was incredulous.
The figure peeled off his balaclava, revealing John, who nodded. "You get bored, spending every day in your study. And I had this collection of old weapons from my time in other spots."
A week later, Ira sat down in the garage and sighed with relief.
She knew it was going to be all right. John had phoned her earlier. The bazooka had not even been loaded. There was just the small matter of the wheelbarrow.
The postman knocked on the door.
She opened it.
"I heard what happened," he said, giving her a sympathetic face.
"Are you kidding?" Ira said. "They're all going to serve time. I shall get some peace at last!"
She wasn't your normal, run-of-the-mill grandma. With an I.Q. of 180, a pHd in philosophy and physics and a sound knowledge of DIY, she spent most of her time either bringing up her grandchildren for her children, or fixing something her husband managed to break.
Her refuge from everyday hassle was the garage. Ira was giving her mind a well-earned rest.
"After this I'll have a kip," she grumbled to herself, when her mobile phone made an alarming noise in her pocket.
It was alarming because she was desperately hoping there wouldn't be any calls.
She sighed and pressed a button. YOU HAVE 1 TEXT MESSAGE.
Hay, gran! How r u? Thins not gud here. Biznis has gon bust. I owe a man a lot of munny, woz wunderin if u cud help me out? Luv form Charlie xxx (HELP!)
"Now what?" Ira wondered.
Charlie was her youngest grandson, and one of the silliest. She'd thought he would never learn to stand on his own wide feet, then six months ago he had surprised everybody by setting up his own business as a chocolatier. Privately, Ira had asked herself how soon it was going to go pear-shaped (the business, that is, not Charlie - but he was already pear-shaped, or perhaps not so much pear-shaped as MELON-shaped).
"What kind of businessman has a 'biznis'?" she snorted, deleted the message and went back into the house.
Two hours later, a tapping noise jerked her awake. She groaned, took her arm from over her eyes, and looked at the clock. Three in the afternoon.
That tapping noise again. Now what?
"John!" she called. "John?...JOHN!"
"Oh, WHAT?" her delightful husband enquired. "What the bleeding hell is it now? I'm trying to mumble mumble mumble."
"Stop tapping!"
"I'm not mumble mumble."
"What?"
"I SAID, I'm not tapping! Do you take me for a demented gerbil?"
"Well, somebody is -" The noise came again, from the kitchen, behind her. "Never mind!" She rose to investigate.
"WHAT?"
"I said NEVER MIND!" Ira yelled. "God, if you've got something to say come downstairs and say it!"
A high-pitched, squeaky voice - albeit incomprehensible - answered her.
"John, that sounds nothing like me," she told him. "And - GORDON BENNETT!"
She turned around and jumped at the sight of Charlie, standing on the other side of the kitchen window, right in the begonias, smiling sheepishly and tapping on the glass.
Ira opened the window and greeted her grandson.
"What the heck are you doing back here?"
"Don't have much time," Charlie panted. This wasn't unusual; Charlie always panted. The fact that he was covered in mud and wearing half the contents of somebody's washing-line was what gave Ira cause for concern.
"What happened to you? I thought I'd got rid of you ages ago!" Ira hissed.
"No time - let me in."
"Not looking like that, you're not. What will the neighbours think?"
"Let me in the back door, not the front. Don't want to be seen."
"Why...? Oh, come on then," she growled and lifted the back door latch.
Charlie tiptoed in. "I snuck through other people's gardens to get here," he explained, obviously thinking it would help circumstances. "Less chance of being spotted."
"Are you out of your mind?"
"There are men after me. I'll explain later. Hide me in your garage. Now. Please."
Ira was taken aback. Charlie had never spoken to her like this before, not without beating around the bush.
"This way," she said.
"Oh, and if anyone knocks on the door," he added, "you didn't see me, OK?"
"Whatever." She showed him into the garage, and slammed the door in his face just as the front doorbell sounded.
"I'll get it then, shall I?" she shouted up the stairs at John before wrenching the door open.
Standing on the doorstep was a mob. Not an angry mob, but the sort of mob that doesn't look very pleased, and wants its money back.
Ira made her excuses and shut the door, bolting it at top and bottom, then went into the garage. Charlie was hiding beneath a piece of tarpaulin, which made him resemble a half-constructed piece of heavyweight machinery.
"What," said Ira, "was that all about?"
The tarpaulin fell to the floor as if ashamed of itself. Charlie blinked like a long-distance truck driver caught in traffic lights.
"There's a bunch of morons in suits on the doorstep," she said wearily, "along with a weirdo who looks like he raided an Army Surplus store."
"Um."
"I'm getting too old for this."
"It's a long story. You know Chris, that guy I went to school with? The one you said would probably end up a criminal?"
"Rings a bell..."
"He's an international crook."
"Oh, what a surprise."
"And, well, I didn't realise until it was too late, and, he lent me some money, to get my business up and running, and I can't pay him back."
"Why? Didn't you sell enough chocolate?"
"I ate all the chocolate."
"You idiot."
"I know, I know...I couldn't afford to buy any other food. And he's been threatening me ever since, said he'd get his gang together and that he's going to lynch me..."
"You idiot."
"So I was wondering if you could hide me until the heat's off."
"Can't you just call the police?"
"I tried. They won't make arrests without sufficient evidence."
"You...you...idiot."
"You're not helping my self-esteem."
"Sorry."
The next morning, when Ira woke, kicked John awake and looked out of the bedroom window, she saw the Army-surplus-man nonchalantly sitting on the wall next to the garden gate. Further up the road was a white van. The men in suits were grouped around it, some of them smoking while others took it in turns to wander innocently along the pavement in front of the house and back again. The sun glinted off a pair of binoculars.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered, went into the kitchen, armed herself with a saucepan, and stormed down the garden path to investigate.
"What are you doing?" she snapped at the military-looking man. "That's MY wall, and you're on my property. Kindly get off it."
The man glanced over his shoulder and gave her a knowing smile. "There's a fellah hiding in your house. I'm waitin' for him. I'll go when he comes."
"You'll go now," Ira informed him. "I never heard of anything so preposterous. Man hiding in my house, indeed!"
The man's smile didn't falter. "You don't like it, you talk to my boss."
"And get mugged or something? Not on your nelly." She turned to go back inside. "The only man I have in the house is my husband, and I use the term 'man' very loosely."
"You tell Charlie," the man said, "there's an old friend waiting outside for him. Wants a chat."
"I don't know a Charlie," Ira said before closing the door. "Go away."
But the men stayed put.
They stayed surveilling the house for a week, and by the end of that week Ira had had more than enough. She stalked down the steps into the garage and found Charlie devouring a family-sized bag of crisps.
"What?" he asked, looking up. "I eat when I'm stressed."
"You think YOU'RE stressed? I can't even go to the corner shop to buy milk. The bread's gone mouldy. They nearly kidnapped John yesterday, although that wasn't so bad."
"I can't just go out there and...negotiate!" Charlie spluttered. "They'll kill me!"
"What, in public, in broad daylight? Don't be silly, you're not in a gangster film!"
"They'll take me somewhere else, in private. THEN they'll kill me."
"How do you know that?"
"They graffitied it on the side of my shop."
"Didn't the police think that was evidence?"
"I phoned them, but when I went back outside to show them, it had been washed off."
"Sneaky."
"I know..."
"Well, we've got to do something," Ira said. "I don't fancy being under house arrest for the rest of my life. I'm calling the peelers."
"Don't DO that!"
Ira ignored his protests and dialled 999. Five minutes later she put the phone down, looking smug.
"There you are, what did I tell you? They'll be down here as soon as they can, the evil men will go away, and you can bugger orf back home."
"They know where I live."
"...Then you can bugger orf to a different town."
"I'm skint."
"Spend less."
"You have a cruel sense of humour."
"Mm. I wasn't joking."
"Besides, you're meant to be the genius mechanic in the family. Why don't you invent some infernal bomb or something that'll explode them to bits?"
"Because a) it's illegal and b) as I said when you told tales on them when you were younger, 'I can't fight your battles for you.'"
"Yes, but this is different. My life is at stake here. Talking of which, can we have steak for tea?"
"We don't have any."
"What do we have?"
"What do we have left? Half a tin of baked beans, mouldy bread and a stick of chewing-gum."
"Can I have -"
"You're not having it. It's for John's halitosis."
There was a knock at the door. Ira answered it. Two police officers stood in the doorway.
"Good afternoon." Ira peered up and down the street. The van and the men were nowhere in sight. "I take it they took fright and drove off, then?"
"Yes, madam. Did you happen to take note of the vehicle's number plate?"
"There wasn't one."
Ira invited the police in, gave them a cup of tea, answered their questions, and waved goodbye when they left.
Ten minutes later, the van and the men were back.
"I told you so," Charlie remarked when she told him. "I hate to say it, but I did tell you so."
"Shut up. We need a plan."
"OK."
"That means you should suggest something, dimwit."
"But you told me to shut up."
Ira sighed. "How much money do you owe them again?"
"A lot."
"So you keep saying."
Charlie bit his lip. "Forty thousand pounds."
Ira's nostrils flared.
"I don't suppose -?"
"Forget it," she said. "We're old age pensioners. And even if I had that kind of money, I wouldn't be spending it on the miniscule equivalent of the Mafia, I'd be off on a beach in the Maldives. Without John. Preferably."
"Yeah, what is it with you and him, anyway? You're never in the same room."
"Bad enough being in the same building. And don't change the subject, it's annoying."
"Sorry."
"What I propose is, we should bluff."
"Bluff?"
"Earlier, you know you said we should threaten them with a bomb, and I said it was illegal?"
"Yeah?"
"We'll threaten them with a bomb."
"Uh?"
"But the bomb's going to be you."
Charlie's face drained of all colour.
Later that night, after a meagre tea of beans on beans, Ira pushed a myterious heap in a wheelbarrow out of the back door. It was covered in tarpaulin. In the side passage, under cover of darkness, she adjusted a couple of the metal tubes sticking out the front of the shape.
"Ow," it said. "Watch where you're poking that thing!"
"Shh! Stay still."
"I don't know about this. I think we should go back inside. I never should've come here. I never should've started a business. I never should've left!"
"Oh, shut up and stop being such a yellow-belly. You've got no gumption."
"All right for you to say."
"Quiet."
Ira straightened her shoulders, blew out a long breath, seized the handles and wheeled the "contraption" to the front garden.
Some of the besuited men paused, and looked ready to rush at her, but she carried on until the thing was in line with the headlights of the van, pointing at who she presumed was the boss - Chris - because he was leaning nonchalantly against the bonnet with his arms folded, while the rest of them looked bemused.
"Hello, Chris," she said. "Long time, no see."
The man raised an eyebrow.
She went on. "Last time you were here, you were a little tot, just up to my knee. I'm sure you remember. Disgusting little bugger, you were, always picking your nose and eating it."
A couple of the other men sniggered, until Chris shot them a horrible glance.
"Funny time of day for an old bint to go walking around," Chris remarked. "It's dark. You could fall over and get hurt." He sounded genuinely concerned, but his face was bored. "How's Charles doing? Still cowering away, is he? He never was up to much. Wouldn't join in. Used to sit in a corner of the playground yakking to himself, instead of helping me get people's lunch money. Gone loopy yet, has he?"
Ira narrowed her eyes.
"Don't do that face at me," he drawled. "It enhances your crows' feet."
She patted the hummock under the tarp. Charlie remained still.
"This," she said, "is a little invention of mine. I'd like you to meet the Fear of God mark two."
Chris raised his other eyebrow, found the effort too taxing and frowned instead. "What happened to mark one?"
"It was so unstable it exploded. A long time ago. Before your time."
"Unstable?"
"That's right. The nuclear reactor had too much plutonium in it, but now I've got it just perfect. A tiny bit unreliable, but still...once I push the button...BOOM!"
"BOOM?"
"Yep. BOOM. It'll wipe out, say, a van and a mob of ten men."
Chris stood upright. "Are you threatening me?"
"Not at all." Ira blinked innocently. "I was just saying, hypothetically, of course, that if a bunch of morons started hanging about where they're not wanted, I would wheel this baby out and let them have it."
"Oh, isn't that nice," Chris said to the street at large. "This old lady's giving me a big present. Isn't that sweet?"
"I WILL give it you, in a second," she said, trying not to sound desperate. The men were closing in, she could feel it. "You won't even know what hit you."
"I think I would," Chris said. "Though somehow, I don't think little Charlie-wahlie would be able to hit me very hard with a lead pipe." He yanked the tarpaulin off Charlie, who froze in terror.
"Now look here," Ira began, but someone shoved her out of the way.
Just as two of the men were trying to drag Charlie out of the wheelbarrow and fit him in the van (then just trying to wheel him in when they realised he was wedged tight) something happened.
"GERONIMO!" A voice caterwauled overhead, and a strange, black-clad figure swooped down on the end of a washing line. He rolled to his knees, stood and brandished a bazooka at the assembled men, who became motionless.
Ira looked at the figure, and chewed her lip.
"Lady!" Chris bellowed at her. "Do you know this buffoon?"
Ira raised her hands in the air and tried to appear scared. She shook her head.
"Let the boy go," the figure growled behind his balaclava, gesturing to Charlie. "Or the boss gets it."
The military Army-surplus man strolled up behind the figure and pressed the muzzle of a pistol into the small of his back.
"Actually," he said into the figure's ear, "I'm the boss."
While everyone else was distracted, Ira noticed Charlie easing out of the wheelbarrow, but didn't react. She wondered what he was doing. Was he running away? He wouldn't get very far if he did, probably die of a heart attack - but no - he was lifting the wheelbarrow and sneaking into the shadows.
Chris looked around. "Hey. Where did Fatso go?"
The other men glanced at each other, bewildered, embarrassed. No one replied.
"Don't tell me you let him slip through your fingers again, Chri--" the man with the pistol began, before a wheelbarrow whacked him around the head and sent him reeling. He hit the ground unconscious, revealing a grinning Charlie. Ira was surprised at his strength.
The mysterious figure brandished the bazooka once more and the men had had enough. Chris and his cohort piled into the van, started the ignition, then...nothing happened.
"I slit your tires," the figure growled. "Waste of road space, that thing. Did you a favour."
The figure handed Ira the washing line, telling her to tie up the unconscious man. She did so, with Charlie's help.
Blue lights flashed, and a police car pulled up. The two officers from earlier that afternoon got out. One of them drew a long, hissing breath through his teeth and said, "Right. You're all under arrest. Apart from you, Ira, we'll need a witness testimony from you later."
"But what have I done?" Charlie protested.
"You're holding a wheelbarrow with blood and hair stuck to it," the policeman pointed out, "and there's an injured man, tied up, with head wounds, lying at your feet. It's obvious."
"It was in defence," Ira said kindly. "That bloke was threatening my husband with a gun."
"Your husband?" Charlie was incredulous.
The figure peeled off his balaclava, revealing John, who nodded. "You get bored, spending every day in your study. And I had this collection of old weapons from my time in other spots."
A week later, Ira sat down in the garage and sighed with relief.
She knew it was going to be all right. John had phoned her earlier. The bazooka had not even been loaded. There was just the small matter of the wheelbarrow.
The postman knocked on the door.
She opened it.
"I heard what happened," he said, giving her a sympathetic face.
"Are you kidding?" Ira said. "They're all going to serve time. I shall get some peace at last!"