BREAK IN by Marian Hussenbux There was no moon and the garden was dark. The security-light hadn't come on, but it should have, because there was someone out there.   In the gloom, all I could see was the beam of a torch.   Burglars! I thought and melted back into the shadows. That's all I need. The house is full of antiques. I've warned her often enough. But will she listen?   The light was coming nearer and now I heard the crunch of feet on the gravel outside. The sash-window wasn't properly closed. My fault. I was certainly making it easy for burglars.   Then came the sound of the window being raised and more slight noises as the intruder climbed over the sill. His flashlight played around the room, stopping every now and then on some old picture or piece of silver - valuable legacies, from rich relatives - Elaine's relatives, of course.   How was I going to get out of this?   I dared not move, as he was too near not to notice me. In fact, I could hear him breathing. As my eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, I gauged his size and weight - a bit of a bruiser. Too tough to take on and win. Discretion is the better part of valour, they say.   My only hope was to keep motionless and try not to draw attention to myself. When he'd gone - with whatever ill-gotten gains he came for - I could take action. In any case, the contents of the house, however valuable, were of secondary interest. The only important thing was to save my skin. It's foolhardy to have a go.   Now he was moving around the room lightly and efficiently. He'd done it before: this was no rank amateur. A flash of the torch, an instant on-the-spot evaluation of its worth and in a trice the objet d'art was in the bag. Literally.   I forced myself to keep still and silent. Get a move on! How long is it possible to hold one's breath?   Suddenly, in the silence, came a noise, then the sound of footsteps, a door opening and footsteps pattering downstairs.   'Is that you, Simon? You're so late. Sorry about the row earlier. Have you forgiven me?'   The door opened. A woman was silhouetted against the light in the hall. She seemed transfixed.   The intruder, making no effort now to keep quiet, grabbed hold of his bag and rushed out the way he'd come, falling over the sill and swearing in frustration. He even kicked me as he passed.   The woman screamed. An unpleasant sound, but worse was to come.   Either in panic or forgetfulness, she still had not turned on the lights. I waited.   'Who's there? What's happening?'   But the burglar was gone. There was nothing more to fear from him. She started to come tentatively towards the open window. I waited for her.   In the darkness, all that my wife could see, was the gleam of the knife in my hand - raised high and ready to strike!   Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.

Marian Hussenbux can be contacted at LMHUSSENBUX@cs.com