Jack's Island by Norman Jorgensen Page B

Mr Purvis.
    Dad grabbed his old greatcoat, and as he and Mr Purvis left Mum yelled, ‘Be careful.’ She said the same thing most days but this time I knew she really meant it.
    Instead of going back to bed I sat by the stove and rested my feet on the oven door. It’d give me chilblains but warm toasted toes would be worth it.
    Mum went into her bedroom and returned with Dad’s old Winchester .22. I was impressed by the way she expertly ejected the bolt and peered down the barrel before replacing it with a swift motion. Just like Gary Cooper. She saw me looking at her in amazement.
    â€˜Could shoot the eye out of a mosquito at a hundred yards when I wasn’t much bigger than you.’ She grinned. I suddenly felt a lot safer. Absolutely amazed, but safer.
    I sat at the stove getting more and more involved with Jack and Ralph and Peterkin on Coral Island. I didn’t notice the room growing darker until Mum pulled the blackout curtains and turned on the light. Outside, the screen door rattled as the wind increased.
    â€˜Looks like we’re in for another storm,’ she said as she pushed my legs away to put a log in the stove. ‘I hope your father won’t get too wet.’
    As if on cue the rain suddenly pelted down—thick driving rain that crackled on the tin roof and poured off in thick sheets.
    Mum went to the window and pulled back the edge of the curtain. She stopped in alarm and stepped back. Reaching for the Winchester, she said quietly, ‘There’s someone out there.’ She worked the rifle bolt and slipped a bullet into the chamber. ‘Patricia, take Bette and get under the table. Jack, put out the lights. Sorry about your ribs, Jack, but we can’t be too careful.’
    I flicked the switch and the room went black except for the glow from the wood stove. ‘Mum?’ I said.
    â€˜Shh!’ She dropped to her knees by the window and peered through the wet glass out into the street. ‘Who’d be out on a night like this?’ she muttered to herself. She reached up and loosened the catch. The window swung open, caught by the wind.
    â€˜Come out and show yourself or I’ll put a bullet in you,’ Mum yelled out into the night.
    I heard a clatter as a rubbish bin fell over and then the splashes of running feet hitting puddles.
    â€˜If you don’t stop I’ll shoot you,’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘I surely will!’ He’d better stop, I thought. Mum was a woman of her word. She calmly cocked back the bolt on the gun, aimed out into the shadows and squeezed the trigger.
    The shot was like a dull thud, followed instantly by a whiz and the clang of the bullet hitting the rubbish tin. ‘The next one goes between your shoulder blades, Sonny Jim,’ she yelled again.
    The footsteps were running further away and back up the street.
    I heard a shout. ‘He’s got away! Don’t shoot! It’s me, Don Campbell. I’m outside Merson’s. I’ve been following him. He’s made a run for it.’
    Mum looked down the dark roadway away from the rubbish bin.
    â€˜Open the door, Mrs Jones. I’m coming over,’ Constable Campbell called.
    A few minutes later he stood under our small porch trying to get his breath. Water dripped from his oilskin and cap. He shivered slightly. In his hand he held a large pistol, an officer’s Webley from the look of it.
    â€˜I followed him this far. We very nearly got him, eh, Mrs Jones?’ he said as he warmed himself by the stove. ‘I doubt he’ll be back in this neck of the woods.’
    â€˜It was too dark. I wasn’t sure who it was, otherwise I’d have blasted him good and proper,’ said Mum.
    â€˜You meant to miss him?’ Constable Campbell sounded amazed, but not as amazed as I was.
    â€˜Of course I meant to miss. It’d be a fine state of affairs if I shot every person I didn’t know who came down my