No Place Like Home by Jane Renshaw (top 10 non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📕

lights out in the Walton Room and the curtains pulled back so he could see the verandah, flooded in illumination from the security lighting David had insisted on installing despite Bram’s objections on the grounds of light pollution. The lighting had an industrial feel, with a cold blue tinge to it.

It was a struggle to keep awake. The armchair was too comfortable.

Bram stood, and stretched, and walked to the windows.

And froze.

There was someone out there! Just beyond the verandah, moving stealthily around the pools of illumination. Bram could only just see him, a shadowy moving shape…

Police. He should call 999?

But by the time they got here, he’d be long gone.

Oh God! What should he do? Go out there? Try to get a photo?

What if they tried to get into the house?

He needed something to defend himself with. A knife from the kitchen?

And then the figure moved into one of the pools of light, and Bram saw that it was David. It was David! He was barking with weak, hysterical laughter as he flung open the door and stumbled out onto the verandah.

‘God, David–’

The laughter died as he saw who was with him.

Max. In dark jeans and jacket, his eyes shining with excitement.

‘What the hell are you doing out here?’ Bram spluttered as Bertie plodded up the steps to greet him.

‘On patrol!’

‘I thought you were in bed!’

‘Yeah, I snuck out while you were asleep!’

David smirked. ‘Sentry asleep at his post. Firing squad offence that, Bram.’

Had he actually been asleep? He must have been. Damn.

‘Have you seen anything?’

‘Nope. All quiet on the Western Front!’ Max grinned. He seemed unusually hyper.

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘A nip of whisky to keep off the chill,’ asserted David. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

Bram grimaced. ‘Where’s Fraser?’

‘In the wood,’ said Max. ‘Bertie seemed to pick up a scent, but we think it was probably just a rabbit or something. He’s pretty hopeless as a patrol dog, to be honest!’

‘Okay, well, I think you’ve done your bit, Max. You can come inside now and help me stay awake.’

‘Uh, I think I’m more use out here, Dad.’

David slapped Max’s back. ‘Course he is. You go back to beddie-byes, Bram. We’ll report back in a bit, make sure you’re not sleeping too soundly!’

‘Well…’ Bram grimaced. ‘As long as you stay with Grandad at all times, Max, and don’t go off on your own.’

‘Wilco!’ Max sketched a salute. ‘Come on, Bertie, let’s go!’

Bram should insist that he come inside. But he was safe enough, surely, with David? Even so, Bram felt like the worst sort of coward as he watched the two of them melt back into the night.

Rather than resume his seat and maybe fall asleep again, he spent the next hour pacing around the ground floor of the house in the dark, senses straining, adrenaline coursing, jumping at every little sound – ice cracking in the freezer, a gust of wind in the chimney, a floorboard creaking under his feet. It was as if the house itself had turned against him, and was mocking his efforts to stand guard.

Max.

His son was out there.

This wasn’t right. He needed to go and get Max.

Kirsty wasn’t asleep. ‘What?’ she said at once when he came into the bedroom. ‘Has something happened?’

‘No, no. But Max – did you know Max is out there with your dad and Fraser?’

‘What?’ She swung her legs off the bed. ‘God, Bram!’

‘He’s fine. I spoke to them an hour or so ago, and–’

‘An hour! But anything could have happened since then!’

‘Okay. I know. I’m not happy about it either. I’m going to get him and make him come back inside.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘No, you have to stay with Phoebe. Maybe you could sit up downstairs and keep watch? Apparently I’m not much of a sentry. Max got past me while I was asleep.’

She didn’t smile. ‘Okay. Go and get him, Bram.’

The night air was cool, and Bram was glad of his jacket. He’d taken a torch with him and he used it to light his way across the grass around the side of the house, but there was a moon high in the sky, almost a full one, and when he switched the torch off he found he could see well enough not to be stumbling about. And he felt horribly conspicuous carrying a light around for anyone to see.

He stood for a moment, letting his eyes become accustomed to the dark. And that was when he saw him, a tall, slim figure in dark clothing moving erratically towards the shed.

Max.

How much whisky had David let him have?

And where the hell was David?

Bram strode after his son, rehearsing what he was going to say. He needed to impress on Max that when someone pressured you to drink alcohol, you weren’t being a man by giving in. Quite the opposite. He didn’t want to scare him by shouting so he just hurried after him, closing the distance between them.

Max reached the shed and stopped, putting a hand against it to prop himself up.

‘Okay,’ said Bram as he came up behind him. ‘It’s okay. Let’s get you inside.’

Max straightened, and wheeled round.

Bram staggered backwards.

The face turned towards him was hairy, with a snarling mouth, long fangs –

It was a mask.

‘Christ!’ Bram yelped.

It wasn’t Max. Max wasn’t this tall.

And then the mask was up close, right in his face, hands were on him and Bram was trying to wrench himself free, the shock of what was happening paralysing his brain, his muscles. All he could do was throw his bodyweight backwards, try to break the guy’s hold, but he was too strong –

And then he suddenly let go.

Bram flew backwards to the ground, and the masked man laughed.

He laughed.

This was the bastard who had shot Bertie, shot the crows, shot at Bram, threatened his kids, terrorised his kids!

Are you a man or a mouse, Bram?

Next thing he knew, his muscles were exploding into action and he was jumping up, lunging forward and gripping the other man’s arms. He was slamming him back against