Ideally Zoe would have played hockey at school; or rounders or golf or even snooker. The closest thing in her bedroom to a weapon, however, is a badminton racquet with busted strings. Chances are I’m up against nothing more solid than the wind, but Zoe is pretty jumpy, and besides, this is my chance to make up for the wood-chopping debacle.
The stairs creak under my feet, but the wind is howling with such ferocity the sound is all but drowned out. The front door is closed.
But just as I relax my grip on the racquet, I hear something from the boot room at the rear of the house. An unequivocal thump and the sound of a male voice cursing. All systems are on high alert now, and my first thought is that Mad George has tracked me down to the coast and has come to finish me off. My second thought is that I wish I was wearing something more protective than a pair of boxer shorts. There is an umbrella beside the door, and I’m weighing up its merits as a means of defence versus a badminton racquet, when the sound of shuffling footsteps galvanizes me into action.
‘Get the fuck out!’ I shout. ‘I’m armed!’
A female voice screams, her voice merging with the wind in a terrifying scything harmony.
‘Don’t shoot!’ shouts a male voice. ‘Please don’t shoot.’
The woman screams again.
Amid the sounds of scuffling and retreat, a measured male voice is saying: ‘We’re . . . we’re leaving, we’re leaving. Don’t do anything foolish now, stay calm, we’re leaving.’
‘Rodney!’ says the woman. ‘Get out!’
Zoe appears halfway down the stairs.
‘Dad?’