Was that meant to be a pirate Tyrannounicornosaurus Rex? Where was its parrot? Eh? Where was it? Kids these days.
Wait a minute, why was he...?
Oh, right: glasses.
‘Come out little glasses, don’t hide from Uncle Tufty...’
The cistern refilling hissed out of the bathroom as Roberta eased the door shut. Adjusted her dungers. That was the great thing about dungarees — lots of room. And they didn’t creep down the whole time taking your pants with them. Should wear them all the time.
Bit of a cliché, but they were comfy.
Unless you sat down too fast.
Right: time to be all motherly and sober-ish.
She tiptoed her way down the hall to a pink door with a big sign stuck right in the middle of it: a skull and crossbones grinning away above, ‘JASMINE’S EVIL DUNGEON OF DOOM!’
It creaked a bit as she eased it open, but the figure beneath the Skeleton Bob duvet cover didn’t stir. Had to be one of the best rooms in the house, this one. No’ all chintzy and floral and stuff. A funky mix of decor and ornaments — like My Little Pony does Game of Thrones — all just visible through the gloom.
Jasmine lay on her side with a thumb in her mouth, one arm wrapped around Mr Stinky the teddy bear. All loved bald around the ears.
Roberta crept in and kissed Jasmine on the forehead. Then kissed Mr Stinky too, so he wouldn’t feel left out. Then put a finger to her lips and shushed him, just in case.
Slipped back out of the room again.
Never mind Susan’s Great Hazlehead Ladies Challenge Cup, Roberta deserved one for Mother of the Motherfunking Year. Right. One daughter down, one to go. Then it was whisky time!
She tiptoed over to the door opposite: bright orange with ‘NAOMI’S ROOM’ on it. Her fingers were inches from the handle when a floorboard creaked behind her.
Then a man’s voice. ‘Did you miss me?’
She put a finger to her lips. ‘Shhh... I told...’
Oh sodding hell.
That wasn’t Tufty.
That was Jack Wallace!
She spun around, snarling, fists ready to—
Something hard smashed into the side of her head, making the whole house rock and throb. Warm behind her eyes. Knees no’... wouldn’t...
Then the hall carpet jumped up and grabbed her.
Thump.
Darkness.
There was a thump upstairs.
Kneeling on the kitchen floor, Tufty wobbled his torch beam up at the ceiling.
And she had the cheek to tell him to be all secret and quiet? Charging about up there like a randy elephant on a pogo stick.
Well, as long as she was getting the whisky.
He lowered the torch back to the little cupboard. Glasses gleamed at him, caught in the hard white glare. ‘Whisky, whisky, whisky, whisky.’
Be careful — don’t break any. Careful as a careful fish.
Tufty eased two tumblers out, like they were nuclear fuel rods. Closed the cupboard door and stood. Crept across to the breakfast bar.
The tumblers clicked against the granite worktop.
‘Whisky, whisky, whisky...’
Uh-ho.
His Tufty sense was tingling.
There was someone behind him, wasn’t there? Someone—
‘Peekaboo.’
Something whistled through the air and he jerked left, turning.
Whatever it was it battered into his shoulder instead of his head, sending barbed wire digging into the muscle.
A shadow-shape of a man loomed in the darkness, features just a hint of nose, mouth and glasses. Tufty broke them with his fist, snapping the scumbag’s head back with a very satisfying grunt.
Shadow Scumbag grabbed at him, hauling Tufty down as he tumbled to the kitchen floor — the pair of them bashing into the tiles. Arms and legs. Elbows and knees. Rolling over and over.
Two quick jabs to the ribs had Shadows grunting again.
They thumped into a cabinet, setting the contents ringing.
Back out onto the floor.
Fire shredded across Tufty’s wrist as Shadows sunk his teeth in. ‘AAAARGH!’
They rolled back the other way and BANG, right into the fridge, knocking the door open. A thin cold light spilled out across the room.
He was big, hairy, ugly. Scarlet streaming down his face from a newly squinted nose. Teeth bared, stained pink with either his own blood or Tufty’s. Bitey sod. ‘KILL YOU!’
A thick fist whistled past Tufty’s face.
Oh no you don’t!
He grabbed Shadows by the scruff of the neck and shoved his head into the open fridge, slamming the door on it over and over and over again, making the bottles and jars inside jingle and clink. Pats of butter and yoghurt pots cascaded out to thump and spatter against the floor all around them.
One more slam and Shadows went limp.
Tufty dragged him out of the fridge and shoved him onto his front. Hauled out his cuffs and grabbed the guy’s wrist, pulling it up behind his back. ‘You are comprehensively...’
There was that tingling again.
He twisted around. Too slow.
Just enough time to make out a fat bald shape in the fridge’s ghostly glow before hard yellow lights exploded, wiping the kitchen from view. Didn’t even hurt when his head bounced off the cool smooth tiles.
Fat fingers reached for him, and the world slowly disappeared...
Mnnnghfff... DUNK. Everything snapped up, then down again. DUNK. Up, then down. DUNK. Up, then down.
The alarm-clock was ringing, time to get up.
DUNK.
Or was it sirens?
DUNK.
Wait, that was... What was she doing on the stairs?
Roberta opened her mouth, but all that came out was, ‘Unnnngggghhhh...’
DUNK.
And why was her leg...? Someone was pulling her down the stairs by the leg.
What?
A blurry figure oozed into focus. Jack Wallace. He smiled at her. ‘Oh, we’re going to have so much fun!’
DUNK.
DUNK.
DUNK.
And it all went black again.
III
Sleepy sleep. Warm cosy sleepy—
‘AAAARGH!’ Tufty jerked upright. Or almost.
His head moved, but the rest of him stayed exactly where it was: tied to a chair with his hands held tight behind his back. And from the feel of it, those were handcuffs. How did...?
Oh. Right, Shadows had a bald fat friend.
He blinked. Shook his head. But that only made things swoop and swing around from left to right and back again. The floor pitched and heaved. The ceiling rocked. The walls lurched.
Tufty screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth till the ferry-in-a-force-nine-gale subsided. Peeled one eye open again.
Oh crap.
It was a fancy-looking living room, with a collection of standard lamps, a pair of brown buttony leather sofas with matching armchairs, a fireplace with flowers in it, golfing trophies on the mantelpiece above. Happy family photos. An upright piano. A set of rusty old golf clubs in an elephant’s-condom leather-and-fabric bag. A huge Middle-Eastern rug surrounded by polished wooden floorboards. Like he’d woken up in a photo shoot for a boutique hotel.
They probably weren’t going to get five stars, though. Not with what was going on in the middle of the room. Three wooden dining chairs were arranged in a triangle. The blonde woman from the photographs — that would be Steel’s wife, Susan — was gagged and tied to the one on the right, glaring out. Nostrils flaring. Steel was tied to the one on the left, hanging limp against her ropes. And lucky-old-Tufty was the pointy end furthest from the fireplace.