‘Hurry up, for fuck’s sake!’ Reg’s arse was hanging out of the window, his boots slipping on the brickwork.
Dan was pushing Reg’s arse but he seemed to be stuck. ‘Pull yourself through!’
Reg gave a grunt and suddenly disappeared into the house with a thump. ‘Fuck me. I hope they don’t have a fucking Doberman or something.’
Dan looked through the window with a torch, shining it around the room. They were in the back of the house, and this room was a sitting room, the one that was probably reserved for entertaining guests. Reg popped his head back up.
‘Are you going to stand there all night?’ he asked.
‘Can you not shut up for one fuckin’ minute?’
‘Get in here before somebody sees you, or else we’ll both be spending time in one of Her Majesty’s holiday camps.’
‘Yeah, and the only game you’ll be playing is in the showers.’
‘Keep your fuckin’ voice down,’ Reg said through gritted teeth. His arse was tightening at the thought of playing a parlour game behind bars. Let’s-nob-Reg-after-lights-out wasn’t spurring him on.
Dan climbed up onto the window ledge and Reg pulled him the rest of the way in. This was one of the oldest houses in the village, and one of the biggest. Some rich bastard had moved in six months ago, and nobody knew who the hell the family were. Which only served to get the rumour mill churning at full blast.
‘Maybe he’s a drug baron,’ Dan said, shining the torch around again. Reg has his out too, sweeping the room.
‘He’s not, he’s just a rich fuck that needs us to take some stuff off his hands.’ His light caught some large paintings on the walls, but nothing with titties in it, like his calendar back home.
‘Check some of this shit out,’ Dan said.
‘Shit’s the fuckin’ word. Who would have tat like that on the wall?’
‘Some of those paintings go for a load of money.’
‘Well, if our pockets were the size of of your mouth, then maybe we could take a few of those shitey things, but we’re here for one thing; jewelry.’
‘How do we even know he has jewelry in here?’ Dan asked.
‘Fuck me; you never listen, do you? I had a drink with their gardener last week. Pished he was. He was running off at the mouth. Saying how they were loaded in here, and how they had all this jewelry stashed away.’
‘How would he know?’
‘He fucking works here. He knows everything. He told me they’d be out tonight.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. So let’s get the fuck upstairs.’
‘Why won’t it be down here?’ Dan asked.
‘Because the lady of the house is not going to keep it lying down here in the fuckin’ bread bin, is she?’
‘I don’t know about this,’ Dan grumbled.
‘Look, we take their bling, we off load it, they get the insurance money, everybody’s happy.’
They went upstairs. The owners of the house weren’t out for the evening. They were in bed. Their blood soaked the bedcovers, and the old man still had the knife sticking out of his chest.
Dan and Reg both heard the click of the shotgun. ‘Thanks for coming round lads,’ the gardener said.
‘What the fuck?’ Reg said.
‘I knew you would take it in. Come round here and steal their jewelry. But I caught you after you’d murdered the pair of them. Shot you both dead. However, as I’ve only got two shells, the third burglar fucked off with the gems before I could reload. So now the Police will be hunting a fictitious third killer, and I’ll have my pension well sorted.’
‘You can’t do this,’ Reg said, just before the gardener fired the first shot. Dan didn’t say a word before he died. The gardener smiled. Laid some jewelry on the floor, as if it had been dropped in a hurry. The rest was safely stashed.
He went over to the phone by the side of the bed and dialled. He wouldn’t be cutting anybody’s grass ever again, that was for sure.
Alan is Scottish but lives in New York State. He’s currently working on a crime novel. He has a story coming out in the Summer edition of Demolition magazine