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You could say that Trevor was both a product of the system, and failed by it. Both parents worked long hours just to get by, and in a cry for attention he’d misbehave at school. As such he got tainted as a time-waster, fell in with a bad crowd, and his mischievous deeds some became unlawful ones. You could say that if you were a social worker or a sympathetic do-gooder, but the rest of us, we all knew that as a child he was a toe-rag, and as an adult, a scumbag and there was no one he wouldn’t cross to get what he wanted.
Alan knew he was trouble, had heard the stories about the guy at the off-licence that refused to open the till when requested. He’s walking again now, with a frame, but his speech is still very slurred – some kind of damage to the central nervous system, they said. But Alan had problems of his own, the kind of problems a man like Trevor could solve. He was always in The Eagle early on a Tuesday, waiting to meet his cronies. Alan rummaged in his wallet until he found a fiver amongst the betting slips. He bought a couple of pints, and strutted over to where Trevor was sat, slowly tearing a soggy coaster.
Trevor looked up at the grey face of the man that placed a pint in front of him. He’d gotten good at reading faces, and had learnt to resist the urge to throw a fist immediately into those he didn’t like the look of, instead taking the time to study them. Alan’s face had opportunity written all over it. As Alan spilt his tale of woe, a flawed betting system that had robbed him of most of his savings and a wife that wasn’t willing to give up the life of luxury she’d become accustomed to, Trevor was becoming somewhat bored. Patience was still not a virtue he was in possession of, and as Alan’s voice grew ever duller he almost tuned out to him, imagining instead taking his now empty pint glass and thrusting it into this sad old face. Screams of agony as blood gushed far and wide, painting the pub a vivid red. The temptation was almost too much to bear until Alan uttered the words ‘alarm system’.
“This is it boys,” said Trevor to his closest group of gathered accomplices. He tossed a manual across to Benny, “have a read through that, make sure there’s nothing to trouble us too much.”
“What’s that?” asked Rick, trying to get a look, whilst Dale craned his neck too.
“Just some alarm system details I stumbled upon,” said Trevor with a grin.
“Not a bank job?” asked Dale “because all the money’s protected with that ink stuff.”
“Bank job? Pfft,” dismissed Trevor, “nah, this is for a private fault.”
“Is it a footballers gaff?!” said Rick with a chuckle, “The Arsenal are playing in Kiev next week.”
“We’d never shift the junk they buy, all that money and not a drop of class” said Benny looking up from the document.
“Say’s you in your NHS specs,“ laughed Trevor. “Nah, this manual happens to detail the alarm system of one Mr James Quinn, three time World Poker Champ. And we’ve got a full hand,” Trevor pointed at the manual Benny was holding and then threw down a couple more, “alarm system, map of the house, his diary, and his vets bill.”
A crate of beer came and went before Benny next looked up from the document. “Only thing I don’t understand is this ‘protocol H’ it mentions.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know – it doesn’t tie in to any of the other components. We can take out any surveillance cameras easily enough, and over-ride the security with the details here. And I take it you know about the palm-reader required to access his vault?”
”Oh yes, I’m looking forward to acquiring that, most of all,” said Trevor as he hurled an empty beer bottle at the wall and laughed at the satisfying smash.
Whilst Alan had provided plenty of details, what he had not known was that Mr Quinn and his wife were no longer sharing a bed due to an argument regarding the au pair, and some after hours visits made to her room. So whilst the surveillance camera feed were cut without a problem, and the perimeter alarms disarmed with the simplest of keystrokes, Mr Quinn was not where expected. Rex didn’t put up much of a fight, a great lumbering beast that wanted to lick rather than bite, but Trevor felt no guilt in snapping its neck. However, when they burst into the master bedroom, they were shocked to find it populated by only one. Dale climbed onto the bed, forcing a hand over Mrs Quinn’s mouth, but not before she could utter a yelp. Hearing his mother’s shout, young master Quinn was woken, and did all a child so young could do, and started to cry. Trevor headed back into the hallway, grabbing a cushion from a chair en route, hoping to find and silence the youngster. A door flew open as Mr Quinn went to investigate the disturbance, and instinctively Trevor pulled out his gun and fired off a shot. James Quinn fell to the floor, bereft of life.
“What’s going on?” called Dale, struggling to keep on top of Mrs Quinn. Rick came to his aid, pulling a rope from inside his bag, and throwing a reel of gaffer tape onto the bed.
Trevor re-entered the room and tossed his gun onto a chair. “Benny,” he called, “go down to the kitchen and find me something sharp.
With Mr Quinn’s right hand in their possession, they made their way down to the cellar, stopping only to carry out an update of Benny’s handheld, to ensure no alarm was being transmitted. Down in the cellar, they pulled forward a large bookcase, to find the large metal door of the vault, and beside it the palm reader.
Trevor took the severed hand and spread out the fingers. He pushed it against the reader, and the alarm display lit up.
“When the light goes green, input 63887,” said Benny as he looked down at his handheld. The faces of the four men were suddenly bathed in a red light, with the alarm display reading “PROTOCOL H”.
The hand Trevor held against the reader suddenly formed into a fist, falling from Trevor’s grip. He looked down to see it scurry across the floor.
”What the hell was that?” cried Dale, heading back towards the stairs.
“It was just his bleedin’ hand. It’s the nerves,” said Trevor, sounding convincingly calm, “now pick it up, and bring it back, there’s a fortune waiting in there for us.”
“No way,” said Dale, still heading for the steps, but as he placed a foot on the first step there was a smash just above his head. Fragments of glass and red wine rained down on him as he swatted at the sky. Across the room, over at the wine rack the hand had hold of another bottle. Rick dived across the room and knocked it away. The hand fell from the rack and onto the floor, and disappeared into a dark corner.
“That’s it, I’m gone,” said Dale, taking the rest of the steps two at a time. Trevor followed, and Rick wasn’t far behind him. Benny furiously punched buttons on his handheld, looking for some kind of answer, before signalling his defeat with a frustrated punch into the solid vault door. As Benny climbed the stairs, nursing his sore knuckles
Trevor looked back, “Come on,” he called, just in time to see a dark shadow fall onto Benny’s face. Benny swung his arm, catching only air as the hand held around his face. It wasted no time in pushing ring and forefingers deep into the eye sockets, and withdrawing them with a squelch.
Trevor took two steps back down towards Benny, but as the hand turned towards him thought better of it, pushing past Rick at the top of the stairs. Rick turned back, and slammed the door, then leant against it, breathing heavily. Dale leant against a wall, with a felling of relief, until he saw a shadow against the floor. He gasped, but unable to speak, just pointed down between Rick’s legs. Rick’s followed the path of the finger and cautiously glanced down. As he set his eyes on the hand it pushed itself up from the floor, flipped mid-air, and settled firmly on his crotch. Rick clawed at the hand, but its grip only got tighter. Dale sprung into action, running across the room and launching a foot, only for the hand to drop to safety, leaving Rick to feel the full force of the blow.
Rick lay on the floor, crying out, and Dale held his hand in his hands. Trevor’s eyes darted around the room, but the hand had found another corner to hide in.
Dale helped Rick to his feet, and from behind them they heard a crash. A vase had been toppled, and they caught site of the hand head into the kitchen.
“Go, go, go,” urged Trevor, making his way towards the front door. Dale was struggling to pull Rick along with him, who was now cupping an ever more blood-red crotch.
Trevor opened the door, “Come on!” he cried, as the pitter-patter of little fingers landed on the carpet. Trevor saw a flash of silver and he grabbed Rick to help him out the door, but before he could Dale fell with a cry, his Achilles tendon slashed open. The hand launched itself from the floor with the momentum of Dale’s fall and plunged a knife deep into Rick’s back, then launched itself again, crashing into the door and slamming it back closed.
Trevor shook off Rick’s hand, as he wheezed his final breath. He tried to open the door. He pulled at it twice then looked down at the keyhole. He thumped the door then looked round and from across the room the hand waved the key at him. It took to the stairs, and climbed quickly up. Trevor tried to help Dale up, but he could hold no weight at all with his tendon severed. He grabbed the knife from Rick’s back, and made his way up the stairs, and into the master bedroom. He looked to the chair where he’d left his gun. It was gone. He looked over to the ruffled bedding, and tossed it off the bed, knife poised, ready to strike, but it was clear. There was a scratch from the wardrobe, and there was the hand, fiddling with the gun, but struggling to both hold its position steady on the floor, and aim the firearm. The gun twisted out of its grip, and fell to the floor. Trevor saw his change and dived across the floor towards it. As he reached forward his arm, it was heftily knocked aside as Mrs Quinn burst from the wardrobe, golf club in hand. She brought it clumsily down on Trevor, time and again as he curled into a ball to protect himself. He glanced out, before covering his head again and grinned. He put out an arm and yanked hard on the rug beneath Mrs Quinn’s feet, just as the golf-club was held at its highest. Off balance, she fell backwards, knocking her head on the dressing table on the way down. Trevor pushed himself up against the wardrobe, and reached for the gun. He pointed it as Mrs Quinn, as she tried to push herself up, and he laughed loudly. As he was about to pull the trigger, the hand flew from the bed, and into his laughing mouth. Trevor’s throat expanded as it worked its way down, and he gagged and threw himself about the room in ultimate agony. He felt the gun still in one hand, and with the other, felt at his stomach. He grimaced, and held the gun to his stomach. He closed his eyes and as he felt it move inside him one last time, pulled the trigger.
Alan knew he was trouble, had heard the stories about the guy at the off-licence that refused to open the till when requested. He’s walking again now, with a frame, but his speech is still very slurred – some kind of damage to the central nervous system, they said. But Alan had problems of his own, the kind of problems a man like Trevor could solve. He was always in The Eagle early on a Tuesday, waiting to meet his cronies. Alan rummaged in his wallet until he found a fiver amongst the betting slips. He bought a couple of pints, and strutted over to where Trevor was sat, slowly tearing a soggy coaster.
Trevor looked up at the grey face of the man that placed a pint in front of him. He’d gotten good at reading faces, and had learnt to resist the urge to throw a fist immediately into those he didn’t like the look of, instead taking the time to study them. Alan’s face had opportunity written all over it. As Alan spilt his tale of woe, a flawed betting system that had robbed him of most of his savings and a wife that wasn’t willing to give up the life of luxury she’d become accustomed to, Trevor was becoming somewhat bored. Patience was still not a virtue he was in possession of, and as Alan’s voice grew ever duller he almost tuned out to him, imagining instead taking his now empty pint glass and thrusting it into this sad old face. Screams of agony as blood gushed far and wide, painting the pub a vivid red. The temptation was almost too much to bear until Alan uttered the words ‘alarm system’.
“This is it boys,” said Trevor to his closest group of gathered accomplices. He tossed a manual across to Benny, “have a read through that, make sure there’s nothing to trouble us too much.”
“What’s that?” asked Rick, trying to get a look, whilst Dale craned his neck too.
“Just some alarm system details I stumbled upon,” said Trevor with a grin.
“Not a bank job?” asked Dale “because all the money’s protected with that ink stuff.”
“Bank job? Pfft,” dismissed Trevor, “nah, this is for a private fault.”
“Is it a footballers gaff?!” said Rick with a chuckle, “The Arsenal are playing in Kiev next week.”
“We’d never shift the junk they buy, all that money and not a drop of class” said Benny looking up from the document.
“Say’s you in your NHS specs,“ laughed Trevor. “Nah, this manual happens to detail the alarm system of one Mr James Quinn, three time World Poker Champ. And we’ve got a full hand,” Trevor pointed at the manual Benny was holding and then threw down a couple more, “alarm system, map of the house, his diary, and his vets bill.”
A crate of beer came and went before Benny next looked up from the document. “Only thing I don’t understand is this ‘protocol H’ it mentions.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know – it doesn’t tie in to any of the other components. We can take out any surveillance cameras easily enough, and over-ride the security with the details here. And I take it you know about the palm-reader required to access his vault?”
”Oh yes, I’m looking forward to acquiring that, most of all,” said Trevor as he hurled an empty beer bottle at the wall and laughed at the satisfying smash.
Whilst Alan had provided plenty of details, what he had not known was that Mr Quinn and his wife were no longer sharing a bed due to an argument regarding the au pair, and some after hours visits made to her room. So whilst the surveillance camera feed were cut without a problem, and the perimeter alarms disarmed with the simplest of keystrokes, Mr Quinn was not where expected. Rex didn’t put up much of a fight, a great lumbering beast that wanted to lick rather than bite, but Trevor felt no guilt in snapping its neck. However, when they burst into the master bedroom, they were shocked to find it populated by only one. Dale climbed onto the bed, forcing a hand over Mrs Quinn’s mouth, but not before she could utter a yelp. Hearing his mother’s shout, young master Quinn was woken, and did all a child so young could do, and started to cry. Trevor headed back into the hallway, grabbing a cushion from a chair en route, hoping to find and silence the youngster. A door flew open as Mr Quinn went to investigate the disturbance, and instinctively Trevor pulled out his gun and fired off a shot. James Quinn fell to the floor, bereft of life.
“What’s going on?” called Dale, struggling to keep on top of Mrs Quinn. Rick came to his aid, pulling a rope from inside his bag, and throwing a reel of gaffer tape onto the bed.
Trevor re-entered the room and tossed his gun onto a chair. “Benny,” he called, “go down to the kitchen and find me something sharp.
With Mr Quinn’s right hand in their possession, they made their way down to the cellar, stopping only to carry out an update of Benny’s handheld, to ensure no alarm was being transmitted. Down in the cellar, they pulled forward a large bookcase, to find the large metal door of the vault, and beside it the palm reader.
Trevor took the severed hand and spread out the fingers. He pushed it against the reader, and the alarm display lit up.
“When the light goes green, input 63887,” said Benny as he looked down at his handheld. The faces of the four men were suddenly bathed in a red light, with the alarm display reading “PROTOCOL H”.
The hand Trevor held against the reader suddenly formed into a fist, falling from Trevor’s grip. He looked down to see it scurry across the floor.
”What the hell was that?” cried Dale, heading back towards the stairs.
“It was just his bleedin’ hand. It’s the nerves,” said Trevor, sounding convincingly calm, “now pick it up, and bring it back, there’s a fortune waiting in there for us.”
“No way,” said Dale, still heading for the steps, but as he placed a foot on the first step there was a smash just above his head. Fragments of glass and red wine rained down on him as he swatted at the sky. Across the room, over at the wine rack the hand had hold of another bottle. Rick dived across the room and knocked it away. The hand fell from the rack and onto the floor, and disappeared into a dark corner.
“That’s it, I’m gone,” said Dale, taking the rest of the steps two at a time. Trevor followed, and Rick wasn’t far behind him. Benny furiously punched buttons on his handheld, looking for some kind of answer, before signalling his defeat with a frustrated punch into the solid vault door. As Benny climbed the stairs, nursing his sore knuckles
Trevor looked back, “Come on,” he called, just in time to see a dark shadow fall onto Benny’s face. Benny swung his arm, catching only air as the hand held around his face. It wasted no time in pushing ring and forefingers deep into the eye sockets, and withdrawing them with a squelch.
Trevor took two steps back down towards Benny, but as the hand turned towards him thought better of it, pushing past Rick at the top of the stairs. Rick turned back, and slammed the door, then leant against it, breathing heavily. Dale leant against a wall, with a felling of relief, until he saw a shadow against the floor. He gasped, but unable to speak, just pointed down between Rick’s legs. Rick’s followed the path of the finger and cautiously glanced down. As he set his eyes on the hand it pushed itself up from the floor, flipped mid-air, and settled firmly on his crotch. Rick clawed at the hand, but its grip only got tighter. Dale sprung into action, running across the room and launching a foot, only for the hand to drop to safety, leaving Rick to feel the full force of the blow.
Rick lay on the floor, crying out, and Dale held his hand in his hands. Trevor’s eyes darted around the room, but the hand had found another corner to hide in.
Dale helped Rick to his feet, and from behind them they heard a crash. A vase had been toppled, and they caught site of the hand head into the kitchen.
“Go, go, go,” urged Trevor, making his way towards the front door. Dale was struggling to pull Rick along with him, who was now cupping an ever more blood-red crotch.
Trevor opened the door, “Come on!” he cried, as the pitter-patter of little fingers landed on the carpet. Trevor saw a flash of silver and he grabbed Rick to help him out the door, but before he could Dale fell with a cry, his Achilles tendon slashed open. The hand launched itself from the floor with the momentum of Dale’s fall and plunged a knife deep into Rick’s back, then launched itself again, crashing into the door and slamming it back closed.
Trevor shook off Rick’s hand, as he wheezed his final breath. He tried to open the door. He pulled at it twice then looked down at the keyhole. He thumped the door then looked round and from across the room the hand waved the key at him. It took to the stairs, and climbed quickly up. Trevor tried to help Dale up, but he could hold no weight at all with his tendon severed. He grabbed the knife from Rick’s back, and made his way up the stairs, and into the master bedroom. He looked to the chair where he’d left his gun. It was gone. He looked over to the ruffled bedding, and tossed it off the bed, knife poised, ready to strike, but it was clear. There was a scratch from the wardrobe, and there was the hand, fiddling with the gun, but struggling to both hold its position steady on the floor, and aim the firearm. The gun twisted out of its grip, and fell to the floor. Trevor saw his change and dived across the floor towards it. As he reached forward his arm, it was heftily knocked aside as Mrs Quinn burst from the wardrobe, golf club in hand. She brought it clumsily down on Trevor, time and again as he curled into a ball to protect himself. He glanced out, before covering his head again and grinned. He put out an arm and yanked hard on the rug beneath Mrs Quinn’s feet, just as the golf-club was held at its highest. Off balance, she fell backwards, knocking her head on the dressing table on the way down. Trevor pushed himself up against the wardrobe, and reached for the gun. He pointed it as Mrs Quinn, as she tried to push herself up, and he laughed loudly. As he was about to pull the trigger, the hand flew from the bed, and into his laughing mouth. Trevor’s throat expanded as it worked its way down, and he gagged and threw himself about the room in ultimate agony. He felt the gun still in one hand, and with the other, felt at his stomach. He grimaced, and held the gun to his stomach. He closed his eyes and as he felt it move inside him one last time, pulled the trigger.
Wow, not one for the squeamish, with eyes being ripped out and limbs cut off, not to mention the crotch incident! Ouch! Didn't see that storyline coming at all! The pace of the story works extremely well and the dialogue between the gang is effective, the line 'And we’ve got a full hand' wouldn't be misplaced in a film. A painful read for the right reasons!
Very strange and very good read.
hm. A bit like a gangster movie mixed with that Michael Caine horror film, The Hand.
Intersting mix.
Intersting mix.
Heh, a farfetched and humorous story. When the hand waved the key . .
You could say that Trevor was both a product of the system, and failed by it. Both parents worked long hours just to get by, and in a cry for attention he’d misbehave at school. As such he got tainted as a time-waster, fell in with a bad crowd, and his mischievous deeds some became unlawful ones. You could say that if you were a social worker or a sympathetic do-gooder, but the rest of us, we all knew that as a child he was a toe-rag, and as an adult, a scumbag and there was no one he wouldn’t cross to get what he wanted.
Alan knew he was trouble, had heard the stories about the guy at the off-licence that refused to open the till when requested. He’s walking again now, with a frame, but his speech is still very slurred – some kind of damage to the central nervous system, they said. But Alan had problems of his own, the kind of problems a man like Trevor could solve. He was always in The Eagle early on a Tuesday, waiting to meet his cronies. Alan rummaged in his wallet until he found a fiver amongst the betting slips. He bought a couple of pints, and strutted over to where Trevor was sat, slowly tearing a soggy coaster.
Trevor looked up at the grey face of the man that placed a pint in front of him. He’d gotten good at reading faces, and had learnt to resist the urge to throw a fist immediately into those he didn’t like the look of, instead taking the time to study them. Alan’s face had opportunity written all over it. As Alan spilt his tale of woe, a flawed betting system that had robbed him of most of his savings and a wife that wasn’t willing to give up the life of luxury she’d become accustomed to, Trevor was becoming somewhat bored. Patience was still not a virtue he was in possession of, and as Alan’s voice grew ever duller he almost tuned out to him, imagining instead taking his now empty pint glass and thrusting it into this sad old face. Screams of agony as blood gushed far and wide, painting the pub a vivid red. The temptation was almost too much to bear until Alan uttered the words ‘alarm system’.
“This is it boys,” said Trevor to his closest group of gathered accomplices. He tossed a manual across to Benny, “have a read through that, make sure there’s nothing to trouble us too much.”
“What’s that?” asked Rick, trying to get a look, whilst Dale craned his neck too.
“Just some alarm system details I stumbled upon,” said Trevor with a grin.
“Not a bank job?” asked Dale “because all the money’s protected with that ink stuff.”
“Bank job? Pfft,” dismissed Trevor, “nah, this is for a private fault.”
“Is it a footballers gaff?!” said Rick with a chuckle, “The Arsenal are playing in Kiev next week.”
“We’d never shift the junk they buy, all that money and not a drop of class” said Benny looking up from the document.
“Say’s you in your NHS specs,“ laughed Trevor. “Nah, this manual happens to detail the alarm system of one Mr James Quinn, three time World Poker Champ. And we’ve got a full hand,” Trevor pointed at the manual Benny was holding and then threw down a couple more, “alarm system, map of the house, his diary, and his vets bill.”
A crate of beer came and went before Benny next looked up from the document. “Only thing I don’t understand is this ‘protocol H’ it mentions.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know – it doesn’t tie in to any of the other components. We can take out any surveillance cameras easily enough, and over-ride the security with the details here. And I take it you know about the palm-reader required to access his vault?”
”Oh yes, I’m looking forward to acquiring that, most of all,” said Trevor as he hurled an empty beer bottle at the wall and laughed at the satisfying smash.
Whilst Alan had provided plenty of details, what he had not known was that Mr Quinn and his wife were no longer sharing a bed due to an argument regarding the au pair, and some after hours visits made to her room. So whilst the surveillance camera feed were cut without a problem, and the perimeter alarms disarmed with the simplest of keystrokes, Mr Quinn was not where expected. Rex didn’t put up much of a fight, a great lumbering beast that wanted to lick rather than bite, but Trevor felt no guilt in snapping its neck. However, when they burst into the master bedroom, they were shocked to find it populated by only one. Dale climbed onto the bed, forcing a hand over Mrs Quinn’s mouth, but not before she could utter a yelp. Hearing his mother’s shout, young master Quinn was woken, and did all a child so young could do, and started to cry. Trevor headed back into the hallway, grabbing a cushion from a chair en route, hoping to find and silence the youngster. A door flew open as Mr Quinn went to investigate the disturbance, and instinctively Trevor pulled out his gun and fired off a shot. James Quinn fell to the floor, bereft of life.
“What’s going on?” called Dale, struggling to keep on top of Mrs Quinn. Rick came to his aid, pulling a rope from inside his bag, and throwing a reel of gaffer tape onto the bed.
Trevor re-entered the room and tossed his gun onto a chair. “Benny,” he called, “go down to the kitchen and find me something sharp.
With Mr Quinn’s right hand in their possession, they made their way down to the cellar, stopping only to carry out an update of Benny’s handheld, to ensure no alarm was being transmitted. Down in the cellar, they pulled forward a large bookcase, to find the large metal door of the vault, and beside it the palm reader.
Trevor took the severed hand and spread out the fingers. He pushed it against the reader, and the alarm display lit up.
“When the light goes green, input 63887,” said Benny as he looked down at his handheld. The faces of the four men were suddenly bathed in a red light, with the alarm display reading “PROTOCOL H”.
The hand Trevor held against the reader suddenly formed into a fist, falling from Trevor’s grip. He looked down to see it scurry across the floor.
”What the hell was that?” cried Dale, heading back towards the stairs.
“It was just his bleedin’ hand. It’s the nerves,” said Trevor, sounding convincingly calm, “now pick it up, and bring it back, there’s a fortune waiting in there for us.”
“No way,” said Dale, still heading for the steps, but as he placed a foot on the first step there was a smash just above his head. Fragments of glass and red wine rained down on him as he swatted at the sky. Across the room, over at the wine rack the hand had hold of another bottle. Rick dived across the room and knocked it away. The hand fell from the rack and onto the floor, and disappeared into a dark corner.
“That’s it, I’m gone,” said Dale, taking the rest of the steps two at a time. Trevor followed, and Rick wasn’t far behind him. Benny furiously punched buttons on his handheld, looking for some kind of answer, before signalling his defeat with a frustrated punch into the solid vault door. As Benny climbed the stairs, nursing his sore knuckles
Trevor looked back, “Come on,” he called, just in time to see a dark shadow fall onto Benny’s face. Benny swung his arm, catching only air as the hand held around his face. It wasted no time in pushing ring and forefingers deep into the eye sockets, and withdrawing them with a squelch.
Trevor took two steps back down towards Benny, but as the hand turned towards him thought better of it, pushing past Rick at the top of the stairs. Rick turned back, and slammed the door, then leant against it, breathing heavily. Dale leant against a wall, with a felling of relief, until he saw a shadow against the floor. He gasped, but unable to speak, just pointed down between Rick’s legs. Rick’s followed the path of the finger and cautiously glanced down. As he set his eyes on the hand it pushed itself up from the floor, flipped mid-air, and settled firmly on his crotch. Rick clawed at the hand, but its grip only got tighter. Dale sprung into action, running across the room and launching a foot, only for the hand to drop to safety, leaving Rick to feel the full force of the blow.
Rick lay on the floor, crying out, and Dale held his hand in his hands. Trevor’s eyes darted around the room, but the hand had found another corner to hide in.
Dale helped Rick to his feet, and from behind them they heard a crash. A vase had been toppled, and they caught site of the hand head into the kitchen.
“Go, go, go,” urged Trevor, making his way towards the front door. Dale was struggling to pull Rick along with him, who was now cupping an ever more blood-red crotch.
Trevor opened the door, “Come on!” he cried, as the pitter-patter of little fingers landed on the carpet. Trevor saw a flash of silver and he grabbed Rick to help him out the door, but before he could Dale fell with a cry, his Achilles tendon slashed open. The hand launched itself from the floor with the momentum of Dale’s fall and plunged a knife deep into Rick’s back, then launched itself again, crashing into the door and slamming it back closed.
Trevor shook off Rick’s hand, as he wheezed his final breath. He tried to open the door. He pulled at it twice then looked down at the keyhole. He thumped the door then looked round and from across the room the hand waved the key at him. It took to the stairs, and climbed quickly up. Trevor tried to help Dale up, but he could hold no weight at all with his tendon severed. He grabbed the knife from Rick’s back, and made his way up the stairs, and into the master bedroom. He looked to the chair where he’d left his gun. It was gone. He looked over to the ruffled bedding, and tossed it off the bed, knife poised, ready to strike, but it was clear. There was a scratch from the wardrobe, and there was the hand, fiddling with the gun, but struggling to both hold its position steady on the floor, and aim the firearm. The gun twisted out of its grip, and fell to the floor. Trevor saw his change and dived across the floor towards it. As he reached forward his arm, it was heftily knocked aside as Mrs Quinn burst from the wardrobe, golf club in hand. She brought it clumsily down on Trevor, time and again as he curled into a ball to protect himself. He glanced out, before covering his head again and grinned. He put out an arm and yanked hard on the rug beneath Mrs Quinn’s feet, just as the golf-club was held at its highest. Off balance, she fell backwards, knocking her head on the dressing table on the way down. Trevor pushed himself up against the wardrobe, and reached for the gun. He pointed it as Mrs Quinn, as she tried to push herself up, and he laughed loudly. As he was about to pull the trigger, the hand flew from the bed, and into his laughing mouth. Trevor’s throat expanded as it worked its way down, and he gagged and threw himself about the room in ultimate agony. He felt the gun still in one hand, and with the other, felt at his stomach. He grimaced, and held the gun to his stomach. He closed his eyes and as he felt it move inside him one last time, pulled the trigger.
Alan knew he was trouble, had heard the stories about the guy at the off-licence that refused to open the till when requested. He’s walking again now, with a frame, but his speech is still very slurred – some kind of damage to the central nervous system, they said. But Alan had problems of his own, the kind of problems a man like Trevor could solve. He was always in The Eagle early on a Tuesday, waiting to meet his cronies. Alan rummaged in his wallet until he found a fiver amongst the betting slips. He bought a couple of pints, and strutted over to where Trevor was sat, slowly tearing a soggy coaster.
Trevor looked up at the grey face of the man that placed a pint in front of him. He’d gotten good at reading faces, and had learnt to resist the urge to throw a fist immediately into those he didn’t like the look of, instead taking the time to study them. Alan’s face had opportunity written all over it. As Alan spilt his tale of woe, a flawed betting system that had robbed him of most of his savings and a wife that wasn’t willing to give up the life of luxury she’d become accustomed to, Trevor was becoming somewhat bored. Patience was still not a virtue he was in possession of, and as Alan’s voice grew ever duller he almost tuned out to him, imagining instead taking his now empty pint glass and thrusting it into this sad old face. Screams of agony as blood gushed far and wide, painting the pub a vivid red. The temptation was almost too much to bear until Alan uttered the words ‘alarm system’.
“This is it boys,” said Trevor to his closest group of gathered accomplices. He tossed a manual across to Benny, “have a read through that, make sure there’s nothing to trouble us too much.”
“What’s that?” asked Rick, trying to get a look, whilst Dale craned his neck too.
“Just some alarm system details I stumbled upon,” said Trevor with a grin.
“Not a bank job?” asked Dale “because all the money’s protected with that ink stuff.”
“Bank job? Pfft,” dismissed Trevor, “nah, this is for a private fault.”
“Is it a footballers gaff?!” said Rick with a chuckle, “The Arsenal are playing in Kiev next week.”
“We’d never shift the junk they buy, all that money and not a drop of class” said Benny looking up from the document.
“Say’s you in your NHS specs,“ laughed Trevor. “Nah, this manual happens to detail the alarm system of one Mr James Quinn, three time World Poker Champ. And we’ve got a full hand,” Trevor pointed at the manual Benny was holding and then threw down a couple more, “alarm system, map of the house, his diary, and his vets bill.”
A crate of beer came and went before Benny next looked up from the document. “Only thing I don’t understand is this ‘protocol H’ it mentions.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know – it doesn’t tie in to any of the other components. We can take out any surveillance cameras easily enough, and over-ride the security with the details here. And I take it you know about the palm-reader required to access his vault?”
”Oh yes, I’m looking forward to acquiring that, most of all,” said Trevor as he hurled an empty beer bottle at the wall and laughed at the satisfying smash.
Whilst Alan had provided plenty of details, what he had not known was that Mr Quinn and his wife were no longer sharing a bed due to an argument regarding the au pair, and some after hours visits made to her room. So whilst the surveillance camera feed were cut without a problem, and the perimeter alarms disarmed with the simplest of keystrokes, Mr Quinn was not where expected. Rex didn’t put up much of a fight, a great lumbering beast that wanted to lick rather than bite, but Trevor felt no guilt in snapping its neck. However, when they burst into the master bedroom, they were shocked to find it populated by only one. Dale climbed onto the bed, forcing a hand over Mrs Quinn’s mouth, but not before she could utter a yelp. Hearing his mother’s shout, young master Quinn was woken, and did all a child so young could do, and started to cry. Trevor headed back into the hallway, grabbing a cushion from a chair en route, hoping to find and silence the youngster. A door flew open as Mr Quinn went to investigate the disturbance, and instinctively Trevor pulled out his gun and fired off a shot. James Quinn fell to the floor, bereft of life.
“What’s going on?” called Dale, struggling to keep on top of Mrs Quinn. Rick came to his aid, pulling a rope from inside his bag, and throwing a reel of gaffer tape onto the bed.
Trevor re-entered the room and tossed his gun onto a chair. “Benny,” he called, “go down to the kitchen and find me something sharp.
With Mr Quinn’s right hand in their possession, they made their way down to the cellar, stopping only to carry out an update of Benny’s handheld, to ensure no alarm was being transmitted. Down in the cellar, they pulled forward a large bookcase, to find the large metal door of the vault, and beside it the palm reader.
Trevor took the severed hand and spread out the fingers. He pushed it against the reader, and the alarm display lit up.
“When the light goes green, input 63887,” said Benny as he looked down at his handheld. The faces of the four men were suddenly bathed in a red light, with the alarm display reading “PROTOCOL H”.
The hand Trevor held against the reader suddenly formed into a fist, falling from Trevor’s grip. He looked down to see it scurry across the floor.
”What the hell was that?” cried Dale, heading back towards the stairs.
“It was just his bleedin’ hand. It’s the nerves,” said Trevor, sounding convincingly calm, “now pick it up, and bring it back, there’s a fortune waiting in there for us.”
“No way,” said Dale, still heading for the steps, but as he placed a foot on the first step there was a smash just above his head. Fragments of glass and red wine rained down on him as he swatted at the sky. Across the room, over at the wine rack the hand had hold of another bottle. Rick dived across the room and knocked it away. The hand fell from the rack and onto the floor, and disappeared into a dark corner.
“That’s it, I’m gone,” said Dale, taking the rest of the steps two at a time. Trevor followed, and Rick wasn’t far behind him. Benny furiously punched buttons on his handheld, looking for some kind of answer, before signalling his defeat with a frustrated punch into the solid vault door. As Benny climbed the stairs, nursing his sore knuckles
Trevor looked back, “Come on,” he called, just in time to see a dark shadow fall onto Benny’s face. Benny swung his arm, catching only air as the hand held around his face. It wasted no time in pushing ring and forefingers deep into the eye sockets, and withdrawing them with a squelch.
Trevor took two steps back down towards Benny, but as the hand turned towards him thought better of it, pushing past Rick at the top of the stairs. Rick turned back, and slammed the door, then leant against it, breathing heavily. Dale leant against a wall, with a felling of relief, until he saw a shadow against the floor. He gasped, but unable to speak, just pointed down between Rick’s legs. Rick’s followed the path of the finger and cautiously glanced down. As he set his eyes on the hand it pushed itself up from the floor, flipped mid-air, and settled firmly on his crotch. Rick clawed at the hand, but its grip only got tighter. Dale sprung into action, running across the room and launching a foot, only for the hand to drop to safety, leaving Rick to feel the full force of the blow.
Rick lay on the floor, crying out, and Dale held his hand in his hands. Trevor’s eyes darted around the room, but the hand had found another corner to hide in.
Dale helped Rick to his feet, and from behind them they heard a crash. A vase had been toppled, and they caught site of the hand head into the kitchen.
“Go, go, go,” urged Trevor, making his way towards the front door. Dale was struggling to pull Rick along with him, who was now cupping an ever more blood-red crotch.
Trevor opened the door, “Come on!” he cried, as the pitter-patter of little fingers landed on the carpet. Trevor saw a flash of silver and he grabbed Rick to help him out the door, but before he could Dale fell with a cry, his Achilles tendon slashed open. The hand launched itself from the floor with the momentum of Dale’s fall and plunged a knife deep into Rick’s back, then launched itself again, crashing into the door and slamming it back closed.
Trevor shook off Rick’s hand, as he wheezed his final breath. He tried to open the door. He pulled at it twice then looked down at the keyhole. He thumped the door then looked round and from across the room the hand waved the key at him. It took to the stairs, and climbed quickly up. Trevor tried to help Dale up, but he could hold no weight at all with his tendon severed. He grabbed the knife from Rick’s back, and made his way up the stairs, and into the master bedroom. He looked to the chair where he’d left his gun. It was gone. He looked over to the ruffled bedding, and tossed it off the bed, knife poised, ready to strike, but it was clear. There was a scratch from the wardrobe, and there was the hand, fiddling with the gun, but struggling to both hold its position steady on the floor, and aim the firearm. The gun twisted out of its grip, and fell to the floor. Trevor saw his change and dived across the floor towards it. As he reached forward his arm, it was heftily knocked aside as Mrs Quinn burst from the wardrobe, golf club in hand. She brought it clumsily down on Trevor, time and again as he curled into a ball to protect himself. He glanced out, before covering his head again and grinned. He put out an arm and yanked hard on the rug beneath Mrs Quinn’s feet, just as the golf-club was held at its highest. Off balance, she fell backwards, knocking her head on the dressing table on the way down. Trevor pushed himself up against the wardrobe, and reached for the gun. He pointed it as Mrs Quinn, as she tried to push herself up, and he laughed loudly. As he was about to pull the trigger, the hand flew from the bed, and into his laughing mouth. Trevor’s throat expanded as it worked its way down, and he gagged and threw himself about the room in ultimate agony. He felt the gun still in one hand, and with the other, felt at his stomach. He grimaced, and held the gun to his stomach. He closed his eyes and as he felt it move inside him one last time, pulled the trigger.