Neville the Less

  * * *

  On the back veranda of Home Country, Neville had managed, with barely a sound, to make his barricade of chairs. He’d left almost the whole of the house in darkness - only the night light in the hall and the other in the kitchen where the Quiet Man sat, now soundly asleep with his head on his arms. Neville knew from experience how impenetrably dark the veranda was on a moonless night; meaning that no one - no passing Things, no sneaking pirates would see him. And he had the box of flash-bangers. And the magic cyclone bolt. And before long, most importantly, he had knowledge - of where the enemy was.

  He’d spotted it in flickering glimpses down in the big philodendron, its three red eyes, the third one seemingly in its forehead, appearing, turning away and appearing again. Once he focussed on it, he began to think he could also hear it; a whimpering, muttering sound. As though it was caught. In one of the Quiet Man’s traps. The flash and the scream and the smell of burnt hair had told him that they were vulnerable. And now this one was trapped.

  Unless of course . . . ! Unless this one was merely a watcher! A guard. Belonging perhaps to the pirates who’d come at last for ‘Soon; this one, left as a watcher to make sure there was no interference from Home Country. Which meant . . . ! What should he do? What could he do?

  Tiptoeing as lightly as a night time spider, he crept back into the kitchen to try again to wake the Quiet Man.