The Misogynist (Republished)

Three Musketeers

After six weeks, away with work, I was looking forward to getting the dust knocked off my kit, getting something decent to eat and getting a cold beer in me. But as I passed the gate onto my property, I knew those things might have to wait. I slid the Land Rover to a stop on the track, still 50 meters from the house, next to three mopeds; the type popular with pizza delivery drivers and reprobate teenagers.

I climbed out of the car and scanned the line of trees that ensured my privacy. Nothing unusual. Then I turned my attention to the house; the door was open and one of the small windows to the side of the frame had been smashed. I was going to be annoyed with myself later for making a break-in so easy. I reached into my pocket for my phone and was about to dial the emergency services operator when I noticed the door to the garage. I had converted it from an old stable and it never had a car inside it, rather I used it as a workshop when I was home. The padlock had been knocked off the small door and through the open gap I could see a bench tipped over with the paint tins that been on the top spilled onto the cement, splashing onto table I had been restoring.

I have no idea why that small act of vandalism bothered me more than the invasion of the house, but I felt the muscles in my shoulders and back flex and tense while the shutters came down on my emotions. The police probably wouldn't arrive on time, I reasoned. And if they did, all these scumbags would get was probably a slap on the wrist. I was going to handle this one myself. I used the phone to access my home security app and switched the recording from saving onto the hard drive in a fire-safe upstairs to saving on a cloud-based server. I did not want what was likely to happen next being recorded somewhere the police would easily find it if something went wrong.

Quietly approaching the house, I swung right to avoid being visible from the front doors or windows. At the gable end of the stables, I skirted the wall until I reached the open door of the garage. I waited just outside for a long 30 seconds, listening for any movement within before I stepped inside, treading round the expanding puddle of white gloss on the floor. From a shelf, I picked up a bike lock consisting of a padlock and about three feet of chain, wrapped in rubber to quieten it. Perusing my options, I also selected the two-foot-long, hickory handle for an axe that was waiting for the head to be attached. It had been on my 'to-do' list for months.

Suitably equipped I made my way back outside to the front door of the house and, after listening again, entered the house. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I could hear the sounds of plunder. Somewhere in the back of the house drawers were being opened and things were being turned over. The noise was not frantic - there was a lot of deliberation in the actions. I thought about the mopeds and decided that their low carrying capacity was forcing them to be very picky about what they stole. The time this was taking had definitely played to my advantage.

I used the bike chain to secure the door, wrapping it through the letterbox and the broken window frame. It was not exactly weatherproof, but no one would be able to get out this way without the key that I tucked into the pocket of my jeans. I took the time to slip my jacket off as well, carefully hanging it up next to the door.

Happy that I had cut off the likely means of escape, I went looking for my prey. They were probably in the dining room from the sounds of it so, swinging my axe-handle loosely on my right side, I stalked slowly down the hall. As I got to the bottom of the stairs I froze; someone was jogging down them, two at a time. The wall prevented me from seeing them, but the speed of their approach meant I had no choice but to go noisy earlier than I had planned. Gripping the hickory in both hands like a baseball player I focused on where the guy was about to appear and visualized placing one solid hit on the side of his neck and what I would do if my strike went high or low.

In a matter of heartbeats, a flash of grey tracksuit bounced the last two steps and landed in the hall, facing towards me. As I started to swing, everything seemed wrong. The head and neck were much lower than I had expected and rather than the shaved side of the head I was going to hit just below, there was long, black hair, pulled into plaits.