Improvised Weapons

So, this is a bit odd, right:

Last night, about twenty past twelve, I’m sitting on the sofa listening to Elvis Costello, reading Graham Greene and having a quiet beer. It’s hot. All the windows are open and to help the hopeful breeze come through the lounge curtains are open a couple of feet.

The porch is shared with our neighbours and they tend to have visitors at odd hours so it wasn’t until the second rap-rap that I realised someone was knocking on our door.

At times it seems like there’s thirty people living next door, but I vaguely recognised the woman in the porch.

“Hi,” I say more than a little confused.

“Hiya. I thought you ought to know.” She sounded on verge of panic. “I’ve just parked up and there’s a guy watching your house.”

“Eh?”

“He’s standing on the other side of the road smoking a cigarette and just staring at your window.”

“Where?” I go to open the porch but she grabs my arm.

“Don’t go out there. He’s just outside. He could be casing out the joint.”

“Let’s have a look.” She puts herself between me and the door.

“He might be dangerous.”

“Okay.” I step back. “Okay. Thanks.”

I go back into the house and upstairs to the bedroom. All the lights save for a couple of lamps in the lounge are turned off and I leave them that way. From within the gloom I look out the open window.

He’s there all right. Nicely hidden, half in the bush. You wouldn’t spot him unless you were looking for him, but I can just see his white trainers catching the edge of the street light. There’s the very faint glow of a cigarette.

I head back down the stairs and out into the utility. I slip the rubber mallet we use for hammering in tent pegs into the back of my trousers and grab the maglite as well. I’m barefoot so I need some shoes, but rather than my trainers I dig out my heavy boots.

“Come on, then, fucker,” I mutter, already not in the best mood.

Tooled up I head outside intending to stand in the middle of the road and ask “you all right there, mate?” and see what happens next.

But he’s gone.

Looking up and down the road I cross over to where he had been standing. There on the edge of the kerb is a half smoked cigarette looking as though it was hastily discarded.