'Christ, I feel terrible,' he muttered.
Carol moved behind him with the hammer. She hit him on the back of his skull, hard. He gasped, turned towards her, his face registering total shock, even more so when he saw her draw back her hand with the hammer ready for another strike. He made a grab for her wrist but she kicked him to his knees and she hit him again on the side of his temple. She then dragged his body to lie face forwards and covered his gasping mouth with the rag soaked in halothane; he gasped a few times, then lay still. She'd used the entire contents of two phials – one would have been enough but she wanted to make sure, very sure, he was dead. She had to wait fifteen minutes, her hand pressed to his throat, a towel left over his face. Feeling for his pulse and satisfied he was dead, she stripped off his clothes; first his blue tunic, then his T-shirt and trousers, his socks, shoes and underpants. She placed everything carefully into a carrier bag, then she bent over his naked body and tied his hands behind his back, looping the rope round his ankles and drawing his legs almost back to his arms. She then rolled his body over and began to ease the thick black bag round him, securing it at the top. For safety she wrapped a second bag round him, this she tied with strong thick string, and then attached the label. 'Great Dane. FELIX, aged ten years. Owner Mrs Thompson,' and the address. She dragged the bag to the back door and propped it up beside the two other dead animals.
Carol was sweating as she returned to the table to lift the Jack Russell's corpse and stuff it into the black bag ready for collection. She froze when the doorbell rang and rang; whoever it was kept their hand on the bell. Carol took deep breaths, wiped her face and straightened out her uniform.
The woman was peering into the surgery, her hands cupped to see inside. Carol faced her.
'We're not open yet.'
'I have to see Mr Frogton, it's urgent.'
'He's not here, you just missed him. He's gone . . .'
'You have to let me in. PLEASE, open the door, please I have to talk to you, talk to someone. OPEN THE DOOR.'
Carol had no option but to unlock the door. 'What do you want?'
'It's about Jack, I have to see him.'
'Who?'
'My dog, I have to see him, he's here.'
'What dog?'
'Jack, the Jack Russell, my sister brought him in two days ago, he'd been run over. A Jack Russell, I have to see him, she said they were putting him to sleep, I have to see him.'
'I'm sorry you can't.'
'But you don't understand, I've been away, my sister was looking after him, I have to see him. IT'S IMPORTANT, I HAVE GOT TO SEE HIM.'
'But you can't.'
'Why not, he's here isn't he?'
'Well yes, he was, but I'm sorry . . .'
'Is he dead?'
'I'm afraid so, we couldn't save him, his injuries were too . . .'
'Can I see him?'
'Pardon?'
'Is he still here?'
Carol was in a state; she couldn't get rid of the hysterical woman who was now sitting in one of the surgery chairs, crying, blubbing and sobbing loudly, saying over and over that she just had to see him.
'Did he have a brown right ear or was it his left?'
'Pardon?' Carol snapped.
'My Jack Russell had a brown left ear; Battersea Dogs Home said they've got a Jack Russell stray, handed in two days ago. It could be Jack, do you see? Maybe my sister brought in the wrong dog. They don't open until ten, so if I could just see the one you've got here, it might not be my Jack, he's run off before. I think he was trying to get to my house, so maybe the dog that got hit by the bus isn't mine. He wasn't wearing a collar, was he? My sister said he didn't have a collar on. My Jack had a collar.'
Carol checked her watch; any minute now the mortuary van would be here.
'Wait here please,' she said, and hurried into the operating section. She had to stand for a moment to get her breath, then she opened the bag, lifted out the Jack Russell, snatched the towel from the floor and carried him into the surgery.
'Oh my God! Oh my God! He's dead. Is he dead?'
'Yes, Mr Frogton put him to sleep this morning.'
'But you said he wasn't here.'
'I said he'd just left. Now is this your Jack Russell or not?'
The woman peeked at the dog curled in the bloody towel and then howled, 'No, no it's not mine, that's not Jack, oh thank God, thank God. You see he's got a black ear, not brown, my Jack's ear is brown. Oh thank you, thank you, I'm sorry to have bothered you.'
Carol, with the dead dog in her arms, ushered the woman out and then locked the door. She kept on repeating to herself that it was all right, everything was all right, she was just fifteen minutes behind schedule.
The mortuary man arrived two minutes later. Carol had to help him carry the three bags to his van. She had not had time to put the Jack Russell into his mortuary bag or fill in the form, but rather than delay getting rid of Frogton she decided she'd take the dead dog and Frogton's clothes to the local dump.
The mortuary van driver signed them out. The Rottweiler, the Dalmatian and, lastly, heaving up the body of Frogton, he signed for the Great Dane.
'They don't have long lives, do they, these big dogs?'
'No, their hearts are quite small,' she said with relief as the doors closed.
'I've got fifteen to collect all over London this morning. Do you want any ashes brought back?' he asked, heading for the driving seat.
'No, no ashes required,' she said, wishing he'd drive off and let her get down to cleaning up and getting rid of the clothes and the bloody Jack Russell.
Carol watched the van drive off, then returned to the final clearing up. She washed down the table, took off her soiled uniform and stuffed it into the same bag with Frogton's clothes and the dead Jack Russell. She then went to the sink and cleaned up the blood from Frogton, where he'd bled from the hammer blows. She wiped it clean, replaced the hammer with the tools in the back room, returned and gave the room a once over with her eyes.
'Shit,' she snapped.
The charm bracelet was just beneath the sink; somehow when Frogton grabbed her he must have broken the chain. On her hands and knees she snatched it up and checked all the charms were there. There was one missing, the fucking goblin.
'Fuck, fuck, where is the fucking thing?'
She sat back on her heels, her eyes roaming the room, but she couldn't see it. With the flat of her hand she felt under every surface, on top, down the sides; she began to pant with fear. The charm was not in the operating room. She even went back to reception, searched every inch of it, then back to the operating room and re-searched but there was no effing goblin. The reception phone rang, jangling her nerves. She snatched it up.
'Yes?'
She listened. It was Battersea Dogs Home; they had received a call from a very distraught woman who had lost her Jack Russell.
'Yes, she came here, then she left; it wasn't her Jack Russell, it was another Jack Russell.'
'Did it have a collar on it?' asked the persistent kennel maid at the end of the line.
'No, it was hit by a bus, it had internal injuries and Mr Frogton put it to sleep.'
'Could you describe it?'
'What?'
'We have a young man here who's lost his Jack Russell. He says it's got a black ear, on the left. Is that the one you have there? Only the stray we've got here has a brown ear, brown left ear.'
'Yes, it's got a black ear and a sort of brown spot over its right eye,' Carol snapped.
To Carol's fury she was left waiting as the kennel maid went to talk to the young man. When she came back she asked if the dog was still at the surgery.
'Yes, it's still here.'
'He's coming right over, can you keep it there?'
'It's dead.'
'Yes, you said, but he wants to make sure it's his dog, and if it didn't have a collar and it fits his description . . .'
Carol sighed. 'No. No, I'm sorry, he can't come here.'
'Is that
you, Carol?'
'What?'
'This is Barbara, remember? We worked together? I knew you'd got a job at the clinic. I didn't recognize your voice. Is it OK for the boy to come over, he's so upset, Carol. CAROL?'
Carol closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 'Yes, he can see it, but he had better come over right now.'
Carol slammed down the phone. 'Fucking dog, the fucking stupid fucking dog.'
Carol checked her watch; her whole schedule was off now with this fucking Jack Russell and she had to get rid of it before fucking Hilda or anyone else turned up for surgery.
At eight o'clock the doorbell went again. Carol steamed out and snatched it open. He was red haired with round owl glasses and wearing a dirty anorak.
'Can I see if you've got Rex?' he asked, gulping, almost in tears. Carol nodded and went and brought him the dead dog still wrapped in the bloodstained towel.
'Yes, yes, that's Rex,' he said, then burst into tears.
'Do you want to take him?' she asked brusquely.
He nodded, holding out his arms, and she passed over the dog wrapped in the towel.
'You can keep the towel,' she said, opening the door to usher him out. In fact, it was quite useful that he wanted to take it. She wouldn't have to dump the dog along with the bloodstained clothes.
'I'll bury it at my Grandma's. She's got a garden,' he said, blinking, his eyes watering behind his owl glasses.
'Fine, thank you, goodbye.' She shut the door, then had to open it again as the cleaner appeared.
'Morning, Carol, love, I'm ever so late today, my other job had left the place in a right state so I had a lot of cleaning.'
Carol didn't wait to listen as Mrs Dart prattled on while she got out her cleaning equipment. By now she was way off schedule; she was supposed to have taken the clothes to the dump. All she could do was bundle them up and hide them under the counter until it was time for her to go home. She'd wasted time searching them for the charm and now it was almost eight thirty and the surgery would be open soon. Mrs Dart washed down the floor in reception, dusted and watered the plants, all with a non-stop conversation to herself. She even washed the floor in the operating room, clanking her bucket and mop.
'Can you hurry it up, Mrs Dart? It's almost time for surgery. Mrs Dart?'
Mrs Dart was still dusting when the first customer arrived. Carol couldn't believe it; they were fifteen minutes early. She felt almost as sick as their parrot! But at last Mrs Dart left. Carol itched to ask her if she had found her goblin but decided against it.
Miles arrived to start his surgery and the day began. As Carol answered the calls, she could feel the bag close to her legs under the counter. It was a full morning, and come lunchtime she put the plan back on schedule.
'I'll get off at lunchtime, going on my holiday, unless I'm needed. I wouldn't mind leaving at twelve thirty.'
'You do that love,' said Hilda as she proffered a coffee; she managed at least three mugs every morning. 'You've done enough good turns, so you go on off.'
Hilda stepped aside as Carol collected the bag and made to leave.
'Did the mortuary van come this morning?' Miles asked as he appeared at his surgery door.
'Yes.'
'Frogton got off sharpish, didn't he?'
Hilda murmured that she had not actually seen him, as he'd gone before she arrived.
'Can you get him on the phone, Hilda? It's this German Shepherd; I don't know what tests he's done and I can't find the X-rays.'
Carol was at the door, listening, as Hilda called and then replaced the phone.
'No answer and his answerphone's not on. I'll try again but I think they were all going straight to the airport.'
'I thought she had already left?' Carol said, feeling her colour drain.
'No, she changed her mind. They were all going together – well, with the baby she didn't want to travel by herself. It's understandable.'
Miles, irritated, snapped as he returned to his cubicle, 'Just try and contact him, Hilda. I really need to speak to him.'
'The X-rays are on his desk, second drawer are the details I think you'll need,' Carol said, hovering, eager to leave.
'Thank you, Carol, we'll miss you, but have a good holiday.' Miles stood at his doorway.
Hilda waved as Carol smiled and walked out.
'Bit inconvenient, isn't it?' said Miles, 'Carol taking off the same time as old Froggie; makes us very short staffed.'
Hilda nodded, then said Carol had booked her break a good while ago, just after Christmas. She turned, smiling at the baby photographs pinned up on their noticeboard. Frogton's son, born January 4th.
'Be nice for them both to get away with the new baby,' Hilda said, checking down the appointments; they had a very busy day ahead.
Carol slammed her front door shut. She tipped out the clothes, she felt in all the pockets, in the cuffs, everywhere, but found no charm. No fucking goblin. She then tipped everything into the sink and poured bleach over the clothes and shoes. She waited until they were almost shredded before she put on rubber gloves to ring the remains out and put them back into the bag, the shoes' rubber soles were sticky, the suede coming apart. She then went into the bathroom. The smell of bleach made her feel sick so she ran the shower, picked up the towel and was about to put it on the heater rail when she stopped. 'Shit. Fuck shit, the fucking towel!'
She closed her eyes; the bloody Jack Russell! She'd wrapped it in a towel, the blood-covered towel, fucking shit! She was now certain the charm must have caught on the fluffy cotton towel; the fucking goblin had to be with the dead bloody Jack Russell dog.
Carol called the dogs' home, and got the boy's address. Shit, shit, he'd said he was going to bury it at his grandmother's house! Fuck shit, how the hell was she going to find that address?
At the surgery Hilda thanked a woman, Mrs Palin, and as soon as she left looked down the entries. Miles appeared, ushering out a very elderly woman with an equally ancient cat in a cage.
'Just feed her once a day, small portions, and she should be fine.'
He leaned in to Hilda as the elderly woman paid her, 'Just a check-up, won't need to see Mitzie again.'
He returned to his surgery, gesturing for a young boy to carry in his pet mouse. Hilda gave the receipt to the woman and put the money into the till before she went back to Mr Frogton's lists. Something didn't quite make sense; Mrs Palin had come in to thank them as she had now got her Jack Russell back, and he was none the worse. But they had no record of it being released from the clinic. They did have a Jack Russell but, according to Frogton, it was doubtful it would survive the night. It was scheduled to be collected for the mortuary.
Frogton's girlfriend had called three times wondering where he was as they were due to catch a flight and were going to miss it. Hilda said he had left in the early morning and she had no idea where he was, just as she had no idea why Carol had not made any mention of the Jack Russell's recovery and signed him out. There would be quite a bill to be paid. It was very unlike Carol as she was usually so methodical. Hilda went into Miles' surgery.
'You know we had that Jack Russell in, been in an accident on the Seven Sisters Road, just by Holloway prison, bus ran over it; this woman came in with it, it wasn't hers, said it was her sister's.'
'What?' Miles said, checking over X-rays.
'Well, a woman, the woman's sister, just came in to thank us, she said she's got him home and he's none the worse.'
'What?'
'That's what she said, he's fine, none the worse.'
'What?'
Miles went to the X-ray drawers, drew out a set and pinned them up.
'None the worse?' he said, pulling a face. 'He's got a fractured pelvis, two broken back legs and damage to his kidneys and collar bone!'
'Well that's what she said; came in to thank Carol but we were so busy I couldn't really talk much to her. He was going to be put down this morning.'
'Well miracles do happen, but that's beyond me, and I'm a
fraid this old boy's in very bad shape, I think he should be put out of his misery.'
Miles was referring to the German Shepherd, both back legs were dragging and he had a congenital spinal deficiency that left his lower back weak.
'Better call his owners, and did you get hold of Froggie?'
'No I didn't, and Mary's been calling; she's a bit frazzled as they're going to miss the flight.'
Miles returned to the X-ray of the Jack Russell, frowning; there was no possible way this dog could be, as his owner had stated, 'none the worse'. He was in a wretched condition.
'Who was the bill made out to?' he asked.
Hilda had returned to reception.
'What?'
'I said who was the bill made out to for this Jack Russell?'
Hilda looked confused.
'I don't know, there doesn't seem to be a record of it!'
Carol had got rid of the clothes, tied in a tight bundle of newspapers and tossed on to a dumpster. She had also made headway in discovering Owl Glasses' grand-mother's address. Calling the boy, his friend had answered and given the address; it was actually not far from Carol's flat, in Highbury, so she went straight there.
Carol rang the doorbell and waited for what seemed an age before it was opened by a small shrivelled woman in thick-lensed glasses, like her grandson's. Carol explained that she worked at the local veterinary clinic and had handed over the Jack Russell.
'Yes, he came here with it,' she said, peering up at Carol, who was head and shoulders taller than her.
'Has he actually buried it?'
'Yes, in a shoebox in the garden.'
'I'm very sorry but I'm afraid I will have to dig it up.'
'You must be joking; it's dead.'
'Yes I know but we had a call from Battersea Dogs Home and it seems there is some confusion regarding the ownership of the dog.'
'But it's dead; it was Kevin's pet.'
'Yes, I am sure it was but I need to verify its markings, if it has a black or brown left ear, or if it is the other way round.'
'Oh, I dunno, Kevin's not here, he's at college.'
Like a Charm Page 9
