14:00 Monday 15 March 2077
The door flew open as if a hurricane had just blown in, but it was an Enforcer, a portable battering ram, that had forced the door open. Technology had improved upon many things but sometimes there was just no replacing brute force.
Simon and Peter Miller remained seated in their armchairs, acknowledging the intruders’ presence only by raising their eyes from the Kindles that they were individually reading. The Defenders who had knocked the door down in their search for Liam and Connor Hillary, and their two accomplices, were not used to this reaction. One of the Defenders stood in front of the elderly couple.
“I have here a warrant to search these premises.”
Simon cocked his head.
“And what are you looking for, pray tell?”
The Defender glanced at his three colleagues and then back at the elderly gentleman, decked in what was obviously an old and rather garish Christmas sweater.
“I have here a warrant to search these premises.”
“Yes, I know that. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear about that. I merely wish to know what you are looking for, seeking, hoping to find.”
People were supposed to be frightened and thrown into a state of panic when Defenders broke down their door. This old man was far too calm. A second Defender, who was obviously in charge, stepped forward.
“I have here a warrant to search these premises...”
“Yes. We’ve established that. You’ve said that three times now. I’m not bloody deaf. You have a warrant to search for what?”
“I have here a warrant to...”
“For crying out loud. Is somebody pulling a string in your back and that’s all you can say? I’ll help you. You have a warrant to search these premises for... now you tell us what you’re looking for.”
“I have here a warrant to search these premises for a group of young children, three boys and a girl.”
“I give up. Now then, young children you say? No, sorry, we have no young children here. I prefer my boys to be much older than that.”
Simon nodded to his husband Peter.
“Yes, much older than that.”
Peter smiled and held both thumbs up in agreement. The Defender was getting irritated at this timewasting.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He can’t speak. He’s mute. He’s been like that since birth.”
“So how do you communicate? Ask him if he’s seen any young children.”
“I said he’s mute, not deaf. He can hear everything you’re saying. Ask him yourself.”
“Have. You. Seen. Any. Young. Children. Near. Here?”
“Like I said, he’s mute, not stupid. Peter, dear, tell the nice symbol of oppression what he wants to know.”
Peter nodded.
“So you have seen a group of children near here?”
Simon shook his head.
“That nod was for me. Peter was agreeing to my request.”
“Are you taking the piss?”
“Would I?”
“I don’t know. Would you? It certainly seems like it.”
“Please forgive me. I’m not too good with authority figures.”
“And I’m not good with piss-taking old bastards. I want a straight...”
The Defender collapsed mid-sentence, dead by the time he hit the floor. The antique automatic pistol that then swung in the direction of the other three Defenders consigned them to their next reincarnation with three accurate shots that passed through their protective visors like a hot poker going through butter, the bullets finally nestling somewhere in the men’s’ brains, each of them having their right eye obliterated as the bullets found their targets. Simon smiled at his husband.
“Still a dead shot, I see.”
Peter returned his pistol to where it had been tucked into the waistband at the back of his trousers.
“It’s like riding a bike, Simon. Let’s get the kids out of here.”
The two old age pensioners, now no longer looking like the sweet aged couple that had been unfazed by the Defenders but instead looking like a pair of elderly hitmen – which is exactly what they were – scurried into the dining-room of their small and neat cottage. Peter took hold of one end of the heavy wooden table and Simon took hold of the other, as they moved the piece of furniture over to the wall. Once the chairs were also out of the way, Simon bent down and removed a deep crimson rug that had been strategically placed under the table, revealing a trap door.
“Give me a hand Pete.”
The two of them began to heave open the trap-door. Simon called out.
“How about giving us a hand guys. We’re not as young as we once were.”
As the door started to lift free from its housing, four pairs of small hands pushed against it from below. Finally, Liam, Connor, Rebecca and Jazz scrambled out from their hiding place. Rebecca ran over to Peter and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“You’re a real badass cunt, Grandad.”
Peter returned the hug.
“And you’re a sweary little shit, Bex.”