Clean-up in DIY
Not all battles leave you bleeding—some just leave you with Allen keys,
DIY furniture flat-packs, and regret.
Hereford – Safehouse
Sean stumbled down the stairs barefoot, hair doing its best impression of a hedge that lost a fight with a lawnmower. The old uni hoodie hung off one shoulder. Paint-stained joggers. The full disaster.
Coffee smell hit him first. Thank Christ.
“Well—look who decided to show up!” Dar. Smirking at him from the kitchen counter, using one of his lines like she’d just nicked his wallet and wanted him to know about it.
“Look who’s stealing my lines now.” He yawned, scratched at his ribs. “Thought you’d be locked in your office playing on that…thing…instead you’re here looking annoyingly awake.”
She did look awake. Annoyingly so. He angled toward the kettle, let his fingers brush her arm as he passed. Casual. Deliberate. Touch her too much and she’ll bite. Touch her too little, and she notices that, too.
“Malik already told me we’re heading to buy DIY furniture. Logan already told me I’m on KP. I think I’ll move back home.”
He flicked the kettle on. Leaned back against the counter and studied her face. Tired, yeah, but softer than yesterday. Less like she was braced for incoming. “You sleep alright? Or did the ghost of paint fumes past keep you up?”
He reached for a mug. The kitten one Pam gave him the other day. Wish Pam was my mum. Creepy O’Rourke. Knock it off.
The kettle clicked. He poured, steam curling between them.
“Because I had dreams about being chased by a giant terracotta door. Swear Pam’s been slipping something into the tea.”
He took a sip. No milk, no sugar. Bitter enough to make his eyes water.
“Christ. That’s awful. I’m getting us a decent machine if I have to get dragged to Birmingham today.”
The back door opened. Malik. Boots leaving faint prints on the tile, dark grey tee stretched tight over his shoulders, rifle case slung across his back like it was part of his skeleton. Morning air clung to him—cold, sharp. He set the case by the door. Eyes on Sean first, then Dar.
“Kettle’s too loud. You’re broadcasting to the entire street.”
He moved past them. Opened the fridge, pulled out water, drank half standing there. Closed the door with his hip.
“Birmingham run’s still on. Truck’s gassed. Logan’s staying here to monitor Berlin comms. We’ll grab something to eat on the way.”
He glanced at Sean. “If you’re done flirting O’Rourke, then get dressed. We roll in ten.”
He grabbed a travel mug, filled it with hot water, dropped in a tea bag.
“Morning, Dar.” He smiled.
Dar arched an eyebrow at Malik’s entrance. Then at the rifle case he treated like hand luggage.
She was dressed already. Faded jeans, blue sweater, hair loose and messy. Morning light caught the fresh terracotta paint on her office door.
“Morning, Malik. You planning to redecorate the furniture store, or is that just your version of a credit card?”
She pushed Sean toward the stairs. Took a slow sip of her coffee. Black. Bitter. “Hurry up,” she called after him as he took the stairs two at a time.
Malik leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Sean disappear upstairs. The rifle case stayed by the door. Close. Always close.
He sipped his tea. Face neutral except for a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Decorating’s your job, Montgomery. I just carry the heavy stuff.” He nodded toward the door. “And make sure nobody walks out with more than they paid for.”
He set the mug down. Checked his watch. 10:18.
“You riding up front or letting O’Rourke navigate?”
Dar set her mug down. Already moving toward the hallway to grab her coat from the peg. Worn leather that smelled of wood-smoke and last winter’s rain.
“Shotgun,” she said. “If I let Sean navigate we’ll end up in a Nando’s arguing over peri-peri heat levels instead of buying bedframes.”
She shrugged into the coat. Zipped it halfway. Her boots sat by the door—scuffed, steel-toed.
She paused at the rifle case. Glanced at Malik.
“You ever think about leaving that thing behind for once? Just walk into IKEA like a normal bloke with a tape measure and a dream?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Pulled the door open. Cold air rushed in, smelling of wet leaves and diesel. The truck sat in the drive, exhaust curling in the morning chill.
Sean thudded back down the stairs. Dark blue hoodie under his leather jacket, phone still in hand. He caught Dar’s “shotgun” and Malik’s silent shrug.
Grinned.
Stepped into the hall, boots clipping the flagstones. Flicked his gaze to the rifle case, then to Malik.
“Don’t listen to her, Hawk. You bring the cannon, I’ll bring the allen key. Between us we’ll build a flat-pack fortress and still have change for a hot dog.”
He shoulder-checked Dar as he passed. Gently. The way he used to bump her on the range when she finally nailed a drive.
“And for the record, I only get lost in Nando’s if the lady’s buying.”
The truck idled outside. Matte-black paint, cab high enough he’d have to haul himself up. He yanked the passenger door and paused.
“Dar, you’re riding middle.” He gestured to the cracked vinyl next to Malik. “Come on, Montgomery. Best seat in the house.”
Dar rolled her eyes but climbed up anyway. Boots clanging on the running board. She slid into the middle, vinyl cold through her jeans.
Sean swung up into the cab, claimed the window seat, pulled the door shut with a solid thunk.
She clicked her seatbelt. Reached over him to crank the window down an inch. Just enough for the diesel and morning air to slip in. Her arm brushed his chest as she pulled back.
She didn’t move it away immediately.
Sean’s pulse kicked. Just once. He covered it by leaning forward, thumbs dancing over the playlist. ” I’m not putting on Hawk’s playlist—last time I endured three hours of what I’m pretty sure was a Taliban wedding remix. My ears still bleed when I see a tambourine.”
He hit play. Guitar riff filled the cab. He slumped back. The bench seat meant her shoulder settled against his ribs whether or not she meant it. He kept his gaze on the windscreen. Hyper-aware of every inhale that lifted her jacket against him.
He raised his voice over the rattle. “Road-trip rules: first person who mentions Calder’s name buys lunch. Second mention pays for petrol. Third gets duct-taped to the roof.”
Dar glanced at Malik. “Try not to kill anyone before we hit the M5. I’d like to make it to the warehouse without a police escort or a body bag.”
Malik adjusted the side-view mirrors. The rifle case wedged behind him. “Birmingham, no bodies. Copy that.”
He flicked the indicator. Rolled them down the lane between frost-bitten hedgerows. The cab smelled of cold metal and Sean’s cologne. Something citrus. Probably trying too hard. He eased onto the main road, speed climbing, tyre hum absorbing the guitar riff.
His shoulders relaxed once the first junction vanished behind them.
“Your Indie sleaze’s fine. You start air-drumming, O’Rourke, I’m locking the windows and turning the heater to max.”
Sean smirked. Caught Malik’s deadpan stare in the side mirror. “Air-drumming’s amateur hour, Hawk. I save the stick work for when it counts.”
He let the beat ride. Foot tapping against the firewall. Dar’s hair tickled the corner of his jaw every time the truck swayed. He pretended not to notice. But his left hand found the edge of the seat belt so his knuckles brushed her sleeve.
Casual. Accidental. Worth repeating.
Dar let the truck’s rhythm settle. She wedged between them like a bookmark in a story she didn’t ask to star in. But her body found the shape of it easy. Shoulder to Sean’s side, knee brushing Malik’s when he shifted.
She watched the hedgerows blur. Frost still clinging in patches where the sun hadn’t reached. Her fingers tapped once on her thigh.
“Air-drumming’s the least of your worries,” she murmured. Eyes still on the road. “Wait till he starts narrating the furniture like it’s a nature documentary. ‘And here, we see the endangered Björksnäs in its natural habitat, easily startled by Allen keys…'”
She turned her head just enough to catch Sean’s profile. Then back to the windscreen.
“Seriously though. We’re buying beds, not building a fortress. Try to remember that when you start eyeing up reinforced headboards.”
Sean laughed. The sound bounced off the windshield.
“Reinforced headboards? Please, Dar, I’m a lover, not a carpenter. Though if you ever want a bespoke swinging setup, I know a guy—”
He caught the twitch of Malik’s eyebrow. Killed the grin halfway.
“—who definitely isn’t me and definitely doesn’t owe me favours.”
The truck hit a pothole. He let the jolt knock his shoulder into hers. Soft apology in the contact. His thumb tapped the beat against his thigh, slower now, matching the diesel throb.
“Besides, beds are personal. Gotta test the bounce, the creak factor, whether the mattress remembers your sins.”
He flicked his gaze to her. Dropped his voice to a collusive tone. “So, if you find me lying on a display model humming ‘Testing, testing,’ just know I’m doing due diligence for the team. Strictly professional.”
Malik’s hands rested easy on the wheel. Knuckles relaxed but ready. He kept the speed steady, checked his mirrors every ten seconds.
Sean’s chatter bounced around the cab. Dar’s dry responses landed clean. Malik let it ride.
He flicked the indicator. Slid past a slow-moving caravan. Settled back into the lane. His eyes cut to Sean’s reflection, and Sean was grinning like he’d just breached a door without getting shot.
Malik’s mouth betrayed him. A laugh forming.
“O’Rourke, you test-spring any display mattress and we’re leaving you zip-tied to it for staff collection. Mark the tag ‘defective’.”
He downshifted early for the upcoming roundabout. Engine-braking smooth. His voice flattened. “Dar wants beds, we get beds. No kink labs, no ‘bounce diagnostics’, no war stories for the sales reps. In and out like a midnight exfil—grab flat-packs, pay cash, disappear before the CCTV buffers.”
He eased off the throttle. Let a hatchback merge from the slip road, its indicator blinking nervous. The motorway stretched ahead. Birmingham’s skyline rose through the autumn haze—glass and steel and smear.
“Sean, you’re on trolley duty. Dar picks, you stack. I’ll watch the exits and the till jockeys. Anyone recognizes faces, we ghost. Clear?”
He caught Sean’s eyes. Held them for a beat. No grin now. Just the job.
Then a hint of a smile cracked across his face. Gone almost before it formed.
“Afterwards, fry-up in the Bullring. My treat. You behave, I’ll even let you supersize the hash browns.”
Dar listened to them volley. The anxiety that had gripped her chest since Zoe’s room was painted finally eased. She took a breath.
She let the silence ride for a beat. Watched the city creep closer. All glass and rust and people who didn’t know their names.
“Copy that, Hawk. No zip-ties, no CCTV cameos, no mattress misdemeanours. I’ll even keep Sean on a short leash—” She lifted her left hand. Two fingers making a lazy collar-and-chain motion in Sean’s direction. Let it drop. “—but if he starts humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’ in the warehouse aisle, I’m abandoning cart and both of you.”
She sat back. The seat creaked. Her shoulder settled against Sean again. Warm through layers of leather and cotton. The city’s dirty skyline swelled to fill the windscreen. Mirrors glittering. She felt the truck downshift, engine note dropping into a lower, hungrier register. She closed her eyes for one slow breath.
Diesel. Aftershave. Frosty morning. Alive.
“Let’s go buy some beds,” she said. Quiet under the tyre hum.
Birmingham
The truck swung into the car park. Tyres crunching over loose gravel and cigarette butts. Malik killed the engine. The sudden silence hit hard—loud in its absence. The diesel tick-tick-ticked as it cooled. Steam curled from the bonnet.
Sean pushed the door open. Cold air rushed in to replace the cab’s shared warmth. His boots hit tarmac. Knees protesting the two-hour sit. He stretched. Vertebrae popping. Surveyed the warehouse looming ahead.
Corrugated steel painted corporate yellow. Windows high and narrow. A banner flapped in the wind: WINTER SALE—SAVE UP TO 50%. Behind it, the car park sprawled half-empty. Trolleys scattered everywhere.
“Right then.” Sean rolled his shoulders. Breath misting. “Once more unto the breach.”
Dar slid out after him. Boots landing light. She stood for a moment, letting the wind rake through her hair. The air smelled different here. Exhaust fumes. Fried onions from a burger van two rows over. Something chemical seeping from the warehouse vents.
Nothing like the frost and diesel they’d left behind.
She zipped her jacket higher. Eyes tracking the entrance where automatic doors yawned open and shut. Ingesting customers and spitting them back out with flat-packs and regret.
Malik locked the truck with a double-tap on the fob. Pocketed the keys. Moved past them both. No words. Just a head-tilt toward the entrance. The rifle case stayed behind the seat, but his gait didn’t change. Measured. Alert. Scanning exits and sight-lines.
They crossed the tarmac. Loose formation. Sean trailing half a step behind Dar. Malik leading by instinct.
The automatic doors hissed open.
The noise hit first. Crying children. Squeaking trolleys. A Tannoy voice announcing deals in a Brummie accent thick as treacle.
Then the light. Fluorescent strips stretched into infinity. Bleaching everything pale and too bright. Shadows banned by corporate decree. The air tasted recycled. Warm and stale. Tinged with sawdust and something plasticky that clung to the back of Sean’s throat.
Aisles stretched ahead. Kitchen. Bathroom. Bedroom. Living room. Each one colour-coded and labelled in a sans-serif font large enough to see from space.
Families drifted past. Pushing overladen trolleys. Faces glazed. Navigating by laminated maps and sheer determination. A couple argued near the lighting section. Voices sharp over pendant shades. Somewhere deeper in, a child screamed. High and piercing. Then went silent.
Dar stopped just inside. Blinking against the brightness.
The truck’s cab had been small. Contained. Three bodies in warm proximity.
This was exposure.
“Christ,” Sean muttered beside her. Voice low and too-close in the din. “It’s like Ikea had a baby with a logistics depot and neither parent claimed custody.”
Malik’s hand brushed her elbow. Brief. Grounding. He nodded toward a bank of trolleys chained near the entrance.
“Grab two. Move steady. In and out.”
His eyes swept the floor. Cataloging exits. Fire doors at three and nine o’clock. Loading bay somewhere past the bedroom displays. Main entrance behind them still belching shoppers.
Sean peeled off to yank a trolley free. Metal shrieking as it separated from the line. He spun it with one hand. Wheels wobbling. Grinned back at them. Pushed the cart to Dar.
“One for you.”
Pulled the second one. Turned around.
“Right. Let’s hunt some flat-packs before this place eats us alive.”
Dar drifted toward the bedroom section. Sean and Malik flanking her through aisles lined with staged domesticity. Nightstands crowned with artificial succulents. Lamps that would never be turned on. Duvets smoothed to inhuman perfection.
She stopped at a king-size frame. Dark wood with clean lines. No fuss. Her hand traced the footboard’s edge. Testing for rough spots.
“This one.”
Sean appeared at her shoulder. Close enough that his breath stirred the flyaway curl near her temple.
“You haven’t even sat on it.”
“It’s a bed frame, O’Rourke. Wood doesn’t have feelings.”
“No, but your spine does.”
He abandoned his trolley. Moved around her. Dropped onto the mattress. Arms spread wide. He bounced once. Testing. Then patted the space beside him.
“Come on, Montgomery. Due diligence. Can’t buy a bed without the full operational assessment.”
Dar’s jaw tightened. But she sat. Carefully. Perched on the edge like the mattress might bite. The frame held steady. No wobble. She pressed her palm flat against the surface. Professional. Clinical.
Sean rolled onto his side to face her. Head propped on one hand. Grin insufferable.
“See? Not so bad. Plenty of room for—”
“Finish that sentence and I’m testing the structural integrity of your nose.”
But her lips curled upward. Betraying her.
Malik stood three feet back. Arms crossed. Positioned so his peripheral vision covered the main aisle and the approaching sales assistant in a yellow polo. His eyes tracked the assistant’s trajectory. Clocked the name tag. KEVIN. And the way Kevin’s gaze lingered half a second too long on Dar’s profile.
Malik shifted his weight subtly. Just enough to draw Kevin’s attention away.
The assistant course-corrected. Suddenly very interested in straightening a nearby price tag.
Sean noticed. He always noticed when Malik moved like that. Economical. Purposeful. The kind of shift that said, keep walking.
He sat up. The moment broken. Knocked his knuckles against the headboard.
“Solid. No death-rattle. Dar, you want the matching side tables or are we mixing and matching like bohemians?”
Dar stood. Smoothing her jeans. Not looking at either of them.
“Matching. A table and a chest of drawers, each. And don’t call me a bohemian—you’re the one who puts ketchup on scrambled eggs.”
“That’s called flavour, love. You should try it sometime.”
She walked toward the side tables without answering. But her shoulders had dropped. The stiffness going out of them all at once.
Sean watched her go. Then glanced at Malik, who’d already moved to follow.
The sales assistant—Kevin—had vanished into the kitchen section. Deterred or reassigned by invisible forces.
Sean rolled off the bed. Straightened the duvet out of habit. His hand landing where Dar had been. Still warm on the fabric.
Grabbed his trolley.
Kevin reappeared. Emerging from behind a display of children’s bunk beds with the determined stride of someone who’d just been chewed out by a floor manager. He made a beeline for Dar. Clipboard clutched. Smile professionally fixed.
“Hiya, can I help you folks find anything today? We’ve got a special on the Malm range, very popular, Scandinavian design philosophy—”
Dar turned.
Kevin’s smile faltered. His eyes narrowed slightly. Head tilted. Recognition flickered. Not certainty. But the ghost of it.
He looked from her face to the middle distance. Scrolling through a mental feed. His mouth opened. Closed.
“Sorry, have we—do I know you from somewhere?”
Something shifted in the aisle. Sudden and airless.
Sean’s hand tightened on the trolley handle. Knuckles white against chrome.
Dar held Kevin’s gaze. Unflinching. Her pulse kicked once. Hard. Then settled into operational calm.
She manufactured a polite, blank smile. The kind that said You’re mistaken, and also I don’t care.
“Don’t think so. I’ve just got one of those faces.”
Her accent flattened. Vowels shifting subtly northward. Away from her natural register.
“We’re sorted, thanks. Just need to grab the flat-packs and settle up.”
Malik moved. One step closer. Angling his body between Kevin and Dar. Blocking the sight-line without seeming to. His face stayed neutral. Bored even. But his weight shifted forward onto the balls of his feet.
Kevin blinked. The moment fracturing. His smile reassembled itself. Less certain now. He glanced at his clipboard.
“Right, yeah, course. One of those faces. Well, if you need help with anything—”
“We’re good, mate.” Sean’s voice cut in. Cheerful and dismissive. Edge sharpened just enough to sound like a warning wrapped in friendliness. “Cheers though.”
Kevin nodded. Already backing away. Clipboard raised in a half-wave. He retreated into the aisle. Engulfed by the fluorescent maze and the hum of commerce.
Malik waited until Kevin turned the corner. Then counted three more seconds. His eyes swept the rafters. Two security cameras. One dome, one fixed. Both angled toward the main walkways. He memorised their positions. Calculated the dead zones.
When he spoke, his voice was low. Meant only for the two beside him.
“Loading bay. Now. I’ll settle the bill—you two get the items to the truck.”
“Malik—” Dar started.
“Not negotiable.” His eyes cut to her. Flat and final. “Kevin’s going to his manager, his phone, or both. We’ve got maybe five minutes before someone reviews footage. Move.”
Sean didn’t argue. Grabbed the trolley. Headed toward the warehouse section where the flat-packs lived in towering cardboard stacks.
Dar followed. Her stride measured but quick. Not running. Running drew eyes. But purpose radiating from her.
They rounded the corner. Kevin was gone. Vanished back into the maze of domestic displays.
Sean navigated the trolley with the same efficiency he’d trained for clearing rooms. Smooth. Economical. No wasted movement.
Dar read the aisle markers. Calling them out low and quick.
“Bay seven, rack three, SKU ending in 4-2-7.”
“Copy.”
He swung the trolley left. Wheels squeaking in protest.
The flat-packs reached eight boxes high. Cardboard brown. Each one hinting at Allen keys and a sense of impending doom.
Malik grabbed the first box. Thirty kilos. Awkward distribution. Hefted it with a grunt that was more exertion than strain.
Sean caught the other end before he had to ask. They walked it to the trolley in synchronised steps. The box settled with a hollow thump.
“Second one.”
Malik was already moving. Sean matched his rhythm as Dar braced the trolleys.
Lift. Pivot. Lower.
Twelve seconds total.
They’d cleared IEDs slower.
Once all the packs were loaded, the trolleys groaned under the weight but held. Sean checked the load distribution with a critical eye. Shifted one box on Dar’s trolley three inches left.
“Balanced. Let’s move.”
Malik peeled off toward the checkouts. Extracting cash from his jacket. Already calculating routes and timing. His hand brushed his pocket where the truck keys nested. Habitual check. The rifle case in the cab suddenly seemed distant.
They hit the loading bay entrance as Malik appeared from the checkout lanes. Receipt already folded into his jacket pocket. Cash transaction complete and anonymous.
He didn’t break stride. Just angled toward the external doors and keyed the push-bar with his elbow.
Cold air slapped them.
The truck sat thirty meters across the car park. Exactly where they’d left it. Nose pointed toward the exit.
Malik had parked it that way. He always did.
“I’ll bring the truck round,” Malik said. Already moving.
“Negative.” Dar’s voice stopped him. “Cameras on the loading bay. We walk it out like normal punters. Slow is smooth.”
Malik’s jaw tightened. But he gave a curt nod.
She was right. Slow was smooth. Smooth was safe.
They crossed the car park. Dar and Sean on their trolleys. Malik ranging slightly ahead. Scanning.
An elderly couple loaded bags into a Micra. A teenager vaped beside a Corsa. Scrolling on his phone.
Normal. Civilian. Safe.
The back doors opened. Sean climbed in first. Malik passing him boxes from below. Each one slid into place with the precision of Tetris played by people who’d packed supply drops under mortar fire.
Dar stood watch. Positioned so she could see both the store entrance and the car park access road. Hands loose at her sides.
“Last one.”
The final flat-pack thudded home. Sean jumped down. Malik slammed the doors closed. Checking the latch twice. Muscle memory from convoys where an unsecured load could mean disaster.
They were in the cab in under ten seconds.
Malik turned the ignition. Let the engine catch and settle before pulling out. No squealing tires. No drama.
Just three people leaving a furniture store on a Saturday afternoon. Completely unremarkable except for the way they moved.
Sean exhaled. Long and controlled.
“Well. That was bracing.”
“Kevin’s going to be chewing on that for a while.” Dar’s voice was flat. Assessing. She pulled out her phone. Opened the browser. Cleared the history out of habit even though she’d searched nothing.
Malik’s eyes flicked between the side mirrors. Watching the store recede.
“We’re clear. But we don’t come back here. Not this location.”
“Agreed.” Dar pocketed her phone. “Next time we need furniture, we hit the one in Solihull.”
“Next time we need furniture,” Sean said, “we’re stealing it. This shopping lark’s too stressful.”
Nobody laughed. But the tension bled out of the cab by degrees. Replaced by the familiar rhythm of the road and the knowledge that they’d just executed a flawless tactical withdrawal from a Swedish furniture warehouse.