Dead at First Sight

53 Tuesday 9 October

Through the crack in the door, Toby Seward saw two men with hoodies low over their faces. Gripped with terror, he tried desperately to slam the door shut.

Too late. One had a foot inside. A bright-red shoe.

An instant later the door flew wide open with the force of an express train, cracking him hard in the face and propelling him, stumbling, backwards. He crashed against the newel post at the bottom of the stairs.

Calmly, casually, as if they had all the time in the world, the two men entered and closed the front door. One, the red-shoe man, was tall, wearing a long, expensive coat; the other was short, in a shapeless parka, sporting a large, bling watch. Both wore black leather gloves. The tall one slid the safety chain home in a matter-of-fact way, as if he always did this when he entered a stranger’s house. Then they turned towards him.

All he could see of their faces below the hoodies was the lower half. ‘Who... who... are... who are you?’ His voice came out as a petrified croak.

From inside the front of his parka, the short one suddenly pulled out a large, gleaming machete.

Toby turned and fled up the stairs, heart pounding, throat tight with terror. He ran into the master bedroom, slammed the door behind him and turned the key. Neither he nor Paul had ever locked the door in all the time they’d lived here, but he thanked God for that key now.

Phone. He ran to the landline phone on his side of the bed. As he reached it he heard a blam and a splintering crash behind him. Turning, he heard another loud blam and the thin oak door seemed to balloon inwards. The lock held. Just. He picked up the receiver, but his hand was shaking so much he dropped the handset. It clattered to the floor and bounced under the bed.

Frantically he dropped onto his hands and knees.

Blam. Blam. Blam. The walls felt like they were shaking.

Then he saw something he’d forgotten all about. Low down, just above the skirting board. Some years ago, the police had advised them to install it after they’d been victims of homophobic hate mail, followed by a petrol bomb that had been thrown through their front window, but fortunately hadn’t ignited.

The black panic button.

BLAM. BLAM. BLAM

Behind him he heard the sound of the door bursting open and crashing back against the wall.

He stabbed the button. Nothing happened.

No, please. Please. Oh God.

Then he remembered. The alert was meant to be silent. That way the police had a chance of arresting intruders before they ran off.

But was it still working?

His two assailants dragged him to his feet. There was a reek of cologne and cigarette smoke.

‘What... what... what do you want, please? Do you want money?’

‘Motherfucker shooting your mouth off on the radio this morning. Yeah?’ the shorter man said.

They propelled him back down the stairs and into the kitchen. ‘I don’t understand — what do... what... what do... you mean?’

‘Tell us what that bitch told you! What do you know about us?’

‘Nothing — just the fraud. Nothing else.’

‘Gimme your hand, bro,’ the shorter one said. ‘That one, the right one, yeah.’

On the screen the MasterChef contestant said, ‘Now with a sharp knife, I am separating the coral from the flesh of the scallop, but I don’t throw it away, I’m going to use it for my sauce.’

‘Like cooking, do you, bro?’

‘Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t. She didn’t tell me anything. Please believe me. Please, just tell me what you want from me? Anything! I can give you my cards, pin numbers — please, what is it you want? We don’t have anything in the house, we don’t have jewellery, money. What do you mean, shooting my mouth off? I don’t know anything.’

‘You know what we mean, bro,’ the short one said. He forced Toby Seward’s hand down flat on the chopping board, grabbed the long-bladed knife Seward had been using to dice tomatoes and plunged it hard through the back of his hand, just behind the knuckles, crunching it through bone, pinning his hand to the board.

Seward screamed in shock and agony. ‘Oh my God, you bastards, you bastards! Oh, oh Jesus. Why? Why?’

Deep crimson blood ran down his hand. The pain was excruciating. He was gasping, panting in shock. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘You don’t go mouthing off no more about Suzy Driver, are you hearing me?’ the short one said.

‘Suzy Driver?’

‘Are you hearing me, bro?’

‘Yes, yes, yes, I’m... I’m hearing you. Oh Jesus.’

‘You say one mo word to anyone, any media, any cop, and next time the knife won’t be in yo hand, bro, it’s gonna be across your pretty husband’s throat while you watch. You understanding me?’

He was shaking, in agony, shock kicking in. He nodded vigorously. The two men turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Toby Seward stared at the rivulets of blood pouring down around the blade of the knife and running along the board. He hovered his left hand over the handle of the knife, wondering if he had the courage to pull it out. Shaking too much to think straight.

Got to stop the bleeding. Got to phone. Phone for help.

The phone was on the far side of the kitchen. Should he pull the knife out?

He touched it with his left hand. Gripped it. Closed his eyes.

Footsteps. He opened his eyes.

The shorter man hurried back in, holding his machete. ‘You got a problem there, dude, right?’

Seward shook his head, eyes bulging in pain and fear. There was nothing back. Just blackness. Dead eyes.

‘Can help you out there, bro.’

‘Thank you,’ he gasped, the pain becoming more unbearable by the second.

The man lifted his machete and brought it down hard, severing Toby Seward’s wrist cleanly, a few inches up from his hand.