* * *
Under the shattered philodendron, Missus Hughes had been doing her best to keep the wounded still and quiet. As near as she’d been able to tell, the combination of night vision goggles and a flash of light from the hidden explosive device had left her husband (hopefully temporarily) blinded. Shoomba on the other hand, whatever actual wounds he may have sustained beneath his grotesque armour, seemed to be leaking rum from every pore and showed every sign of being almost totally anaesthetised.
At a point, she’d seen the flash of the Quiet Man’s torch. It had gone out but instinct told her he was still there. Watching. Must wait, she’d wisely thought. Best to be sure the madness has passed. If he’s done this, after all, then what more might he do? Then, ricocheting ominously through the neighbourhood, came the boom of the shotgun.