A New Georgy-Girl

My family was at risk, and that was unacceptable; it was time to neutralise that risk...

Being careful to stay out of sight, I carefully eased myself over the dry-stone estate wall and moved stealthily from cover to cover across the restored formal Tudor garden, my mother's pride and joy, using the clipped and shaped topiaries for cover as much as I could.

I worked my way around to the back of the house, being careful to keep low and in any cover I could find. The house was huge, built in the sixteenth century in the shape of an 'E' to flatter Queen Elizabeth, and three men couldn't possibly cover all the myriad of windows and entrances, but no sense in taking any chances.

The lessons I learned during my stints in Helmand came back to me as I carefully skirted the house, aiming for the collection of lean-to's and stone-built storage barns that three hundred years ago had been the estate dairy, smithy, and brew-house. The small milkmaid's door at the back of the old dairy led into a room that had once been the buttery and cheese store, now just used as a lumber room, and from there into the little scullery kitchen next to the main kitchen in the basement of the main house itself.

Not many people on first glance realised that the narrow little panel door in the modern, updated kitchen that looked like a pantry was in fact the entrance to the old scullery, or even that there was a scullery there, and one of the servant's staircases up to the attics was in there; if I got in there, and I knew how, it was one of my childhood escape routes, I had the run of the house and no-one would ever know I was there. That was my advantage over whoever those men were; I knew they were in my house, they didn't know I was too.

The narrow staircase was still firm and solid, so I carefully made my way up to the first floor, where Georgy's and my bedroom was. I had played on these stairs half my life; I knew which steps were the squeaky ones and I avoided them instinctively, and carefully eased open the door on the first floor landing. Good, no-one about, so I cat-footed along the corridor to my room, because in the bottom of my closet was a pair of Defender gloves one of the guys in 42 Commando out in Helmand had sneaked me; they were weighted and packed with quartz sand to add weight and extra impact.

A punch in the right place from one of those ended a fight before it had begun, and I had no other weapons apart from the fearsome collection of late-medieval and Renaissance swords, maces, daggers, and other killing implements on the walls downstairs, probably where those men were. With my gloves, and my steel toe-capped work-boots, and a little luck maybe, just maybe, I stood a chance of evening the odds a little.

Feeling like I at least had a chance, I started to venture downstairs when I saw a shadow on the stairwell at the end of the corridor; someone was coming upstairs, so I ducked back into my room and waited behind the open door, hoping whoever it was would walk past so I could clobber him.

It was almost childishly simple; as the hulking, shaven-headed scruff ambled past my door I stepped out and punched him just as hard as I could, a right uppercut that nearly took his head off and a left hook that smashed into his face with all my strength. The Defender gloves worked perfectly, it must have felt like he'd been smacked with a half-brick; I hardly felt it, the sand packing absorbing most of the impact, but his face caved-in with a meaty "schwack!" sound as his jaw snapped like a twig, his nose flattened, and most of his teeth exited his face in a spray of blood. The follow-up, my safety boot slamming into his testicles just as hard as I could kick him, delivered the coup de grace, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he folded silently, bonelessly, like a dropped puppet, out cold and staying that way for a while.

I quickly tied his hands behind his back with the decorative nylon tie-back ropes from my bedroom curtains, ditto his ankles, then tied his ankles to his wrists and shoved a wadded-up pair of my soiled shorts from the laundry basket in his mouth with one of Georgy's knee-socks tied tightly around his head to gag him, and carried-dragged him into the back-stairs landing. I debated with myself whether or not to just kick him down those steep little stairs and let him take his chances, but I held off; he was going to be a soup-eating eunuch for the rest of his life, sufficient unto the day etc...

Served the fucker right for prowling around my house, anyway; you mess with my family, you take your punishment, and now there were only two left that I knew about for certain to deal with...

I slipped down along the corridor and lay flat at the top of the stairs, listening for any sounds of movement from downstairs. They must have been just inside the portico, or in the old salon next to the stairs with the double-doors open because I could hear voices, a man with a pronounced London accent and then Georgy's voice. She sounded scared, even if she was trying to hide it, and my rage burned high again; how dare these bastards come into my home and terrorise my family, they were scaring my Georgy-Girl, how fucking dare they!

I dug my fingers into the carpet, willing myself to calm down and not go charging down there like an idiot, those men were armed, and I still didn't know how many there were.

"Listen, girly, for the last time, who else lives here? There's men's stuff all over the place, I know those boots by the door are not your, who else lives here?"

"I told you, no-one else, just Aunt Kay and me..."

"Don't fucking lie to me, girly, where the fuck is he?" he interjected, "his fucking stuff's everywhere, now where the fuck is he?"

"It's my br...my boyfriend's stuff, he stays here a lot and he leaves his stuff here, but he's working in London, he's not here, I swear!" begged Georgy, her voice ringing with fear-harmonics; my brave girl, terrorised by big men with guns and she still wouldn't crack, no matter how scared she was, I was so proud of her!

"Don't worry, we'll deal with him if he shows up, was that him calling you? Never mind, you'll only lie, so fuck him, if he shows up he's dead and it's on you. Now for the last time, where the fuck is our money? Max knew all about the money stashed here, he was supposed to grab the cash and the old lady's jewellery; he told us it was here, millions stashed in this house, now where is it? Don't fuck with me, missy, I've got no problem blowing this old bitch the fuck away, you understand me? Just fucking hand it over and we're gone, done, out of your lives; don't you get that?"

"We don't have anything, don't you get that?" flared Georgy, "What, you think we all sit around at night like the fucking king in his counting house counting piles of money and gloating? This isn't some stupid crime caper movie, no-one keeps that kind of money in their houses, that's what banks are for, why can't you understand that?"

Max! These were his accomplices, shit, that oily little butt-weasel, if I came out of this alive I was going to dig that bastard out of his cell and fuck him with a fire extinguisher!

The sound of a slap made my blood boil; that bastard had just hit my Georgy! My vision tunnelled as the rage threatened to overwhelm me, and I had to bite my lip, hard, letting the pain take me and prevent me from charging down there and just kicking the fuck out of that animal. It took all my willpower to hold myself back, to remember the lessons drilled into me in the sandbox; that an angry man is a careless man and I couldn't afford to endanger my family any more than they already were; my chance would come.

When the roaring in my head cleared, I realised he was speaking again.

"Max said there was a safe here somewhere, he was supposed to scope out the house, find the safe, get the keys or combination off the old lady and 'phhtt!' gone, that was all, no-one was supposed to get hurt; he got greedy, all of this, all this stuff here, it went to his head and he wanted it all; I swear, no-one was supposed to be hurt, especially not an old lady, but he fucked up and now we're here. Just give us the money, the old woman's jewellery and we'll be gone, no-one wants to hurt you..."

I knew that was a lie, it had to be; Georgy and Aunt Kay could identify them, they couldn't afford to leave any witnesses alive. As long as they believed the money was here, Georgy was safe; if for one second they thought otherwise, it was curtains for her and Aunt Kay.

I lay silently at the top of the stairs as the roaring fury in my head subsided and my training came seeping back in, cooling me down, talking to me. I was a soldier first and foremost, one of Her Majesty's officers, trained to plan, infiltrate, fight and kill, to eliminate my sovereign's enemies, and survive to continue fighting, I'd survived four tours in that hell-hole, I'd literally fought hand to hand with Jihadists and Taliban insurgents, against kill-crazy religious maniacs and fanatics who were doing their damnedest to kill me and didn't care if they died trying and I was still here, all of that came back to me and suddenly I knew what to do.

Easing back from the lip of the stairs, I picked my way back along the corridor, instinctively avoiding all the squeaky or warped ancient floorboards I knew well from my teen years of sneaking in and out of my room, and made my way to the far end of the corridor and back into the concealed landing. The man I'd clobbered was starting to stir so he got a steel toe-cap on the point of his smashed chin, he got a brief look of agony on his face then his eyes rolled up and he was out again.

I took the stairs two at a time up to the top landing and carefully eased into the attic, scoping out the place for any sign of intruders, anyone who might be up there searching for the mythical safe they were convinced was in the house.

The original medieval moated manor house that once stood on the site had been remodelled and rebuilt in the shape of an upper-case 'E', back in Elizabethan times, and the three servant's staircases served each branch of the 'E'; the staircase I'd just used led down to the old scullery in the top arm of the 'E', the one in the middle served the middle branch, where the main portico, the old salon, and the linen presses were, and the third staircase led down to the old laundry in the bottom of the 'E', which dad had used as a workshop when he tinkered with stuff or repaired Georgy's riding tack.

I carefully made my way to the far end of the attic, quite a long walk, really when I was trying to be stealthy and silent, and eased into the landing and down to the ground level, again watching for all the squeaky stair-treads I remembered from my childhood.

I went that way because the workshop had a wide wooden double carriage door on the side of the house which was padlocked closed, but there was a bolted wicket-gate in one leaf of the double doors, and that was my way out of the house. As far as I could tell, there was no way for them to patrol the entire perimeter of the house, it was too big for just a couple of men, so with luck they wouldn't see me if I stuck close to the walls; the windows were set higher than my height, so anyone looking out wouldn't be able to see me plastered to the wall right under them as I worked my way around to the front of the house unless they opened the window, leaned out, and looked down.

Slipping behind the perfect cover afforded by my mother's carefully shaped conical Yew topiaries, her pride and joy, that had taken her years and endless effort to create and perfect, and which blanketed the front of the house, I managed to slip up beside the battered, filthy old Ford Transit that had been concealed behind those same topiaries, hiding it from a casual observer on the main road.

I was just wondering how to silently disable that rusty shit-heap when I heard voices coming from the portico.

"Go find Gary, he went upstairs looking for the safe, find out what's going on; that fat idiot Max was so sure the safe was here, but he never found it, and that girl..." said the first voice, the same voice I'd heard threaten Aunt Kay.

"Slap her around a bit more, she's lying..." grated a different, harsher voice, "she knows something, we should work her over a little, she'll soon talk..."

"I dunno, she's just a girl, time enough for that later. For now, go find Gary, find out what the fuck he's up to, and if he hasn't found the safe, we start hurting the old bitch; maybe that will make the girl cooperate. Get the crowbar from the van..."

They were coming this way! As I saw it, I could continue to hide and evade them, or I could get them while their guard was down. Neither appealed, but I'd heard their plan: they weren't ready to stop at just asking questions. Time to stop thinking and start doing, I'd never have a better chance, not while they didn't know I was there. My mind made up, I slipped around the front of the van in a low crouch, trying to make as little noise on the loose surface of the gravelled driveway as I could.

I could hear them coming closer, heading for the back of the van, so I kept the bulk of the vehicle between me and them. If they opened the rear door they'd likely be fully occupied with whatever they were coming to get, that would be my only chance. I could see their shadows as they approached, but not enough to tell whether they were carrying the sawn-off shotgun, but it was literally now or never; I'd never get a better chance.

When I heard the doors open I slipped alongside the van; the open door shielded me as I worked my way along the side. When one of them went to close the door I was ready, and he froze as he saw me. I was expecting him, but he wasn't expecting me, and that split second was enough for me to kick him in the crotch just as hard as I could. His eyes crossed, and I pushed him aside as his mate, still bent over the rear of the van bed started to turn.

"Whaa...? Was all he managed before I slammed the heavy old van door on his head as hard as I could, sandwiching his head between the bulky steel doors of the old van.

He dropped like a bad idea, twitching and shuddering, but I kicked him in the chin as hard as I could just for good measure, watching his head snap back and his eyes roll up. The first man was curled up on his side in a foetal crouch, vomiting as he cradled his smashed crotch, and I briefly considered flattening his head with the 8-pound sledgehammer lying inside the van, but settled instead for yanking him up by his collar and giving his chin a solid uppercut, letting my loaded glove send him off to La-La Land.

The shotgun was lying on the van bed where the second man had laid it, so I took it, popped it, shit, it was loaded, and pocketed the shells, and then chucked it into the shrubbery in case anyone got any ideas. There was no shortage of bungee cords, industrial cable ties, duct tape, and nylon washing line in the van, and something that nearly made me use the sledgehammer on them: a flat case of syringes filled with purple stuff. A squirt of one confirmed it was drain-cleaner: so this was how they were going to ensure Georgy and Aunt Kay could never identify them.

Holding in my anger, because now I was in a killing mood over what they'd planned for my family, I trussed them up the way I'd been taught to deny them even minimal hand movement, wrists securely tied back to back with the largest-size of zip-ties as tight as I could get them, along with cut lengths of nylon cord, and then their thumbs zip-cuffed together to allow no movement. I yanked their boots and pants off and tied their ankles and knees tightly together with elastic bungee cords, duct tape, and nylon line looped and tied several times around the van's tow-hitch, leaving them face down on the ground with their knees bent and their feet in the air.

As a final measure I balled-up their socks and shoved them in their mouths, and ran a length of duct tape several times around their mouths, gagging them securely. Those jokers weren't going anywhere.

All this had taken just a few minutes, and there had been no alarm raised inside the house, but I wasn't taking any chances. First I immobilised the crappy old van by just disconnecting the battery and yanking wires out willy-nilly, ensuring they couldn't get away if they somehow got loose, then turned my attention to getting back into the house silently.

The front door was ajar, and the inner storm door was open as well, so I moved up as softly as I could, listening for any movement inside. Nothing, so I cautiously made my way inside. The portico had been the main reception area in days gone by, the main staircase up to the next floor was in the exact middle of the reception area, and double doors on either side of the stairs led into the back of the house, where the salon and ballroom had once been.

The doors on the left side were still closed, but the other pair were half open, so that was where I looked first; sure enough, Georgy and Aunt Kay were sitting on the floor, their hands tied behind them to a leg each of the large couch in there, and their feet tied. I peeked in and Georgy saw me, her eyes widened and she shook her head slightly, warning me.

"How many...? I mouthed, and she looked around before slowly mouthing back "Three, shotgun..."

That was good, it meant I'd taken them all out, and lost about three years of my life, but it was worth it. I darted into the room and made short work of untying her.

"Will, no, there's three of them, hide, now, they'll come back..." she gabbled, so I kissed her to calm her down.

"It's okay, Georgy, they're toast, the two outside are finished, and the other one on the back stairs is discovering what his own balls taste like, he's not going anywhere."

I jumped over and started cutting Aunt Kay loose while Georgy called the police.

*****

There's really no more to say; the police showed up and took my three crash-test dummies into custody, I showed them where the shotgun was, and gave a statement, as did Georgy and Aunt Kay.

The ambulance people who took those three morons away securely cuffed to the gurneys gave Georgy and Aunt Kay a quick going-over, but apart from a bruise where that animal had hit her, Georgy was unhurt, as was Aunt Kay.

The police were not at all pleased at the implications of the drain-cleaner filled syringes, nor at the the sawn-off shotgun, which is an instant jail term in the UK anyway; as far as they were concerned it was all evidence of conspiracy to murder, because there was no other possible reason for them to have syringes loaded with drain-cleaner in their possession while carrying out their plan to commit armed robbery.

The police were also really interested to learn that Max Preece had been involved, that those men were his accomplices, so the police Detective Inspector who managed the crime scene and the clean-up told us that the police would be recommending that Max also face additional conspiracy to murder and domestic terrorism charges, as would his three accomplices; the case of poison-filled syringes and the sawn-off shotgun was all the proof the police needed.

I also had some plans of my own when it came to Max Preece: I had low friends in high places in the Prison Service; Max was going to feel me. Big time.

*****

Epilogue:

We managed to get back to finishing off the house the way we wanted to present it, with genuine or accurate repro period features and the furniture to show them to their best advantage.

With Georgy and Aunt Kay's help I managed to get the correct period finishes, things like genuine powder blue and intricately patterned vermillion flocked wallpapers, expensive, but so right for the house, and the appropriate Georgian paint colours, not cheap pastiches; we were presenting the house as an elegant, desirable period dwelling for someone who saw themselves as a person with taste and refinement and the asking price in their pocket.