The Abandoned Children’s Home

Mike pushed the gate ajar and looked at the others. His heart quickened. The initial excitement – which had rushed through him like a sockful of Rohypnol – had faded quickly, and in its place a collective, fearful nausea now descended. He felt Rosie’s hand brush against his, linger for a moment, then disappear. Cruel lust surged inside, making him confident enough to take three substantial steps forward before again snapping his neck around to make sure they were all still there.

She didn’t look like herself in the darkness. Her hair appeared somehow wilder, her skin more pallid, and the space around her seemed to take on the dark atmosphere of an Alton Towers television advert. Mike shivered and attempted to reassure himself that his senses were merely distorted by the lack of streetlights and the wine they had stolen from Oddbins. Then, clutching a bottle in his right hand and bracing himself, he proceeded into the garden.

“It used to be a children’s home,” James, trailing last, whispered. “But the woman who ran it went a bit mental. The police reckon she killed eleven of them.”
“In one night?” Rosie squeaked.
“In one night,” James confirmed, proudly. “Well, actually, it was over about ten years. But it’s still pretty bad.”

Despite the hammer in his chest, Mike pressed on. He imagined himself the unordained leader – that quiet, brooding hero who did not want the role but who had fatefully and modestly assumed it.

“This is too weird,” Abby slurred, loudly, and the sickly-sweet scent of strong spirit infected the night air.
“I don’t like this either,” Rosie whispered. “I think we should turn back.”
“Don’t worry. We’re almost - ” Mike stopped in front of a large metal sheet which had been inexpertly nailed in place of the back door. His hand tightened on the neck of the bottle.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Rosie stuttered.
“Perfectly,” he replied, unconvincingly, and he pressed his hand against the steel door. Suddenly, from behind them, a tinkerbell of torchlight started to dance in the darkness. Impulsively, he snapped back his hand and twisted towards the light.

“Police!” A voice shouted from the front of the house. “Who’s back there?”

Mike grabbed Rosie – who was shaking violently - and pulled her down into the grass. Tenderly, he pulled the red hood of her coat up over her head so that she was camouflaged by shadow.

“Stop right there! I can see you!” A different voice announced, closer this time.

James - who was by now in the process of trying to throw Abby over the fence into the next garden – froze before the gaze of the officers’ gleeful, sobering flashlights. He turned towards them with his hands raised in surrender, causing Abby to slide gracelessly down the side of the fence into a soiled flowerbed.

“How many of you are there?” the lead officer demanded.
“Four!” James blurted out, and then: “I mean three.” And finally, with little conviction: “One?”

For the first time, Mike noticed how the blue flashing light of the panda car parked out front illuminated the garden in half-second waves. He pulled Rosie close, pressed a silent finger against his lips and stood up. Immediately the flashlight sought him out. It followed his wary steps forward.

“There’s three of us,” he said, taking control. “I’m Mike, he’s James…”
“And the girl in the bushes?”
“Abby.”
“Hiya!” Abby squawked, enthusiastically. “I’m a bit stuck.”
“Is that booze?” the lead officer asked, gesturing to the half-empty bottle in Mike’s hand.
“Yes,” Mike confirmed. “It’s wine.”
“Can you put it on the ground please?” He obliged. The lead officer moved cautiously into the centre of the garden, her flashlight raised so as to pick out Mike’s face. He squinted.
“How old are you?” she asked. Mike stared at her, crimson-cheeked, for what seemed a cliché.
“Thirty-five,” he said. She eyed him suspiciously. “Alright, alright. Thirty-eight.”
“And you?”
“Forty-one,” James admitted.
“I’m only thirty-four,” Abby proclaimed, picking herself up out of the flowerbed and brushing the dirt from her jeans. “Most of my mates reckon I only look about twenty-seven.”

A sudden rustling in the doorway interrupted her, and the second officer scrambled like a bad simile to retrain his torch.

“Who’s that?” He gushed.
“That’s Rosie,” Mike replied, calmly. “My wife.”

The flashlight found her just as she was removing the hood from over her head.

“I take it you all know this is private property,” the lead officer announced. “And that it’s illegal to trespass on it.” She paused to look at them. “I suppose you thought it’d be a bit of fun, did you? Sneaking in… drinking… acting stupid.”
“Yes,” Mike muttered, sheepishly.
“What?”
“Yes,” Mike repeated, louder this time. “I thought it’d be a laugh.”
“But it’s not a laugh is it? Being caught.”

Silence.

“I said: IS IT?”
“No,” the gang chorused, and the garden fell silent again. Mike felt his bottom lip tremble.
“Do your children know where you are tonight?”
“No,” James said. “They think Abby and me are at Mike’s house.”
“Right. And yours?”
“Same. Except ours think we’re at James and Abby’s.”
“Well, maybe I should give them a call; let them know what you’ve really been up to.”

Mike stepped forward, hurriedly.

“I really don’t think that’s necessary, Officer.”
“Oh, don’t you? And I suppose I’m supposed to make a decision based on what you think is necessary.”
“No, I didn’t mean…” He trailed off.
“I’ve a good mind to shove you all in the back of the car and drive you home. See what your kids make of all this.”
“Please don’t,” James pleaded. “They’d go mental.”
“You wouldn’t do it again thought would you?”
“Won’t do it again anyway,” James sobbed. “Honest.”

The lead officer lowered her head in contemplation.

“If I let you off with this, do you promise to go straight home?”

A sea of “yeses” rang out around the group.

“No loitering, no messing about,” she asserted.
“No messing around,” Mike promised.
“Right, on your way,” she said, and James and Abby started hastily for the front of the house. “I’m going to have to confiscate that though,” she added.

Mike stopped, retrieved the wine bottle and handed it over. The officer surveyed the label and grimaced.

“You’re old enough to know better,” she declared.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m talking about the wine,” she said.
“Oh. My wife took it while the woman wasn’t looking. It was three for a fiver.”
“We really are very sorry,” Rosie added, her cheek now the colour of the red hooded top.
“I’m sure,” said the officer, and she started towards the police car, with her partner trailing behind, leaving just two slender figures alone beneath the broken security lights.