‘The filming stopped abruptly and was replaced by another of carnage inflicted by the same dog on the second dog Mr Wallace took. The scene was repeated twice more. I wanted to cry and scream, but nothing came out at all. Then the female officer asked me if I recognised any of the dogs in the videos. I told her I recognised all of them from the rescue centre.
‘She erupted in anger and said she couldn’t believe my attitude. I didn’t understand what was happening. She then said, “Did you, or did you not, supply those dogs to Elliot Wallace, knowing they were to be butchered as part of a barbaric training regime for his illegal fighting dog?”
‘I answered no! But she stated, “That isn’t what he says.” She continued, “He is in custody and has said you selected the dogs with him in the centre. Is that not true?”
‘I answered, “Yes, but he wanted to rehome the dogs, give them another chance”; I argued I would never be involved in something like that – I love animals.
‘The male officer snorted at this answer, before asking, “So you love animals? If that is so, why did you place a bet of £18,000 for his dog to win its next fight?” I pleaded my innocence, but then remembered he’d requested I wired the payment to a “DG Syndicate” bank account, not his own – he said it would be easier to pay the money direct to the creditors.’
Jennifer stopped speaking and looked down at the floor.
‘But they have let you go? The police, I mean,’ I asked.
‘Pending further enquires,’ Jennifer and Sally replied in unison.
‘What does that actually mean?’ I wondered aloud.
‘I was allowed to leave the station when they were convinced I didn’t know anyone from DG Syndicate, but only on condition I didn’t leave the country. They drove me home and made me hand over my passport to them. This is so serious, Eddie; I don’t know what to do.’
And with her final words the wailing began again, as intense and as raw as that I had witnessed from the sanctuary of the kitchen. It appeared Jennifer had reached this same point of her story, the enormity of it catching her again just as it had as I had innocently uttered, ‘How are you doing?’ to her on my arrival in the living room.
‘Jennifer, we will get this sorted,’ I stated, trying to sound upbeat.
Jennifer dabbed her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. The entire situation did indeed sound hopeless. But there had to be a way; had to be proof for the police that Jennifer was merely naive and not involved in some dog-fighting gang. I struggled to understand how someone could willingly be that cruel to another person or animal.
‘What about the people you work with – they could vouch for you? What was the man called that worked with you on the desk; he must be able to help?’ I enquired.
‘Faruk, you mean?’ replied Jennifer.
‘Yes, that’s the name – he could help you.’
‘Huh, I don’t think so. He never really spoke to me, gave the impression I was an irritant to him. Our working relationship deteriorated from me initiating conversation and him replying with yes/no answers, to complete silence between us,’ remembered Jennifer.
I was struggling now. Sally was so much better at navigating through an extraordinary situation than I was, but she seemed content for me to continue, for me to take the lead. But I just sat, not knowing what to do or say next.
Henry relieved me of my duty. He suddenly awoke, wandered over to Jennifer and placed his head on her knees and looked up at her.
‘Hello, Henry,’ she cooed through a smile as she gently patted his forehead.
With the change in mood sparked by Henry’s craving for attention, I felt empowered to continue.
‘Jennifer,’ I began, ‘Sally told me about the plan of using the spare room as a studio. I think it is a great idea, it would be really rewarding for you. You can set it up any time you like.’
‘Not going to be any good to me in prison, is it, Eddie?’ she replied, still patting Henry and not looking at me.
‘You are not going to prison!’ I responded.
‘You are not, Jenny,’ concurred Sally.
‘We’ll see,’ Jennifer sighed.
‘How are you going to prison when you are not guilty of any crime?’ pleaded Sally. ‘It will be okay, Jenny.’
‘But Sally, I let the attention and flattery get in the way of my judgement. I should have known; I should have seen what was going on. Instead I ignored it all and basked in the illusion of being wanted,’ stated Jennifer calmly and with reason, in contrast to her previous reaction.
‘That’s very easy to say with hindsight, Jenny,’ stated Sally with confidence. ‘But how were you to know what was… going on?’ she concluded meekly, reluctant to unleash into the room once again the image of dogs chosen for torture and execution, for fear of the imminent eruption from Jennifer.
The moment passed, thankfully without incident, and silence descended on the room. With Henry now contentedly asleep at Jennifer’s feet the task of invoking a change of mood lay firmly with Sally and me. But again I struggled with what to say, and looked toward Sally for guidance.
Silently, Sally placed a hand in her friend’s palms and with her other began to gently rub her back between the shoulder blades. Jennifer breathed deeply edas her shoulders visibly lowered at the soothing touch. I watched, transfixed, as this simple gesture appeared to remove a degree of the stress and discomfort that tormented Jennifer. I wondered to myself, as Jennifer laid her head upon Sally’s shoulder, if I ever could be receptive to such a technique, or would my ingrained instinct of ignorance and denial form an impregnable barrier that could not be breached or broken?
‘Shall I make some more tea?’ I uttered.
Both women nodded and I retreated to the kitchen. I heard the familiar sound of Henry’s claws clipping on the tiles in the hallway as I reached the sink.
I made the tea, delivered it to the living room and retreated back to the kitchen. I remained there, watching Match of the Day, to the sound of Henry’s snoring, until I heard Jennifer saying goodbye to Sally.
Jennifer popped her head around the door and said goodbye to me, and I walked out into the hallway as she left through the front door. Sally closed the door, locked it and turned back into the hallway.
‘That was lovely to say to her, Eddie, thank you,’ gushed Sally, striding toward me.
‘She looked like she needed help.’
‘Thank you,’ she said again.
I smiled in reply, but remembered the unpleasantness that had passed between us earlier that evening.
‘I am going to go up and have a relaxing bath. Why not come and join me?’ Sally asked, kissing me lightly on the cheek.
‘I need to sort him out and double-check the van,’ I stated, as the Match of the Day theme music drifted through from the kitchen.
‘Oh, I had better wash up the cups and plates in the living room,’ remembered Sally with disappointment in her voice.
‘I’ll do them,’ I responded.
‘Okay, but don’t be long and come to bed,’ she soothed, climbing the stairs.
I took out Henry’s leash from its place in the cupboard under the stairs. Miraculously, his doggy sixth sense sprang into action: before I had even closed the cupboard door, or called him for that matter, he appeared, his tail wagging the entire back half of his body with excitement, knowing we were heading out.
I don’t have Henry on the leash at this time of night; instead I carry it and give him freedom to explore and only attach the leash if we meet any vehicles travelling the road, which is very rare. We have two routes we can take. From the house we turn left and travel twenty metres to where the lane forks. Henry always runs on in front and waits at the fork, waiting for me to decide our direction. Tonight I chose the right-hand lane, the longest route.
Later, he couldn’t belie
ve his luck, as he stood waiting for me halfway along the lane. His breathing was heavy with his constant inquisitiveness, willing him to search the darkened hedgerows with his powerful snout. I waved him on further; in contrast, normally at this point we turn for home. We journeyed on and he stopped periodically, looking at me, knowing this was to be longer adventure than those he is accustomed to at this hour and not sure whether or not he should carry on.
Back home, I gave Henry some fresh water, carried the plates and cups from the living room and washed and rinsed them all very thoroughly in the sink. In contrast to my usual behaviour, tonight I dried them all and put them away in their appropriate places.
I patted Henry goodnight, turned off the kitchen light and headed across the hallway and up the stairs.
I crept into the darkened bedroom and discovered Sally’s sleeping form on the left side of the bed. I quietly undressed and slipped under the duvet beside her. I could feel she was naked and had been waiting for me. But the unmistakable musky odour of sex emanating from beneath the covers indicated she had satisfied her needs some time ago, without me even being there.
I heard her breathing lightly through the darkness next to me and yearned to know what she was dreaming. Closing my eyes tightly, wishing the recurring image of the discarded bouncy castle to leave me, I tried to pray, to urge the desire for physical love with my wife to somehow return. Instead, as my eyes stung with the effort of squeezing them shut, the words came back to me yet again from earlier today. You are a good man, Eddie Dungiven was uttered in my mind, from the same beautiful mouth with perfect teeth.
Chapter 5
A Book of Perfect Brilliance
I always start the day with a cup of tea. Ceylon tea always taken black. I always sip looking out of the French doors, focusing and contemplating the day ahead. I blew over the top of the mug; a sudden miniature mist was deposited on the door by my action and as it cleared I sensed myself becoming distracted by the spring explosion of growth and life displayed outside, behind the glass. This domain was all Sally’s work, all Sally’s vision.
I remember when we moved into the house seventeen years ago, standing bemused just the other side of the glass I now stared through on a foggy, dead morning in November. Sally jumped around excitedly, planning and plotting, her breath hanging visibly in the dense air as she spoke excitedly.
‘Sorry, Sally, I just cannot see it,’ I confessed truthfully, staring at the mud and the tired, feeble grass.
‘It’s a blank canvas, Eddie, just look at it!’ she said, her glee and frustration merging into one emotion.
I shrugged my shoulders, indicating my indifference, as I stared at where she now pointed, partly as I was enjoying the playful interaction between us, but mostly because I honestly couldn’t see her vision.
‘That’s where the vegetables will go,’ she said, pointing helpfully to make me feel part of it. ‘And over there will be–’
‘What vegetables?’ I demanded, interrupting her.
She looked up, as though jolted from a dream; suddenly her brow began to crease, hinting at the thought process my words may have instigated. Then her mouth opened to form words.
‘And don’t say lots of vegetables,’ I teased, knowing what her answer could be.
Her mouth closed and she smiled at me.
‘I need to do a bit of research!’ She laughed. ‘But that’s where they are going to go,’ she added, as if the content of the beds was mere detail and the location was the important decision.
She looked on again.
‘Over there we will have borders – I don’t want them uniform, like Dad’s are, I want a wavy edge to them and –toward the back of the garden, I want some trees, trees that blossom in the spring and burn red with the arrival of autumn.’
‘Anything else – an ornate fountain perhaps? A half-ruined folly?’ I added sarcastically.
‘No, no, nothing like that, Eddie,’ she replied, reading my sarcasm as a genuine suggestion. ‘I want to create an environment to entice wildlife. Plants and cover to draw in lots of insects – caterpillars, flies and beetles – to encourage the birds to visit and feed too, and bees, lots of bees to pollinate the flowers that will produce seeds that will replenish the borders. I want to be out in the sunshine, picking salad leaves and beans and popping them on a plate within minutes, or digging out potatoes from the ice-cold ground ready for our Christmas dinner.’
Suddenly, my cynicism evaporated.
‘It all works, doesn’t it?’ I stated as I finally allowed Sally’s vision to reveal itself to me.
She nodded excitedly.
‘Eddie, I am going to take photographs and keep them in a scrapbook, as it develops – it is going to be perfectly brilliant!’
With the plan decided, we turned to head back inside, the cold soaking into us. Once inside, the weather let its feelings be known for not being consulted in the process. It rained and rained and rained, day after day after day.
Two weeks later, I lay in a bath of steaming hot, lavender-infused water, trying to revive my back, to coax my vertebrae into their normal positions. My body was used to modelling balloons, not turning sods of heavy, waterlogged clay, and that was all I had done for the entire day.
As I headed out for the second day of toil, Sally joined me. She had spent the previous evening, as I sat trying to ignore the dull throb that pulsated deep inside my lower back, engrossed in a gardening book she had borrowed from the library, taking notes, looking through the index, checking and double-checking – for what, I could not be sure, but she didn’t stop until exhaustion brought her study to an end for the night.
As I dug, Sally was hovering, waiting, as if she had something to say. Something she wasn’t sure how to broach.
I turned over the clay in silence. I did not want to talk, did not want to invite any dialogue to begin; instead I tried to ignore my back as it screamed with every movement and simply broke up the earth with a garden fork, a sharp stabbing sound reflecting my labour as I stuck the soil with the back of the fork, breaking the silence. Huge lumps of clay clung the soles of my shoes as I worked, and oozed upward and over their tops, soaking my socks, as I stood in the area I had dug over the day before.
‘Eddie?’ said Sally probingly.
‘Um-hmm?’ I replied, trying to sound casual.
‘I don’t know how to say this.’
‘Say what?’ I asked, still digging, still turning over, still aching.
‘The vegetables cannot go there,’ she replied hurriedly.
I didn’t answer, nor stop. I just kept on digging.
‘I said, the vegetables cannot—’
‘I heard you,’ I said, trying to dislodge a piece of sticky clay stuck fast between the prongs and remain calm.
‘I read it last night: any vegetable needs maximum sunlight to thrive. They will not have a chance to reach their potential unless we change their position; this area is too shady; it faces east.’
The clay would not move from the fork as I hit it repeatedly, ever harder, flat into the ground. I gave up and thrust the fork vertically into the soil.
‘Why didn’t you tell me last night? Save me doing all this?’ I nodded viciously toward the ground, my voice raising.
‘That’s what I was checking, over and over last night; I wanted to see if there were any that would grow comfortably in that space. When I discovered there weren’t, I didn’t know how to tell you, so I went to bed.’
I didn’t reply.
‘What, nothing will grow in there?’ I finally asked.
‘Not comfortably, but Beetroot and Brussels sprouts will tolerate it.’
And with these words, I knew she had me. I detested both and she knew this, but Sally loves sprouts and enjoys beetroot.
My loathing is drawn from my childhood, when at numerous Chri
stmas dinners I engaged in a stand-off with Father, culminating with, and I quote, ‘No dessert for you, lad, until those bloody things are all eaten up.’ Knowing I couldn’t win the argument, I forced down every piece and with each chew and swallow of sprout, I held off the need to retch, until eventually the plate was clear. But to be honest, enduring the cold, soggy vegetables was bearable when a bowlful of hot, sweet, rich Christmas pudding and custard was my reward.
On the other hand, beetroot was in a different league altogether. For some reason, it was always a school day when I would pass round the side of the house to the back door and my heart would sink as the earthy, pungent odour attacked my nostrils without mercy, indicating the beets had boiled for hours already just to soften their skins. I visualised an imaginary purple haze drifting from the pan, rising like a poisonous gas over a battlefield. The real battle was yet to commence with my father at the table as the dinner was served, but the outcome was never good. To this day, I maintain that beetroot smells like earth, tastes like earth and is not a colour that should be eaten. Furthermore, anything that takes that long to prepare to become ‘edible’ should really be left alone. In summary, it is just plain wrong!
‘This won’t go to waste, though,’ Sally added helpfully, looking at the bare earth I had exposed.
She seemed oblivious to my annoyance; to the time I had wasted. But being the way she was, I let it go.
‘What will it be, then?’
‘Another border, there are plants that seek shadier areas – I read that too! Plants like ferns, hostas and viburnum would love it in there. We can prepare it in the early spring; get it ready for them then.’
‘We could plant your suggestions in there,’ I offered, unable to utter the names of the hated vegetables.
‘And what, have you moan like a child with every mouthful? I don’t think so,’ Sally teased.
Chasing the Sun with Henry Page 5
