**Lucky, She Calls It**
“Emily, let me explain!” panted Oliver on the doorstep, out of breath.
“What do you want from me? Go sort things out with your boss!”
“You don’t understand. I’m sorry… *You* don’t understand. Please, lock all the doors and call the police. Just trust me!”
Emily stared at Oliver, bewildered, as he dashed away. What was all this about? Why was an ordinary repairman acting so strangely?
Then came the noise from downstairs—shouting, the sound of shattering glass, and Oliver’s desperate cry:
“Emily, run!”
She slammed the door shut. She didn’t understand, but she did as Oliver said—twisting both deadbolts and jamming her key into the lock. With shaking hands, she dialled 999.
A knock at the door made her flinch. Clutching the phone to her chest, she prayed it would all be over soon.
“Sweetheart, you in there? We can hear you. Open up nicely, and we won’t hurt you—promise,” came a rough voice from the other side.
Emily stayed silent, barely breathing. The voices stopped, but then came the unsettling scrape of a key being forced into the lock.
“Stupid cow shoved her key in. Listen, don’t make this harder on yourself. Open up!”
“Go away! I’ve called the police!” Emily blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Wrong move, love,” the voice sneered. “Lads, let’s go. We’ll be back—got it?”
The intruders’ footsteps faded down the stairs, then silence. Her ears rang as she slid down the wall, still gripping the phone.
Another knock. A stifled gasp—then relief.
“Open up, police!”
At the kitchen table, Emily recounted her story to a constable taking notes. Her hands trembled.
“Who’s Oliver, and how do you know him?” asked the second officer—clearly senior, from the way he directed the constable.
“Six months ago, I bought a new washing machine. Last month, it leaked. The store sent me to a repair service. Oliver was assigned as the technician.”
“Had you met before?”
“No, never. First time was when he came to my flat.”
“So you let a stranger into your home?”
“Excuse me? It was an official service call. He was their employee. I didn’t just invite some random bloke in!”
And why would she distrust him? Oliver had arrived promptly, dressed in company uniform, carrying a toolkit. He’d inspected the machine, taken notes, and filled out an official report—which Emily later signed. Nothing seemed amiss.
“Good as new!” Oliver said, then handed her a slip of paper.
“What’s this?”
“My personal number.”
“Doesn’t that break company policy?” she asked warily.
“Just in case. Sometimes fixes uncover other issues. Going through the service takes ages—call me directly, and I’ll come straight over when I’m free.”
It made sense—the service centre had taken a week to send him the first time.
But days later, the machine leaked again. Emily had no choice but to call Oliver back.
“I’ll check it—no charge,” he assured her.
“No idea what’s wrong with it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll sort it. This brand’s got a bad rep, trust me.”
When he finished, he wiped his hands and smiled.
“All done. Hope you won’t need me again,” he said, no hidden meaning in his tone.
“Me too. Thanks so much!”
Relieved, Emily put the ordeal behind her—until the machine leaked a third time. Oliver’s number was now unavailable.
Frustrated, she called the service centre. The operator was baffled.
“Oliver reported the issue resolved. You say he came back? There’s no record…”
“He said it was quicker to call him directly!”
Something was off. The centre dispatched another technician, but he wouldn’t arrive till tomorrow. The operator assured her Oliver had no prior complaints—though he’d now vanished.
Then came the knock at her door—and Oliver’s panicked warning.
—————
“That’s all I know,” Emily finished.
“Did you talk much during the repairs?”
“No. What’s there to say? I just asked if he needed anything.”
“You mentioned his tools,” the constable smirked.
“Since when do repairmen carry rags?” Emily shot back. “You ever had a washer break? Water sprays everywhere when they loosen a valve—”
The officers exchanged a look. Emily caught it.
“What’s going on? Who were those men?”
“No details yet, but we suspect Oliver’s tied to a burglary ring in the area.”
“But nothing’s stolen!”
“Not yet. Scouts take service jobs to case homes—note layouts, residents, habits. A bathroom alone tells them plenty.” The senior officer pointed to her questioning look. “Toothbrushes, toiletries—it all adds up.”
Emily sat stunned. Those men had been thieves. The constable handed her a form.
“Sign here. We’ll call you in later. Stay reachable.”
“Wait—” She grabbed his wrist. “You’re leaving me alone? They’ll come back!”
“We’ve got it under control,” the senior said tiredly.
“Lock your door,” muttered the constable as they left.
Bolts secured, Emily thanked herself for investing in a solid steel door—yet fear lingered. Friends arrived that evening for support, but every creak made her jump.
Over a board game, her friend mused:
“Kind of romantic, in a twisted way.”
Emily disagreed. She’d learned that charm and politeness could mask betrayal.
But one question haunted her: if Oliver had only wanted profit, why had he risked warning her?
