I hear the bathroom door open; their footsteps are getting closer. I don’t know who is here, trespassing in my house, taking over my property, invading my space. Slowly I reach over for the torch that’s in the draw of my bedside cabinet. Another door creaked open. Decision over I had to do it.
I grab my shoes and as quietly as possible slide the window up. I ease myself out on to the ledge and shuffle along, out of view from the window. Dizzy with height, the ground is swirling. With no time for fear and emotions pulsating through me, I lunge forward. I scramble down the trunk of the old oak tree.
I look up. I can see a silhouette peering out of my window. He has seen me! Who is he? What does he want with me? Panic takes over and without a second thought; I head down the path, towards the gate. The front door swings open; he stands there, tall and mysterious. He walks slowly in my direction as if he knows I have nowhere to go.
With my house secluded, my nearest hope is old Saran Akhtar who lives on Mangrove farm, but that’s in the village. Now I know where I have to go, I run. Five minutes it should take me; that’s five minutes he has to catch me. The leaves crunch under my feet, the cold, frosty air hits my face like small fingers pinching my nose. The branches whip my face as I blindly feel my way through the trees.
Reaching the farmhouse I bang loudly on the door, hoping to wake Saran at this late hour. He cautiously opens the door and I push through, slipping and landing on the floor by his feet. Crying I shout at him to shut the door.
After frantically explaining what's happening, Saran phones the police. The kitchen window smashes and glass scatters across the tiled floor. He is here, he followed me. What was going to happen was
Unknown but Saran grabbed for his shotgun and stood in front of me. As the man climbed through the broken window, Saran fired a round. He missed. The man fell into the kitchen with surprise and lay on the floor. Saran went over to him to see if he was injured.
As Saran got close, the man grabbed for Saran’s gun and shot him in the shoulder. With a scream I stepped back onto the marble fireplace. Saran lay defenceless on the floor, holding his wound, his face contorted with pain.
Wishing the police would hurry I broke down in tears. I had realised who he was; it was Ricky Singh. I was a witness in his case three years ago. I stood against him at his trial; he had been charged with the murder of his wife. He got off with manslaughter but there was still a killer instinct within him.
With Ricky's eyes glaring at me, he walked forward. He crouched next to me, his face close to mine. With his hot breath hitting my cold face, I trembled. Saran threw a shard of glass from the window at Ricky; he turned and stood up. As he reached Saran, I pulled out the poker by the fireplace. Slowly and silently I followed Ricky’s footsteps.
Ricky grabbed Saran by his night-shirt, muttering threats. The police arrived with Sirens blaring, and lights flashing away Lighting up the room.
Ricky turned to see me stood behind him. Daring not to breathe, I swung the poker and it hit Ricky with a thud that echoed throughout the house. His body collapsed to the floor in a crumpled heap, blood oozing from the
Gash on this head. The police barged through the door like a tsunami of blue water. The four huge men seemed to fill the room as they converged around Ricky’s body. I took a breath of relief.
They re-arrested Ricky and then called an ambulance for Saran. The detective took me to the station for a statement against Ricky Singh, yet again. The police reassured me that this would not happen again, a sense of relief and proud ness ran through me as I learned I had just jumped a hurdle in this crazy life of mine
WRITTEN BY
AHMED ABDULLA 10PL