Kickback by Damien Boyd Page B

back into the shadows under the stairs and waited. His heart was racing. He began to shake and tried to focus on regulating his breathing. He knew this was going to end in one of two ways.
    Finally, the back door gave way. Dixon felt the cold night air rush into the cottage. It was only then that he realised he was dressed in just his underpants. He shook his head. No good worrying about it now.
    He heard footsteps on the kitchen floor. First one set then another. Both men were in the kitchen. Dixon waited, hidden in the shadows.
    Voices. Whispering. He couldn’t hear what was being said.
    The barrels of the shotgun appeared in the doorway, edging forward. It was sawn off. Perfect for close range work. Then gloved hands came into view as the intruder edged further into the living room. He was right handed, with his left hand holding the stock.
    Dixon waited, still hidden in the shadows. He took a deep breath, silently through his nose, and counted to three. Then he swung the trench cosh as hard as he could at the gloved hand holding the shotgun. Dixon felt the vibration of the cosh hitting wrist bone coursing through the bamboo handle. The soft crunching of the bone was followed by a loud scream. Both barrels of the gun went off, hitting Dixon’s TV and DVD collection, before the gun fell to the floor.
    Monty started barking. He had broken away from Jane and was scrabbling at the inside of the bedroom door.
    Dixon darted forward. The man was still screaming, his right hand hanging at right angles from his arm. Dixon allowed the trench cosh to slip from his grasp and picked up the shotgun in his right hand, holding it by the barrels. Then he swung it like a tennis racket at the head of the intruder. The gun butt hit the man on the left side of his forehead. The screaming stopped and he dropped to the floor.
    Silence.
    Dixon looked up and stepped back. The second man ran forward, his right arm raised above his head. Dixon could see the blade of a machete glinting in the moonlight that was streaming in through the kitchen windows. The man jumped the lifeless body lying on the floor and swung the machete at Dixon’s head. Dixon raised his left arm to deflect the blow. A searing pain tore through his left shoulder. He felt the blade bite deep into the rubber handle of his ice axe before hitting the steel underneath.
    The man was off balance. Dixon took his chance. He swung the shotgun again as hard as he could, another forearm smash that would have been the envy of any tennis player. He connected with the left side of the man’s head. He heard a crack. Was it the shotgun butt or the man’s skull splitting? He hoped, prayed it was skull.
    Silence.
    The man fell backwards, almost in slow motion, landing in a crumpled heap behind the front door of the cottage. He pulled the door curtain off the wall as he fell and it came down on top of him.
    Dixon could hear sirens in the distance. Monty was still barking.
    Dixon ran outside, still in his underpants, just in time to see a red estate car speeding away. It raced to the end of Brent Street and turned right. He didn’t get the number plate.
    The sirens were getting louder. Dixon ran back into the cottage. Neither intruder was stirring.
    ‘It’s alright, Jane, you can come out now.’
    The bedroom door flew open and Jane ran down the stairs behind Monty. She threw her arms around Dixon while Monty sniffed the bodies lying on the floor.
    ‘There was a third one in a car but he hooked it,’ said Dixon. He was still holding the shotgun in his right hand and the ice axe in his left. The trench cosh was dangling from his right wrist on the loop.
    ‘Are they dead?’ asked Jane.
    ‘Who gives a...?’
    There was a knock at the front door.
    ‘Are you alright in there?’
    ‘Who is it?’ shouted Dixon.
    ‘Rob from the Red Cow.’
    ‘Fine, thanks, Rob. You’d better go home. Keep your doors locked and don’t open them for anyone.’
    ‘What’s happened?’
    ‘I’ll tell you