This is the last of the stories that I had thought up for that crime story competition. In writing it, I found out it was no winner, but I’ve decided to get it down in writing all the same. I hope you enjoy it.
29th December 1999
It was 6:45 in the evening when Harold Merriweather and his family pulled into the driveway of their Bromley home. They had been meaning to spend the whole of the Christmas holidays down in Eastbourne with Harold’s father-in-law, but Fay, his wife, had been having bowel troubles and it was decided they would go home to see the family GP.
“I must have eaten something that disagreed with me,” Fay had shrugged.
But it got serious enough that Mr Merriweather insisted she took no chances. Fortunately, Doctor Andrews was in the surgery tomorrow and had space to see them.
“Yes, home again!” grinned 16-year-old Russell Merriweather, as the car stopped in the middle of the gravel driveway.
“Don’t think that this was for your benefit, young man,” said Mr Merriweather sternly. “We came back for your Mum’s sake, not so you could go out and paint the town red.”
“Oh, let him have some fun, Harold,” Mrs Merriweather nagged and she shifted stiffly. “Don’t forget, it’s a special year.”
“Well, don’t make any plans you can’t change, Russell,” insisted his father. “Wendy might not be back by New Year’s Eve and I may need you to help watch your Mum.”
Wendy was Russell’s 21-year-old student sister, who had agreed to come back from Birmingham (both her alma mater and her boyfriend Warren’s home) and help her mother if she could.
Russell shrugged and leapt out of the car. The rest of the family followed, with Mrs Merriweather last to get out. Rusell beelined for the front door, fishing out his Nokia phone and popping open the spring-loaded receiver. He had seen this model in The Matrix that summer and had insisted his parents buy it for him as a reward for getting three A’s in his GCSE’s. (Three more than his teachers had predicted.)
“Hey!” his father shouted. “Make the call later and help with these cases!”
“Look, Daddy!” piped up 9-year-old Tilly Merriweather, as she too got out. “Alice is back home.”
“I thought you said she was away,” said Mr. Merriweather, as he opened the boot.
“No, she’s right, Harold,” said Mrs Merriweather. “Look. There’s a light in Alice’s bedroom window.”
Mr. Merriweather looked up and along the road, at the house with the distinctive pinkish-red gable that Tilly’s schoolfriend Alice Trimble lived in. Sure enough, a light shone through the window in the top right window, where Alice had her bedroom.
“Well, what do you know?” he grinned. “You can say hello to her tomorrow, Tilly.”
“Light’s gone, Dad,” huffed Russell, as he picked up just his own case and tried to keep hold of his mobile phone.
Mr and Mrs Merriweather took two more cases each, then made their way into the house out of the cold. But just as he took out the last case and closed the boot, Mr Merriweather looked back at the Trimble house. The light had gone. He had only a moment to contemplate this when there was a flash of light again. Then he realised that it wasn’t the main light he saw, but a torch beam.
Strange, he thought. Alice must be having a slumber party, or the power’s out.
He shrugged just like his son had, then followed his family inside. Yet he couldn’t help but shake the feeling something was amiss.
30th December 1999
A £20 bribe ensured Russell stayed home to watch Tilly while the Merriweathers went to the surgery together. Harold was a very supportive man, so Fay knew it was pointless to turn him away from his act of moral support.
Doctor Andrews’ diagnosis was a great relief.
“It’s just a touch of constipation,” he told her, “Probably due to the Christmas diet. Just eat lighter meals over the next few days and unless the Millennium Bug causes a plane crash in your street, you’ll be fine.”
The Merriweathers got home and found Russell doing some homework in the kitchen while Tilly worked through the Puzzle Adventure book she had gotten for Christmas.
“Everything alright, Russell?” his father asked.
“I’m OK,” he grunted, “But I can’t say the same for Tilly.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Merriweather.
“He means Alice wasn’t in,” said Tilly sulkily.
“Oh, unlucky dear,” Mrs Merriweather said sympathetically. Then she gasped, and glared at Russell. “Wait a minute! You let her go out alone?”
“No!” Russell snorted. “She begged to go down the road to go and see Alice, so I took her there. Besides, you said she could see her.”
“Oh, right,” his mother nodded. “And yes, we did say.”
“I had those Pokémon cards Alice wanted!” Tilly squeaked. “I was gonna trade with her for a Venusaur.”
“Yeah, OK, exactly,” said a clearly disinterested Russell, “But nobody was in. We rang the bell three times but nobody answered. Oh, and next time you tell me to keep my room tidy, tell the Trimbles to pick their letters up too.”
“What do you mean, you so-and-so?” Mr. Merriweather said darkly.
“I mean,” drawled Russell, “That I looked through the letterbox and found there were about fifty cards and letters strewn across the floor. It was like a paper tidal wave.”
“Well, as a great poet said, ours not to reason why,” Mr Merriweather said, wagging a finger. “Now get on with your homework and your mother and I will put together some lunch for us.”
Yet Russell’s curious observation came back to haunt Mr Merriweather that evening. He and his family had written some Christmas thank you letters and he was walking down the street towards the pillar box on the corner to post them while supper cooked. Although it was only 5:45, the sky was pitch black with early winter darkness that it seemed neither street lighting nor fairy lights could defy.
Under the orange glow of the streetlamps on the opposite corner, Mr Merriweather saw something that made him double take. When he came back into the kitchen, Mrs Merriweather looked up from the broccoli she was stirring and saw his look of concern.
“What is it, Harold?” she asked, getting off her stool. “What’s wrong?”
“Hard to explain, Fay,” he managed. “I guess you could call it déjà vu.”
“What do you mean, Honey?”
“Do you remember that burglar alarm salesman who came to our door the night that Tilly broke up from school? I could swear I just saw him walking past me on the opposite side of the street.”
“What’s so odd about that, Harold?”
“Well, he was walking in the same direction as me when I approached the pillar box. He walked around the corner, then, just a few seconds after I posted the letters, he rounded the corner and went back the way he’d come. He was deliberately going over his own tracks.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t just going back home because he’d forgotten something?” said Mrs Merriweather, frowning herself now.
“I might have thought that without hesitation,” replied Mr Merriweather, scratching his chin, “But here’s the thing. That salesman asked me if I was going away over Christmas and I let slip that we were doing so, until New Year. What if that man was some criminal keeping watch on the street, looking for a chance to burgle us?”
“Oh, Harold,” she sighed. “Would it matter if he was? Nothing’s been taken. We might be out at the Thomsons’ tomorrow, but the babysitter’s in watching Tilly and we’ll be in until at least Twelfth Night. There’s no risk of them catching us out.”
Mr Merriweather calmed down. “I suppose you’re right, luv.”
So he got on with reading the paper while the sounds of Russell owning Tilly on some Playstation game filtered through from the dining room.
31st December 1999
In the morning, Mrs Merriweather ironed her best dress and her husband’s best shirt ready for the big Millennium party at the Thomsons’. Crash Bandicoot kept Tilly’s fingers busy while Russell made plans to go to his friend Martin’s house.
“If you come back off your face, you’re paying for your own driving lessons,” his father said ominously.
Good news came by e-mail at one o’clock. Mr Merriweather’s nephew Craig had just seen the Millennium in on the other side of the world in Tonga. Now he was having one last glass of champagne before flying to Samoa to see it in again!
“He always was ambitious, that boy,” Mr Merriweather grinned.
Just then, the telephone rang and he picked it up.
“Hello, Harold Merriweather… Oh hello, Philip! How was Grenoble? Oh… Oh really? What’s that? No! You’re kidding me… Oh my God, that’s awful! Well, alright then. I understand. I’m so sorry. Really tough for you. Well, good luck. Yeah, Happy Millennium, Philip. ‘Bye.”
He replaced the receiver with a trembling hand.
“What’s the matter, Harold?” asked Mrs Merriweather. “You look devastated.”
Mr Merriweather hesitated before replying, “The Thomsons have had to cancel their Millennium party, Fay.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate but it’s not too bad…”
“Fay… they were burgled while they were on holiday.”
For a few moments there was silence. Husband and wife were coming to a devastating realisation. It was Mrs Merriweather who spoke first.
“Harold, you said that man might have been walking back and forth around the corner of the road, didn’t you?”
“Yes. And the Thomsons live in the house on the corner. I was right. That man was guarding the street while his buddy ransacked the house.”
“Harold, we need to tell the police at once!”
“It’s alright, Fay. Philip Thomson has already had the police over and given a statement. We can call them and tell them about the alarm guy but there’s no need to do anything more. Like you said, we’re quite safe tonight. We’ll just cancel the babysitter and see the Millennium in with the television and a board game. Any word from Wendy?”
“She said she’d be here mid-evening. That’ll be one less worry to have. Besides, I don’t mind staying in. My gut’s still not quite what it should be yet.”
The sun set for the last time that century. Russell left the second dinner was over and made his way to Martin’s house. Tilly did some more colouring before bedtime and the Merriweathers put a Merchant Ivory video on, waiting for midnight to come.
“Do you remember our first New Year’s Eve together, Fay?” said Mr Merriweather, resting his wine-wearied head on his wife’s shoulder.
“That was 1971, wasn’t it?” Mrs Merriweather said thoughtfully.
“No, not that early. I was still in college then. We married in ’76 and I remember gasping and thinking; ‘It’s less than two years since I first met this girl.’”
“Seventy-four, then?” Mrs Merriweather thought aloud.
“Probably,” sighed Mr Merriweather. “Oh, I tell you, Fay, the years just fly by. I can still remember when I was listening to The Tornadoes on a radiogram and thinking when we reach 1999, we’ll have cities on the Moon, just like in…”
BANG!
With heart-stopping suddenness, everything went black and Mrs Merriweather yelped in alarm. The television shut off, the lights went dark and the Christmas tree stopped twinkling. Even the red digital display on the VCR had gone out. Only vague silhouettes remained in the room.
“Damn it!” snapped Mr Merriweather. “Of all the nights to have a power cut!”
“The lights are on in the neighbours’ houses,” said Mrs Merriweather. “It’s probably just the fuse box. You check on Tilly and I’ll get the torch from the kitchen. We can light some of the Christmas candles if it’s not a quick fix.”
Mr Merriweather carefully made his way upstairs, using the light from the street lamps that filtered through the curtains. Luckily, Tilly was now peacefully asleep, unaware of the power failure. By the time Mr Merriweather had made his way down to the kitchen, his wife was ready with the torch and candles.
“It’s bad, Harold,” she said, shaking her head. “The lights aren’t coming on anywhere, nor are any of the appliances. We’ll probably have to trip the circuit breaker to…”
“Sssh!” Mr Merriweather hissed urgently. “Fay, do you hear that?”
The sound of rattling was coming from the front door. Someone was fiddling with the door knob.
“Do you think Wendy’s back and forgot her key?” whispered Mrs Merriweather.
But the breath caught in their throats as, instead of their daughter’s pleasant, fairly high voice, they heard the gruff voices of two men, snorting and guffawing as they sneered and boasted. There was a thud as something hit the front door hard.
“Burglars!” Mrs Merriweather gurgled. “They’re breaking in!”
“I’ll bet it’s the ones who robbed the Thomsons!” Mr Merriweather snarled.
“SSSSH!” Mrs Merriweather sounded desperate. “You’ve no idea what they’re like. They might have knives, or guns! They might tie us up! They might kill us! Oh God above, think of poor little Tilly!”
A loud splintering noise came from around the corner. The burglars must have had a crowbar and were breaking through the wooden door frame.
“They must have thought we were still away,” Mr Merriweather said quietly. “The lights must have gone out before they arrived in the street and made it look like…”
“Damn it, Harold, stop whittering and make something happen!” Mrs Merriweather snapped, shaking him by the shoulders.
“I’ll get the phone and call the police,” Mr Merriweather said confidently.
“No, Harold! It’s in the hall and they’re almost through! If they have a crowbar they can beat the living daylights out of you!”
“You’re right, Fay. We need to get out of the house. We’ll go out through the French windows, then out the side gate while they’re distracted and make for a phone box.”
“But what about Tilly? They might take her away and… They… Oh my God!”
There was a clatter as the door broke open and rattled as it swung backwards. Mrs Merriweather screamed. Then there was the sound of two loud clangs and the thud of two bodies hitting the floor.
“Hey Mum, Dad! Who are these lowlifes and what’s the power doing out?”
The Merriweathers’ faces lit up. It was Wendy, clutching the shovel from the side passage she had just knocked the burglars out with.
1st January 2000
Wendy had called the police on her own “Matrix” mobile and in spite of a full night of dealing with DUI’s and noise complaints, they made showing up to arrest the burglars a priority. It later turned out that they had robbed not only the Thomsons and the Trimbles over the Christmas period, but several others. They had meant to hit several properties over the course of that auspicious night as they partied at friends’ houses. They had hoped to go down in the annals of crime as the Millennium Bandits.
Mr Merriweather tripped the circuit breaker and power was restored. As fireworks made the night sky sparkle and thunder in the very first minutes of the Third Millennium, he enjoyed a glass of wine with his wife and daughter, thinking how lucky they were to be safe once more and having a much more exciting night than Russell.
rpatersonwriting 