Nowhere to Escape
Margaret, dont you recognise me? Its me, Jack Your one and only nephew.
Jack?!
For a few seconds, Aunt Margaret was audibly catching her breath.
Good heavens, Id honestly thought youd either snuffed it ages ago or ended up behind bars. Never a phone call, not even a postcard…
*****
Why now of all times?! I thought, bewildered, as I sat in front of my laptop, listeningquite against my willto the ear-splitting racket of a hammer drill coming from next door. Id tried everything: clamping my palms over my ears, using headphones, even burying my head under the pillow…
Pointless.
With each shrill screech and metallic crunch from that wretched drill, it felt less like I was sitting in my tiny London flat and more like I was in the middle of a building site.
How long is this going to last? Why must people be tormented like this? I wanted nothing more than to leap from my desk, storm onto the landing, kick down old Tonys steel front door, and smash his infernal drill.
But I could only do that in my wildest daydreams. Or, perhaps, as a plot twist in my next book.
Realistically, Tonythe ex-commando next doorcould probably knock me out cold with that very drill. Hes built like a wardrobe, with a stare that gives you chills. So, as usual, I just had to grit my teeth and bear it.
I might have coped, actually, if not for one major thing…
Out of all the publishers in the country, the director of one of the most prestigious houses got in touch. Apparently, hed read my last whodunit set in a sleepy fictional town, and wanted to offer me a very handsome advance.
Im in! I blurted out, not even pausing to think.
Brilliant. But theres one condition: youve got three months to write it, said the publisher.
No problem.
Typical mecommit first, think later. Only after agreeing did I properly consider the fact that I didnt even have the faintest idea what I was going to write about.
It had to be a cracking detective story, something gripping to satisfy my reputation. Easier said than done. First you need the right hook, then a step-by-step plot, unforgettable characters, and, most importantly, a brilliant crime.
Plenty of head-scratching needed. Last time, it took me half a year to come up with it! And then, time wasnt breathing down my neck. Now, I had a measly three months.
And now the neighbours had picked this exact moment for home improvements. With that non-stop hammer drill, all I could think about was murderthough not the sort that fits in polite crime fiction.
I did ask Tony when hed be done as he smoked out on the balcony.
Bout three months, I reckon. Why, is it bothering you?
Not at all. Just asking, I replied, going white as a sheet and retreating behind my bedroom door.
It was clear: if I stayed in my flat, no book would be written. So, I had to escape. But where to?
I calculated the cost of living in a hotel and instantly scrapped the idea. Renting seemed more reasonable, but still priceyplus, whos to say the new neighbours wouldnt turn out to be equally noisy? Maybe theyd celebrate a new baby all month long, or want to learn the trumpet…
Notoo risky.
A new crash next door made me jump and bang my head on the bookshelf above my bed, dislodging half my old paperbacks. Rubbing my head, I suddenly remembered Aunt Margaret.
We werent close, not exactly distant, just neutral. Last time Id seen her was my mums funeral, seven years ago.
And yet, oddly, I still remembered her phone number. Mine I could never recall, but hers After bumping my head, the digits floated right up. Seemed like a sign.
Hello! The familiar voice on the other end warmed my heart. At least Aunt Margaret was alive.
Hello, Margaret. Its Jack.
Jack Jack she repeated. Are you the plumber? I thought Id paid you for fixing the kitchen tap
Margaret, really, its meJack. Your only nephew.
Jack?! A few seconds later, she sighed heavily. My word, Id truly thought you were dead, or banged up somewhere. Never a call or letter
No, still alive. Loads of work, you see, barely time to ring.
Seven years?! Works that busy? You didnt end up shipped off to the colonies, did you?
No, just Im a writer. Mostly detective books. Theyre popular, you see.
A writer? Then why bother studying physics at Oxford? Your mum and I sank a small fortune into your education. Was that all wasted?
Realised it just wasnt me Margaret, actually, I called to ask something…
Ah, so this isnt just a friendly catch up. Out with itwhat do you want?
Well Not money. I was going to ask about your cottage.
What? You want me to GIVE you my cottage? What an askyou sound like youve banged your head!
How did you? Never mind. Not asking for itjust Could I stay there for a bit?
Well, Im actually selling it through an agent at the moment.
Could you hold off for three months? Please?
Perhaps But whats it for? No trying to sneak women in behind your wifes back! If so, the answers an immediate NO.
Good grief! Theres no wife, let alone any women!
I explained everything, even had her listen to the hammer drill through the speaker.
See? Im desperate!
She relented, bless her, but with one condition: I had to tidy up the place ready for potential buyersno one wants to see a jungle of weeds.
Absolutely! Message me your agents number so I can collect the keys.
I did have a fleeting worry about fitting in garden work around my writing, but hoped, in the peace and quiet, Id get the book done ahead of schedule and use the remainder for sorting the garden.
*****
I thought Id planned it all beautifully; late summer, everyone back to their city lives, the countryside empty.
Id have the whole place to myself. The fact there was only a composting loo and no modern comforts didnt worry me in the slightest.
Picking my way through nettles and brambles towards the cottage, I suddenly heard, Oi, whos there?!
I froze.
Whos there, I said? the invisible voice became more irate.
Jack. Jack Taylor.
And whatre you doing here?
Visiting family.
Not seen a soul in that cottage for years. Up to no good, are you?
Its my aunt’s. Margaret Taylors place. She said I could stay a few months.
Come over here to the fence.
Which way’s that? I muttered, looking around.
To your left!
There stood a wiry old man and a massive, wolfish dog. The canine eyed me as if deciding whether Id make a decent supper.
The old man introduced himself as Albert, and was desperate for chatclearly loneliness made him more verbose.
Hed moved out here seven years ago after signing his London flat over to his daughter when she got married. The big doga mongrel named Loyalhad adopted him soon after.
He also explained that he kept an eye on the nearby cottages when everyone left for the season, just in case any thieves tried nicking fridge-freezers or TVs. A poorly paid job, he grumbled, but it kept him busy. So, just visiting for three months to write a book, was I?
He seemed delighted to have a new face about; apart from him and Loyal, the place was deserted.
*****
Having fetched provisions and my laptop from the car, I gave the dilapidated cottage and overgrown plot a critical inspection.
Best get the weeds sorted right away, I thoughtthree months living here, I wanted it half-habitable, plus Alberts garden next door was immaculate. For the next four days, I attacked brambles and stinging nettles with the zeal of a man possessed.
By the fifth day, every weed had been dragged into piles at the back. Just in case someone needs compost
During all this, Loyal observed me wordlessly through the wire fencean unnerving, silent companion.
But knowing the dog couldnt scale the fence eased my nerves more than any amount of chamomile or valerian.
Now, finally, I could knuckle down to the book. I opened my laptop and felt an unfamiliar sense of peace: no cars, no dawn cockerels, no drills, no DIY.
My bliss was short-lived.
No sooner did I tap out my opening line than the dog next door broke into a relentless bark.
What on earths up with him? I wondered, baffled. Hed been silent all through my gardening, and nowsuddenlyhe made Tonys hammer drill seem like a distant memory.
Curiously, every time I stepped outside, Loyal would fall silent and wag his tail; but back indoors, hed start up again without pause.
I complained to Albert, who just shruggednot a clue, he said. He tied Loyal up for an hour, but the barking only got worse. In the end, he gave up.
My writing ground to a halt; I couldnt focus. The only thing in my head was the echo of that dogs bark, reverberating to my very bones.
In my frustration, I fantasised about giving the dog a good talking-toor even a fictional version of him, in my book.
In reality, I was terrified to go within three meters.
Now what? Weeks slipping away, nowhere left to escape to.
Unable to concentrate, all I did was stare at a blank screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, only to drop again in defeat. Instead of writing, I pottered about the garden and made inroads into my food supplies.
Albert, tell me, why does your dog bark the moment I step inside?
How should I know? Cant say I understand dog logicbut trust me, it means he likes you, replied Albert.
Not so sure its mutual…
Dont worry. No one can resist dogs forever. Loads of blokes told me theyd never warm to dogs, but ended up thick as thieves. Loyal was abandoned, you knowtook me years to win him round.
Maybe, but not everyones the same. Someone must have dumped him for a reason.
Those people arent people at all, Jack.
*****
That evening, there was commotion next door. An ambulance pulled up and paramedics carried Albert out on a stretcher. I peered through the loo window as Albert, breathless, pleaded:
What about Loyal? Wholl feed him? And the cottages…
Dont worry, youll be back on your feet in no time, one of the paramedics tried to reassure him. Can’t leave you with a suspected heart attack.
That night, Loyal howled for hours. Bleary-eyed, I barely slept, and the scene repeated for several days until
The local copper showed up, let himself into Alberts place, emerged an hour later, and stuck a police seal on the door.
Excuse me, whats happened? I asked.
And you are?
I gave him my story (and my passport; Aunt Margarets number; the works). He broke the news:
Alberts passed away. Heart attack.
Im so sorry And what about the dog?
Not my problem. Keep him, if you want. Otherwise, let him wander. Hell manage.
Easier said than done, I thought, eyeing Loyal, still chained and quiet but surely starving.
You must be hungry, I called, only then fully realising Loyal hadnt eaten in days.
I found a big hunk of ham, screwed up my courage, and chucked it towards himmissed, predictably, by half a metre.
Basketball, never my strength. On my third shot, still no luck.
Muttering a string of expletives, I braced myself and crept to the fence, heart pounding. Loyal stared, drooling, but didnt growl. I pushed the ham closer. He wolfed it down.
I repeated this with more ham, and as my confidence grew, I unhooked his chain. The moment I’d stepped back, he bounded at menot to maul me, as I feared, but to coat my face in dog slobber.
Argh! I yelped.
Nobody was around to hear me anyway.
I tried to do the right thinglet him off the lead to roam freebut Loyal had no intentions of going anywhere. He stuck to me like glue.
Now, just a minute, I said sternly. Dont think youre moving in here. This is my aunts place. Shed never let me keep a dog! Besides, Im only temporary. And Im meant to be writing which thanks to your barking I may never finish.
Woof!
Exactly! All your fault!
But Loyal wasnt about to debate it. Hed decided: Youre my human now.
So that was that.
To my amazement, from then on, Loyal didnt bark, didnt distract, let me work. Only by then, the silence was so profound my brain simply stopped.
So much so that I mourned for my old flatperhaps, in the emotional chaos, I could have written a cracking detective about Tony the ex-commando, found dead, drill still in hand. After all, whats a murder mystery without a murder?
Instead, I busied myself with everything *but* my book. Took an afternoon to drag over the dogs old kennel, this time with a makeshift iron-barred doorId caught Loyal pinching my food, so I planned to lock him in during meals.
Why? Because every time I set the table outsidelovely in good weatherId fetch the kettle, and by the time I returned, the plates would be licked clean.
Oi! Just what do you think youre doing? Id protest.
Loyal would just lie there, tail wagging, all innocence.
Certain Id fixed the kennel door, I checked one day from the window: plates, yet again, empty. Loyal back in the kennel, locking eyes with me, licking his lips.
Confused, I watched again the next day, only to see a sneaky grey cat unlock the latch and join Loyal for a speedy snack, before dutifully locking the kennel behind them. The two of thema criminal double act!
After that, I gave up locking Loyal away. From then on, lunch and dinner consisted of me at the table, Loyal underneath, and the sly catwho I named Cheekyjoining us uninvited. Strangely, he repaid me by catching all the mice in the house and lining them up under my bed. My Sunday-morning shouting probably echoed all the way to Basingstoke, fifteen miles off.
Right, lets review… I muttered bitterly over a mug of PG Tips. Two weeks in, no ideas, no plot, not a line written. But now Ive a dog and a cat to feed. What am I supposed to feed you with, eh? I asked the empty fridge.
A grocery run was in order. I planned to go alone, but Loyal and Cheeky had other ideasthey leapt into the car before Id even fastened my seatbelt.
Shopping took three hours; toilet stops for Loyal, and Cheekys ongoing campaign against local sparrows saw to that. Plans? Quite useless with those two.
Honestly, I desperately wanted to run. But… there was nowhere to go.
*****
That night, determined to ring the publisher and cancel everything the next day, I found myself lingering over my third cuppa, only to hear an engine rumble close bydefinitely not a car, more like a van.
I called the local copper and explained my suspicions. He said hed come by (eventually).
Moments later, a white Transit van pulled up at Alberts old place. Keeping to the shadows (thankfully the front porch bulb was out), I watched two figures break in and start loading up with electronicsfridges, microwaves, game consoles.
No doubt: burglars.
Should I wait for the copper? Theyd be gone before he arrived. If they spotted my car, theyd know someone else was here…
Ill just have to do something, I whispered, steeling my courage.
I snuck over to the van, heart hammering, and peered in. There was more nicked tech than Currys PC World.
As I crept closer, the two burglars appeared. Oddly familiarbut I couldnt place them.
Not a bad haul, eh? grinned one, holding a TV.
Yeah, and some medals toothosell fetch a few quid from collectors.
Then they saw me.
Who the hell are you?
Police! I bluffed. Caught you red-handed. Hands up, turn aroundmake it easy for all of us. Resistance is futile!
Straight out of a telly drama.
The first burglar went pale.
But the second
Hes no copper, mate. Remember the old guy ranting about his writer neighbour? We thought hed lost his marbles
Course! the other sneered.
I dont know how to fight, so I resigned myself to being thumped. But as they advanced, two shapes hurtled from the shadows. Cheeky leapt on the first blokes head, kneading frantically as only a cat can, while Loyal knocked the other flat, growling low with drool dripping onto his twitching nose.
Argh! he shrieked.
Fine, scream all you likeno one around, I smirked.
Quickly, I tied them up with Loyals lead. A minute later, the copper turned up, smiling as he swapped the lead for actual cuffs.
Well done, Jack! he grinned. You didnt bottle it, facing down two burglars on your own.
Not on my own, I beamed, glancing at my four-legged sidekicks. Had help from friends.
Cracking friends. Worth their weight in gold. You look after them…
Where would I be without them? I thought.
You know, these chaps look familiar. Cant place them though
Theyre local paramedics. Decided to supplement their income. Ive tried nailing them for monthsyou managed it in one night.
After the police left, I dashed indoors with an idea for the perfect book.
*****
Two and a half months later, I handed in my manuscript. The publisher couldnt put it down.
Jack, youve outdone yourself. This is a guaranteed best-seller. The money will be yours on publication, plus royalties to boot.
Soon after, I sold my London flat, bought Aunt Margarets cottage, and even snapped up Alberts old plot, merging the two. With the advance and the proceeds, I built a proper houseplumbing, heating, the works.
And thats how I ended up living in the country with Loyal and Cheeky. Why not?
Peace and quiet all around, but the main thingmy true friends beside me.
By day, I worked by the window; by evening, wed all patrol the grounds together, keeping an eye out for any new intruders. Sometimes I thanked my lucky stars that everything turned out so well. And, funnily enough, I even found myself grateful to Tony and his blessed hammer drill; without all that noise, I would never have found my real home here.
