MACHETE

Elizabeth’s existential crisis continued as she made her way home, only snapping out of it as she turned the corner on to her street, where the sound of a police car’s siren dragged her back to the present moment. She glanced to her right as it passed, noticing a woman seated in the back seat, her face pressed up against the window, who bore a surprising resemblance to her mother, Beverley.

Entering the house, she stood in the living room and glanced at the selection of books on display in one of the cabinets and wondered whether she might try to read one after all. That eight-hundred-page biography that her father had bought earlier in the week had now moved to an occasional table by the window, but its spine had yet to be cracked. Breathing slowly, the way she’d seen people do on YouTube videos about mindfulness, she decided to set herself a challenge. From today, she would force herself to put her phone away for a specific amount of time every day. Ten minutes in the home safe now. Fifteen minutes tomorrow. And so on until it was out of her hands for an hour at a time. Perhaps in a month or two she’d hardly be using it at all.

Christ, she thought to herself, an outrageous idea entering her mind, I could even get a job.

Feeling a great wave of contentment as this plan took shape in her mind, she barely had time to think about what sort of job might suit a young woman of her particular skillset, when a noise like an explosion rocked the house. She screamed aloud; it sounded as if the front door was being smashed in. This was followed a moment later by the terrifying noise of men shouting as they stormed into the hallway and spread out, charging up the staircase and into the kitchen and living room, where two of them were confronted by a hysterical Elizabeth. A few more ran in and, to her horror and bewilderment, they were wearing dark blue jackets, bulletproof vests and visors over their faces and were carrying what looked to be loaded machine guns while roaring at her to lie on the floor with her hands behind her head.

She continued to scream, but one of them made a lunge in her direction and, before she knew it, her face was pressed against the carpet while half a dozen rifles were pointed at her head. Someone knelt on her back, fastening what felt like a cable tie around her wrists and ankles before dragging her back to her feet. Looking out to the hallway, she saw more men going upstairs, calling out that they were armed officers and if there was anyone in the house, they needed to come out now with their hands up.

‘There’s no one here!’ she shouted. ‘Only me. What are you doing? What’s going on?’