The threat of him filled the small space, he breathed hard and heavy. There was nothing in his hands, no weapon, but Jean knew he didn’t need anything. He was powerful, and he was surely deranged. Not as sick as the woman whimpering in the corner but not sane, not ‘normal’.
Jean held up her hands, arms outstretched, palms towards him, defensive. She shook her head. Her knees had turned to water and she felt vomit rise in her throat. She swallowed hard. “Don’t. Don’t do anything to make this worse.”
He gave a gruff laugh. “Worse, how the hell can any of this be worse? They’ll take her away, I’ll never see her again. They’ll likely lock me up. The farm’ll rot. It’ll all be over for me, for us. No, it can’t get any worse. We’ll have to go. This place,” He swept a hand behind him. He was close now, she could smell his breath, feel the heat from his body. “This place was mine. Me and the old man, we didn’t get on, couldn’t live together but it were mine by rights and, I knew, that if I could just get it going, I could make it pay. But it were too hard with Hawks Farm fighting me every step of the way. Planning permission for caravans turned down. No bugger willing to trade with me. I even tried to get a garden centre to come in, but they didn’t want to know. Not enough catchment. Farming! farming’s done now. Too many forms, too much officialdom. Every bugger is on the edge, all the time one step away from the end. You need to do other stuff, there’s no choice. I just wanted my turn that’s all.”
Jean knew the arguments, knew that making a good living in the country was hard and you had to have luck and determination but right now, with him looming over her, wasn’t the time for debate about fairness and honesty. She could see the glint of moisture in his eyes. It was hard to say whether the tears were anger, sadness for himself or some other emotion that she just couldn’t fathom.
She was pressed back against the wall as far as she could go. There was nothing to hand with which to fight and he was beyond reasoning with. She would fight though, she braced herself, fisted her hands, stood with her legs tensed to kick, to run if she had the opportunity. Adrenalin replaced terror and all there was now was the instinct to fight or run.
There was a roar of anger, a whirlwind of movement. Chaos. Confusion.
Stanley Lipscow’s eyes widened with shock as his knees buckled and he toppled forward landing on Jean, dragging her screaming to the ground.
Violent light exploded in Jean’s brain as her head hit the floor, a great brick of pain turned her stomach. Darkness threatened the edges of her reality, but she fought back. Squealing and sobbing she squirmed and twisted, thrashed out with her legs, and pushed with her hands on the dirty floor, freeing herself of the bulk and weight of him. She rolled to her knees and crawled on all fours away from where he lay, half on top of the grave. The walls of the hut moved and swayed in front of her and she lowered her head into her hands for a couple of seconds, until the dizziness past.
“Aunty Jean, Jean. Are you okay?” She felt warm hands on shoulders, heard her nephew’s voice panicked and urgent. It didn’t make any sense.
She opened her eyes and looked up. “What are you doing?”
“Come on, come on let’s get out of here. Dave’s called the police.” As he spoke Carl grabbed Jean’s hands and pulled her to her feet. He threw his arms around her shoulders and began to usher her towards the door, away from the hulk of Stanley Lipscow who was groaning and beginning to move, bending his legs and bracing his hands, pushing himself away from the dirt and the filthy piece of carpet. Lying on the floor, where Carl had dropped it was a huge shovel, the blade filthy, heavy steel.
“Why are you here Carl. What happened?” Jean was dizzy and confused, her feet dragging as Carl struggled to move her to safety.
“I’ve been worried about you. There was just something off about the whole situation and then I rang you earlier and you didn’t answer. You remember we put a tracker on your phone, for when you keep losing it? So, I just used that. It didn’t make any sense that you were here. I had to come. Dave drove me.” They had reached the door and another young man stepped forward and grabbed Jean’s other arm, steadying her as she crossed the threshold. Carl was speaking quickly, looking back constantly to where the farmer was regaining his senses, beginning to growl with anger. “We checked the cottage and the door was damaged. We arrived here just in time to see him coming into the shed. We heard him yelling. Look there’s time enough for that later. Let’s get him locked in. The police won’t be long.” He glanced at his friend who nodded confirmation.
I haven’t got it, my phone, it’s in his pocket, Jean was mumbling, still working to clear her mind. Suddenly she tried to free herself, pushing and struggling against the two boys. “No, Flora. Flora is in there. We can’t leave her with him. Anyway, I broke the window.”
“Yes, I saw that, it won’t matter, he’d never get through it.”
“But Flora. We have to get Flora.” As her voice rose in panic Jean tried to turn and re-enter the shed, Carl dragged her away. Lipscow was upright, furious and staggering towards them. Carl jumped back, slammed the door shut and leaned his weight against it. “Dave, grab that barrow, those blocks, anything. We have to fix this door. If he gets out, he’ll be away. Jean help him.” They pushed a big barrow at an angle against the wood, wedging the rusting metal edges against the ground, they slid building blocks across the yard, wedged planks and rolled a half bale of hay clumsily forward. Jean felt weak and disoriented, she puffed and slipped and fell to her knees with the effort. Dave and Carl were both strong and fit and though the door creaked and cracked they managed to secure it as a confused and weakened Stanley roared and thundered inside the small space.