Drought by Graham Masterton Page B

there were at least three more young men in the front yard of one of the houses, and he heard angry shouting, and then a woman screaming, too.
    He pulled into the curb. Now he could see what was happening. The young men were filling up a variety of plastic bottles and large plastic containers with water from the outdoor faucet at the side of the house. Two of the young men had the house owner pinned up against the wall of the house. He was a big man, with curly gray hair and a jazzy red Hawaiian shirt, but although he was big he had the blueish lips of an angina sufferer, and in spite of his obvious anger he was staying silent, and making no effort to break free. His wife, however, was standing next to him in her housecoat and hairnet, almost bent double, screaming at the young men to let him go.
    I don’t believe this
, thought Martin.
These punks are actually stealing water
.
More than likely they’re aiming to take it back downtown and sell it.
For a split second, he thought:
why not let them?
    But then the woman furiously started pummeling one of the young men with her fists. ‘Let my husband go, you punks! You let my husband go!’
    Another member of the gang shoved her in the small of the back, so that she tumbled face-first on to the wet brickwork drive, hitting her head. She tried to climb back on to her feet, but then he kicked her with his shin, so that she toppled sideways on to the dried-up lawn.
    Martin climbed out of his car and walked up toward them. ‘Hey,’ he said.
    The gang all stared at him. One of them was wearing mirror sunglasses and at least six gold chains around his neck, and by the challenging way he looked back at him, Martin guessed that he was their leader. He said, ‘What?’
    â€˜I’ll tell you what,’ Martin told him, glancing back down the street as if he were expecting reinforcements to arrive at any second. ‘You just assaulted this lady, which counts as battery, and you’re holding this gentleman against his will, which at the very least is false imprisonment, and at the same time you’re trespassing on private property, not to mention taking water which you haven’t paid for.’
    The gang member in the mirror sunglasses looked around at his four companions, and then said, ‘Are you a cop?’
    â€˜No, I’m not. But I’m a council official, and I know the law.’
    â€˜Are you carrying?’
    â€˜No, I’m not.’
    The gang member frowned, as if he were thinking seriously about this. Then he said, ‘You’re not a cop. You’re not carrying. In that case, fuck you.’
    Martin came further up the drive and helped the woman back on to her feet. She had a large crimson lump on her forehead and she was obviously concussed, because she nearly fell over again. Martin led her over to the front steps of the house and sat her down. ‘Just stay there for a moment, ma’am. OK?’
    The husband meanwhile stared at Martin with bulging eyes but he was clearly too frightened to say anything. It was only when Martin turned back to face the gang members that he saw that one of the young men who was pressing him up against the wall was holding a shiny double-edged knife up to his chest.
    Always go for the guy with the weapon first
. He expected that all of the gang members were carrying knives, but this one had a blade that was out and ready, and probably wouldn’t think twice about using it.
    Without warning, he kicked the gang member in the mirror sunglasses very hard between the legs. When the young man soundlessly bent forward, his mouth wide open, his sunglasses flying off his face, Martin heaved him over backward, so that he staggered into the arms of his friends. Then, with no hesitation at all, Martin stalked up to the gang member who was holding the knife, seized his hand and bent his wrist backward so forcefully that he could hear his tendons crackle. The young man screamed in a