yet again? The shit on my shorts wasn't even dry. All I wanted was a long bath and a stiff drink. And maybe a massage.
I led them out onto the landing and let Williams take point. We descended to the second floor but then we heard voices coming up the stairs from below. They were searching the house. I ushered the boys through the nearest door.
We had taken refuge in a bathroom.
'Dammit,' I cursed. 'Why couldn't it have been an armoury?'
There was precious little to use in the way of weapons. Petts cracked the door open and peered out while I unscrewed the shower hose and handed it to Williams – at least he could use that to choke someone with. Not that I had any intention of killing anyone, I just wanted to get back to the school as quickly as possible. For all I knew this new group could be the good guys, and I didn't want to go slaughtering them willy-nilly until I at least knew who or what I was dealing with.
I picked up the heavy porcelain slab that sat on top of the toilet cistern and held it ready to use a bludgeon. The only other potential weapon was a bottle of bleach. I pressed it into Petts' hand.
'Only if we need to,' I whispered. 'And try not to kill anyone, okay?'
They nodded.
The voices came nearer and two young men appeared at the top of the stairs. Both were wearing jeans and T-shirts. Their arms were daubed with the brown stain but their hands and faces were clean; left that way so they could blend in with the normal market crowd without arousing suspicion.
They began to work their way along the corridor towards us, checking the rooms as they went. I steadied myself and got a firm grip on the cistern lid; if I swung it right I should be able to take one of them out of the picture.
Two doors along from us they found someone hiding and both vanished into the room, where a struggle ensued. I was just about to try and use the distraction to slip past them when they dragged an old man of about eighty out into the corridor, threw him to the floor and kicked him hard in the ribs. He lay there, gasping, clutching his chest.
One of the men looked guiltily up and down the corridor, and then said to his mate: 'Let's bleed 'im.'
His colleague looked uncertain.
'What, here?' he asked.
'Of course here, you berk. Where else?'
'David won't like that.'
'David doesn't have to know.' He gestured to his face and hands. 'I feel naked like this. Don't you? We're not safe, mate. Gotta be safe.'
'Yeah, I s'pose.'
'So let's bleed the cattle and then we can relax, yeah?'
'Yeah, all right, then. Bleed him.'
The old man who was the subject of this banal, macabre exchange, whimpered helplessly. The first man grabbed him by the arms and lifted him upright, while the other advanced towards him with his machete. It was only then that I realised exactly what they were talking about.
The brown stain wasn't paint at all. It was blood.
Human blood.
Right. So. Not the good guys.
I felt a familiar sinking feeling as I realised that I was going to have to get involved. I turned to the others and whispered 'Follow my lead'. Then I pushed open the door, bellowed as loudly as I could, and ran at the man with the raised machete.
On the whole I try to avoid picking fights with people, especially people who are clearly insane, daubed in blood, and carrying a fucking huge knife, but I was now doing exactly that, armed with only a detachable piece of flushing toilet.
I had surprise on my side and my target had little time to react. I swung the cistern lid with all the momentum of my short run up, and smacked him under the chin as hard as I could. There was a shattering crunch as he was lifted off his feet and his head smacked satisfyingly into the corridor wall. He slumped to the floor, unconscious, his jaw a bloody mess.
His mate shouted out in anger and threw the old man aside, raising his machete and moving towards me menacingly. At which point Williams snuck up behind him, wrapped the shower hose around his neck and tugged him off his feet. They collapsed backwards in a tangle of limbs. Then Petts ran forward and squirted bleach into the man's face.
Williams scrambled clear as the man clawed at his eyes and screamed loud enough to raise the dead. Before I could knock him out with my trusty cistern lid, the old man stood up and drop-kicked his would-be murderer into the middle of next week.
There was a brief moment of calm as all four of us stood there breathing heavily, contemplating the two unconscious men.
'Thanks, lads,' said the old guy, cheerily, 'but I had it all under control.'
We all gaped.
'Know a bit of unarmed combat from my army days,' he went on. 'I was just waiting for him to get a little closer then I'd have kicked him in the goolies, tossed this chappy over my head and done a runner.'
'You were whimpering!' I said.
'All part of my act, dontchaknow.'
We didn't have time for this.
'Right,' I said. 'Good. Fine. Um, we're running away now, if that's okay with you. So you ain't seen us, right?'
He tapped his nose and winked. 'You hotfoot it, lads. I'll take care of these two.' He bent down and picked up a machete. 'Haven't used one of these since Burma,' he said with relish.
We legged it.
We made it to the ground floor without encountering anyone else. We could hear someone giving some sort of speech from the forecourt, but I didn't want to hang around so Williams led us through the kitchens to the back door.
'We go out here and around the side of the house,' he told us. 'Then there's a garden hidden from the driveway by a tall hedge. Then it's over the road, across a field and into woodland. We should be safe from then.'
I pushed open the door. No guard. We ran as fast as we could, Williams in the lead, until we came to the sheltered garden that ran alongside the forecourt. Still no sign of anyone. They were all on the other side of the hedge listening to whoever was ranting. We were halfway down the garden when we heard a truly bloodcurdling scream. It was no use; I had to see what was going on. I ran to the end of the garden and peered around the edge of the hedge.
I wish I hadn't.
The men with machetes were still encircling the captured citizens of the town, but all attention was focused on the scaffold. The noose was lying on the platform, the rope slack. A middle-aged woman was struggling in the grip of the two heavyset, naked guards, but she was tied hand and foot and had no chance of escape. One of the naked men looped her feet though the noose and then a third pulled the rope. She swung into the air, suspended upside down.
The man in the pinstripe suit, who was also standing on the platform – I assumed he was this group's leader, David – stepped forward and began to undress, meticulously piling his folded clothes to one side. The last thing he removed was his bowler hat, which he placed on top of the pile. He stood there naked, his body caked in crumbly dried blood. He spread his arms and addressed the crowd.
'In the fountain of life I shall be reborn,' he intoned.
All the machete men chanted back in unison: 'Make us safe.'
From then on it was call and answer, like some kind of Catholic Mass gone horribly wrong.
'With the blood of the lamb I wash myself clean.'
'Make us safe.'
