Robin had a bloody nose where Little John caught him with his knee and red drips pelted the kitchen floor as he tied the unconscious Gisborne with his own whip.
Clare was too dazed to resist as John snatched her phone, so she couldn’t call for help. Then he stripped off her tactical belt – complete with pepper spray and a big hunting knife – before dragging her into the little toilet under the stairs and barricading the door with a wooden chest, braced against the opposite wall.
‘Now what?’ John asked, as he faced Robin across the kitchen table.
Little John was three times heavier and four years older than Robin. But he was also a guy who’d spend fifteen minutes staring out of a window deciding whether he needed to wear a coat. So, from picking Dad’s birthday card to figuring out what to do when the town’s number-one gangster was tied up in the kitchen, there was only ever going to be a decision if Robin made it.
‘We’re dead meat if we stay here,’ Robin said, his voice nasal because his head was tilted to stop the bleeding. ‘Gisborne’s people will soon realise he’s missing.’
Little John nodded. ‘But where do we go? Aunt Pauline’s?’
Robin tutted. ‘Two whole streets away? And the first place they’ll look.’
‘Where, then?’
‘Sherwood Forest.’
John looked appalled. ‘It’s full of snakes and outlaws,’ he blurted. ‘Gisborne said we won’t last five minutes.’
Robin tutted. ‘Stay in Locksley until Gisborne’s goons find you, if you like. I’m packing gear and hiding in the forest.’
‘We could get a train or bus to the capital,’ John suggested. ‘You can vanish in a big city as easily as the woods.’
‘The only bus from here goes to Nottingham, a town crawling with Gisborne’s thugs and Sheriff Marjorie’s people. From Nottingham there’s a train south every few hours, but you can bet Gisborne will have spies looking out for us. And if you’re thinking of a taxi, guess what?’
Little John sighed. ‘Every taxi driver in town pays off Gisborne to keep their job.’
‘Pack a bag, quickly,’ Robin urged, as he reached into Gisborne’s leather coat and dug out his phone and the keys to his truck.
‘Gisborne loves that truck,’ John said.
‘One advantage of shooting him in the nads and knocking him out is that it’s impossible to make Gisborne any angrier,’ Robin pointed out, almost managing a smirk. ‘And Dad’s car takes five minutes to warm up.’
‘If it starts at all,’ Little John agreed. ‘But I only had three driving lessons with Dad during the Easter holidays.’
‘The forest isn’t far,’ Robin said. ‘And there’s never any traffic out that way.’
Clare was pounding on the door under the stairs and Gisborne had started coming around.
‘Go pack,’ Robin ordered. ‘Keep it light. Once we get to Sherwood we’ll be moving on foot.’
After quickly double-checking the knots he’d used on Gisborne, Robin followed his brother upstairs.
The bottom half of Robin’s trousers was covered in flaking mud, so he switched to a pair of trackies. He dug his life savings of forty-three pounds from under a loose floorboard, and decided it was worth carrying the weight of his laptop because all his hacker and archery contacts were saved on there, and apart from his bow it was the only thing he owned that might be worth a few pounds.
Robin topped off his bag with a waterproof jacket, a fleece, dry socks, a water bottle, chocolate ginger biscuits and underwear.
The pack was heavier than he’d have liked, and he’d have to carry his crossbow and quiver as well.
After stopping in a first-floor bathroom to grab a toothbrush, sunscreen and a few other bits, Robin crossed to Little John’s room.
The sixteen-year-old had found a large backpack and pulled piles of stuff out of his drawers, but was paralysed deciding what to put inside.
‘Gisborne’s people will kill us for sure,’ Little John blurted, almost tearful. ‘And they’ve got Dad.’
Part of Robin wanted to yell at his brother to focus, but anger only made Little John worse when he got into a state. So Robin took over and started stuffing the bag. As he headed out of Little John’s room, Robin remembered he hadn’t packed a torch and raced back to the attic.
Downstairs, Gisborne was conscious and moaning into the dishcloth Robin had used as a gag. More alarmingly, Clare had taken the heavy porcelain lid off the toilet cistern and was smashing it against the under-stair door.
Robin handed Gisborne’s keys to Little John as they scrambled out of the front door.
‘What if I crash?’ John asked.
‘Try not to,’ Robin suggested, as they reached Gisborne’s wheels.