Mike Dixon

211
„Mrs. Hansen! We‟re the police … ‟
At fifty-nine Kirstin was still agile enough to climb the fence
into a neighboring garden. She ran through to the laundry and
was about to leave by the backdoor when footsteps sounded
outside. Her heart froze. They had her trapped. She couldn‟t
possibly go outside. There was no way she could outrun them.
An incident from her younger days flashed back. She was
snooping around in a fifth-floor apartment when the occu-
pants arrived home unexpectedly. Her only option was to go
out onto the balcony and spend a cold night in the rain while
they smoked pot and made love to Elvis records. The house
didn‟t have a balcony but the garage had a flat roof. She ran
upstairs and reached the landing as the panels in the front
door were smashed in.
„Police … Mrs. Hansen! ‟
Kirstin opened a window and climbed onto the garage roof.
Moments later, the front door burst open and feet pounded up
the stairs. They went into one of the bedrooms. Lights were
switched on. Doors were opened and closed. The bathroom
was entered then the toilet. There was a lot of swearing and
the footsteps returned to the landing. A head poked out the
window.
„Where the fuck‟s she gone?‟
He was so close she could smell his breath.
„Have you searched all the rooms?‟ a voice shouted from
the garden.
„Course I bloody have. I‟ve even looked under the beds.‟
„What about downstairs?‟
„No bloody way! I saw her come up here …‟
A siren wailed. Kirstin had heard it for some time and it
was getting nearer.
The man heard it too.
„Shit!‟