Free Concrete Evidence by Conrad Jones

slammed it closed, forcing her back against the panels to stop him entering. She scrambled to get the key into the lock. Bowers crashed into the other side of the gate; his weight almost splintered the wood. She locked the mortice as he turned the handle and rattled the gate in its frame. “Mrs Webb, you cannot enter the property!” he crashed into it again with little effect. The gate wouldn’t hold for long. She breathed a sigh of relief and walked quickly towards the back door. The gate rattled again as Bowers put his shoulder against it. “Mrs Webb!” The frame creaked and the wood splintered slightly but it held firm.
    PC Bowers looked up and contemplated climbing over the fence but dismissed the idea quickly. His arms were no longer strong enough to pull his body weight up and he doubted that the flimsy Waney Lap panels would support him. He could end up breaking his spine. “Mrs Webb!” he shouted again in desperation rattling the handle with all his might. Looking through the cracks between the panels, he could see her putting a key into the back door. “Mrs Webb please listen to me,” Bowers lowered his voice in one final attempt to stop her. “You’re putting yourself and your daughter in danger if you enter the building.”
    Mrs Webb stopped for a second and looked back to where he was stood. Her face looked confused but determined. She shook her head dismissing his pleas and searched for the key to the back door. Bowers began battering the gate with renewed vigour, driving her into a fluster. The lock was a Yale. She sifted through the bunch, one key at a time until she found one with the correct brand etched onto it. The gate cracked and she heard wood splintering. She slipped the key into the lock and turned it but it wouldn’t open. “Shit, shit, shit!” she whispered under her breath. She pictured her daughter’s kitchen in her mind. The back door was half glazed, fixed with a Yale lock at the centre. The image of sliding bolts, top and bottom appeared in her mind. “Shit!” she sobbed. “Jackie!” she shouted and banged on the glass. “Jackie!” her name turned into a wail. A panel gave way beneath Bower’s force and clattered onto the garden path. He reached through the gap, searching for the handle. It reminded Mrs Webb of cinema posters advertising ‘The Shining’. Jack Nickleson’s manic face replaced the policeman’s for a moment, despite being in her own horror story now. She looked around for inspiration and saw a stone flower pot near the wall, its contents long since withered. They had bought it at a car boot sale in the spring. She could hear Jackie complaining about its weight as they walked back to the car. The thought forced tears from her eyes. Her fingers gripped the edge and she felt a fingernail split. Ignoring the pain, she swung the pot upwards in an arc. The impact shattered the pane and shards of glass exploded across the kitchen. Long daggers of glass remained fixed to the frame making it impossible for her to reach inside to free the bolts without ripping her flesh. “Mrs Webb!” The sound of a another panel cracking made her intensify her efforts as she swung a second time, and a third and fourth smashing the remaining pieces of glass from the door. The glass tinkled across the tiled floor and she reached down to undo the bottom bolt.
    “Jackie!” she shouted as she fumbled with the bolt, her fingers only just reaching it. It lifted and she slid it open, trapping her index finger between the bar and the fastening. She yelped in pain and put it in her mouth instinctively and then looked at the injury. A blood blister was rising quickly. She felt desperation taking a hold of her senses. “Jackie it’s Mum!” her greeting was met only by silence and the pounding of her blood in her ears. The gate gave way beneath the relentless battering from the police officer’s shoulder, wood cracked and splintered and the remaining panels clattered along the path. She