she would have lost her dignity and more. In their eyes, running away would prove her guilt.
So she went back with them walking behind her. They were so sure of themselves they did not lay a finger on her.
They all turned in at the garden gate. She looked up, and Timothy and Jane, pale-faced, silent were watching through the open window.
‘Wait,’ said the old man with spectacles. Five yards from her door, she stopped and turned reluctantly. She was so passive that she did not even flinch as the old man raised a fist. She noticed, with some small part of herself that stood coolly aside, that he wore a ring on the third finger of his hand; a ring in which a green stone glinted. She just thought it rather odd that such a grim, dully-dressed old man should wear such a gaudy piece of jewellery. What was he up to? It was all so strange . . .
The next second, he struck her on the forehead. Quite lightly, almost ritually. But there was a small sharp pain, and she knew his ring had cut her. She did not even stagger; just cried out and put her hand to the place and felt blood.
The old man did not put his fist back to his side; he held his hand aloft, again as if in a ritual gesture, to show the others what he had done.
There was a sharp spat from above; a hiss in the air. Then the old man cried out sharply, and they all stared at his upraised hand.
There was a hole in it; a jagged bloody hole through the palm, about half an inch across. Bemused, Rose even saw a glint of blue daylight through it, and a stream of blood running down the old man’s wrist, inside the cuff of his thick flannel shirt.
Then the old man doubled up, clenching his hand inside his other hand, and both between his knees.
The other two old men looked up incredulous at the upstairs window, and Rose followed their gaze. Timothy was leaning out, his young face white and set.
‘That’s for hurting my mother, you old bastard,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘The next time, it’ll be your face.’
From the way he held the long black air-pistol, Rose knew he’d already reloaded. His voice might be trembling, but his hand was rock-steady, and the barrel was pointing straight at the old man’s face.
‘I’m going to count to five,’ said Timothy. ‘One . . .’
But the old men did not run. They stared up at her son. And her son stared back at them, equally implacable.
‘Two,’ said Timothy. ‘Three. Four . . .’
Heavens, was everybody mad?
She saw his finger tighten on the trigger. Nothing was going to stop him.
The old man raised his hand. The wounded one; it was now red with blood to the fingertips. Rose felt sick.
Then he said, in a voice full of cold quavering hate. ‘We’re going. But we’ll be back.’
‘Then you’ll know what to expect,’ said Timothy, with equal quivering hate.
Then the three old men were shambling out of the gate.
Rose walked to the door. She heard the bolts drawn back, with great effort, and Jane pulled her in, her face as white as a sheet. ‘Mum, you all right?’ She shot the bolts again.
‘It’s only a scratch,’ said Rose. Then, bewildered, ‘Where’s Tim?’
‘Keeping watch,’ said Jane. ‘In case the old bastards come back. Sit down. Let me look at that cut.’
Rose felt her legs start to give way, and almost fell into a chair. She sat quite still and passive, while her daughter fetched warm water from the kettle, and TCP and Elastoplast from the first aid kit.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked feebly. Meaning what’s happened to turn my first-born into almost a murderer?
‘We worked it out, Mum,’ said Jane, with quite amazing calm, and only the slightest tremor in her voice. ‘That boot we found – it belongs to Sepp Yaxley, doesn’t it? He’s . . . buried in the garden. They murdered him. Seven years ago, they murdered him. And now they’re going to try to murder us.’
‘Jane, for heaven’s sake. This is England. It’s not Chicago on the TV . . .’
‘So what are they going to do with us?’ Timothy was now sitting on the top stair, nursing his long black gun with the casual ease of a soldier in Vietnam. ‘If they let us go, they know we’ll only go to the police. And they’ll come and dig the