The jolly, almost over-effusive tones of the local radio presenter came to an abrupt halt as John turned the off switch. He had locked the back door as soon as Jean showed signs of preparing for bed. He stifled a yawn. The same routine every night for the past thirty years. After the first five it had all become very boring. He wondered what had happened to the bright enthusiasm, the eager, lusty, anticipation, with which he had approached bed time in his youth. Now it was just a case of his regular night cap, a small tot of brandy, then off to a sound sleep.

He followed Jean up the stairs, made a diversion to the bathroom, then quickly undressed and jumped into bed. Within minutes, the brandy found its mark, and he was fast asleep. Jean sighed as she snuggled up to him. Where was that young Casanova who had swept her off her feet? Now he never stayed awake long enough to exchange a few pleasantries, let alone the odd passionate kiss. As she listened to his soft snores, she reflected on their gradual decline into middle age. One night, she would do something different.

With a start she was suddenly awake. This night she felt that she had done something different. Nothing earth shaking. Nothing too dramatic. But something definitely out of her normal routine. She remembered that she had opened up the side window in the kitchen to shoo away an errant fly. Now she couldn't recall whether she had closed and locked it after the threat to her domestic hygiene had disappeared. Still, no doubt John would have discovered her omission when he carried out his routine check before retiring to bed.

She settled down again and began to doze. A creak on the stairs brought her awake. What was that? Somebody was in the house. Her mind flew to the suspect window. Surely they would not suffer because of one momentary lapse in their customary caution. Fate could not be that unkind. Desperately she nudged John, trying to stir him from his deep state of unconsciousness. At the same time she tried to concentrate her senses to discover the source of her fear. All seemed quiet again. She lay in the dark and strained to hear any further disturbance.

Nothing. A false alarm. She was thankful that John had not been aware of her momentary fright. He would have laughed at her, she was sure. She would have hated that. After all, she was the mother of two fine strapping lads, long since flown the nest, and she would not be regarded as some highly imaginative old maid.

Gradually her frantic heart beat settled as she moved towards sleep. She heard the church clock sound off the midnight hour as her head began to swim with weariness. Soon she had faded softly off into sleep, her breathing not quite syncopated with John's, but nevertheless, her slumber was equally deep and profound. The staid, middle aged couple lay close to each other, as innocent and defenceless as a cocoon.

They didn't hear the clock sound three. Neither did they hear the stealthy footsteps at the back of the house. They lay there, blissfully unaware, as the kitchen window, that fatefully unchecked window, slid silently open under the pressure from a gloved hand. It was not long before a figure, dressed in black from head to toe, slid over the sink and drain board, into the room. He looked around with the aid of the dim light from a hunter's moon. His eyes noted the knife rack, hanging on the tiled wall.

Well now! He smiled, a terrible smile. That would come in very handy.

Copyright © 2005 Thomas Vaughan