Nicola pressed her hands to her ears and mouthed to her husband Dave, ‘That alarm’s going straight through me. It’s making me mental.’
Next door in leafy Crestwood Lane, the burglar alarm had been shrieking for an hour. ‘Bloody thing’s broken. Where have they gone?’
Across the road Mrs. Singh at Number 16 cracked her window open and shouted, ‘Terrible racket, isn’t it?’ On the pavement, Mr. Alvarez grumbled to Rahul Murphy: ‘I thought alarms cut off after a few minutes.’ Rahul nodded, glancing across the street, but neither of them moved toward the house.
At midnight, the night-shift police car cruised by, headlights sweeping lawns. The constable frowned at the alarm’s staccato blare. He thumbed the radio. ‘Could be a faulty circuit, mate. I’ll note it for the list.’
Only at dawn did Ellen Reeves, stifled by exhaustion, step onto her porch. She dialled 999 with trembling fingers. ‘I’m on Crestwood Lane. That alarm at Number 18 – something’s wrong.’
Within minutes, two patrol cars and an ambulance converged. Officers forced open the pale-blue front door, boots crunching on shattered glass. Inside, the living room lay in disarray: overturned chairs, a broken lamp, and muddy footprints trailing into the kitchen. Beyond, they found Mr. and Mrs. Darby – lifeless, on the cold tile floor, victims of brutal violence.
That morning, Crestwood La
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
ne was quiet once more. Grief softened every face. The alarm had been finally silenced. And in its echo, the neighbours heard the hardest truth: cries for help demand action.
Flash Fiction 250 