She had no idea how bad her injury was. So far, it was only searing pain, but she could still take deep breaths. Wherever the bullet went, it hadn’t gone through her lungs, and maybe didn’t even penetrate her chest at all.
She couldn’t look. She had a desperate ex-con in front of her, and she needed to do something with him. She got both her hands up and prepared to throw a cross.
Instead, he dropped to the floor to grab for the gun. It was a mistake, and she took full advantage of his sudden vulnerability. Raising one fist over her head, she sent a hammer strike to the back of his neck. He collapsed flat on the floor, but she kept with the hammer strikes, one after another, his neck, his head, his back, his neck again, until all that happened was his body bounced on the hardwood floor.
She stopped and stood upright, looking down at him. He didn’t move.
June arched her back, trying to ease some of the muscles, but there was a massive spasm in her chest wall, bending her sideways. She lifted her shirt looked at her wound for the first time.
The bullet had plowed a deep furrow through her flesh just below her bra, running right over a rib. She knew then the bullet hadn’t entered her body but had skipped off the rib and continued on past her. She had been lucky she was only deeply grazed. It didn’t mean she wasn’t in pain though.
One of the girls called from inside the guest room. “Auntie, can we come out?”
“Not yet, honey,” she called out. She still felt frantic over the scene in her home, strange men unconscious, her chest bleeding, the girls wanting to get out of the room. It took more effort than what she realized to talk after being shot. Panting for air barely helped. “Be good girls for auntie and stay in there. I’ll come get you in just a minute.”
She pulled her torn and blood soaked shirt back down.
June went around to the man’s head, grabbed a hold of his collar and dragged him into the middle of the floor. She had one last plastic tie in her pocket and used it on his wrists behind his back. She felt for a pulse at his neck and found one, then listened to his breathing. It was good enough as far as she was concerned. Alive anyway. Just as she was picking up her phone to dial 9-1-1 for the police again, she heard sirens outside the house. Her earlier anonymous call in the bathroom had worked.
She opened the front door to see a black and white patrol car angle parked at the curb. The cop got out, stayed behind his door, his pistol in his hand.
“It’s alright now. Just bring lots of handcuffs.” She got another spasm in her ribs and had to lean against the doorjamb to stay upright. “And an ambulance would be good.”
June turned around and tried taking a deep breath. She heard a new round of crying in the bedroom and couldn’t put off her nieces any longer. Walking to the guest bedroom, her phone rang with her sister’s new number.
“Having fun?” Amy asked when June answered the call.
“Something like that.” June had no idea of what to say when she pushed the bedroom door open, either to the kids or to her sister. But they ran to her, pressing their faces into her body to hide their tears. With her free arm, she hugged them close to her. “But something has come up. Maybe you should come pick up the kids. It seems I’m not such a good babysitter after all.”
_______
Kay Hadashi learned Japanese traditions from her grandparents, and the lessons of modern-day life in Honolulu, Hawaii. Dividing her life between Hawaii and the mainland of America, she spends her time refining her tai chi skills, taking zumba classes, and has a busy career in health care. You can find out more about Kay Hadashi at her website here: http://www.junekatointrigue.com/
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Recidivist
By Alan McDermott
David Bowden looked out of the minibus window at the driving rain. The journey had taken them from the outskirts of the city into the heart of the countryside and for the last twenty minutes none of the names on the myriad signposts along the route had been familiar.
His fellow travelers were a boy of similar age whom he had never seen before, a social worker whose name he had been told and which he had promptly forgotten, and Steven Howe, an eleven-year-old from a neighboring estate whom he had met on a couple of occasions, which was two occasions too many.
Two hours earlier David had been told by his regular social worker to meet the minibus with enough clothes for an overnight stay. When he pressed for more information and was simply told that it was a “rehabilitation weekend.”
“My mate told me about these places,” Steven suddenly offered to no-one in particular. “They’ve got all sorts of water sports and climbing and stuff, and it’s all free. Something about us being disadvantaged or something, and giving us a free holiday makes us stop nicking stuff.
“Did it work for your mate?” the other boy asked.
“Nah, he just nicked stuff while he was there. He got a couple of car stereos and stuff.”
“You reckon we will be doing climbing and water sports and all that in just one day?” David scoffed. “That’ll take a week at least. You don’t know shit, Steve.”
“Yeah I do,” Howe said with indignation.
“Bollocks. You wouldn’t know an arse-biting jumping spider if it jumped up and bit you on the arse.”
The third boy laughed. “You two know each other?”
“We’ve met a couple of times, that’s all. I’m David.”
“Mark Bridges, and I don’t mind anything that gets me away from the house for a few hours. Me mum’s driving me crazy: ‘Why can’t you be like your brother? He’s in the Army and it’s made a man of him, while you just go through life making other peoples’ lives a misery! Trashing that house, Police at the door day after day. If your Dad was alive...’”
“If my Dad was alive he’d be out there nicking with me!! It was him what taught me how to do houses. Before that it was just stuff from cars, shoplifting, stuff like that.”
“Shut up, big man.” David said, throwing Steven a glare that dared him to reply.
They rode in silence for the rest of the journey, Mark enjoying his time away from home, Steven sulking at David’s rebuke. After another fifteen minutes they turned off the main road into an unkempt drive with a sign proclaiming their destination as Broughton Hall. Another hundred yards later the minibus pulled up in front of a dilapidated house. Weeds overwhelmed the garden and ivy covered every inch of the walls
“We can forget about water sports, climbing and go-karts.” David mused. “I bet this shit hole hasn’t even got a telly.”
The social worker opened the sliding door and the three boys stepped down, carrying their overnight bags. Once they were all out, he closed the door and the boys were alone, doing their best to keep dry. They were taking in the squalid surroundings when the front door opened and a man in his early fifties ushered them inside.
“Welcome to Broughton Hall. My name is Gordon Wells and I’ll be looking after you for the next two days. You’ll meet some of the staff later, but first let’s get you out of the rain and into your rooms. You must be hungry after your journey so dinner is being prepared.”
Inside the house they saw that the hallway matched the exterior of the building. However, a room off to their left contained a pool table, wide screen TV and DVD player, a selection of DVDs, two of the latest video consoles, a pinball table and a glass-fronted fridge containing countless soft drinks. Wells led them upstairs and the first room they came to mirrored the one they had seen downstairs.