by Rachel Ward
‘This is us. Tie that bloody bag up.’
They got off the bus in the High Street and started walking along the pavement.
‘I’m getting some chips,’ said Ant. ‘Want some?’
‘I should get home.’ They were by the chip shop door now, and the smell of hot fat hung in the air. ‘God, that smells so good. I’m starving. I’ll give Queenie a ring.’ She dialled home. ‘You all right? I’m back in K-town now. I might get some chips with Ant, but I know it’s Tuesday, pizza day.’
‘That’s fine, love. We’re all right here. We’re having our tea now.’
Good old Goldie. Bea should have thought of this years ago – getting a dog or cat for Queenie, so she had company. It took a lot of the pressure off. ‘Great, okay. I won’t bring you any home, then. See you in a bit.’
‘Bye, love.’
She was about to enter the shop, when Ant stepped in front of her. ‘Bea. No.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t go in there with that stinking thing.’
‘I don’t want to put it in the bin, Ant. That’s somebody’s pet cat.’
‘Do you think anybody would want a small bit of their cat back like that?’
‘Hi, guys!’ Jay was behind them. ‘What’s it gonna be?’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Chips and curry sauce?’
‘Do vegans even eat chips?’ said Ant.
‘Yeah, if they’re cooked in vegetable oil, which these are.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are you two going in?’
‘Yes, we’re just . . .’ Bea tried to hide the bag behind her back, but it was too late.
Jay wrinkled his nose. ‘What the hell are you doing with that poo bag?’
‘It’s not poo, it’s . . .’ She hesitated, trying desperately to think of some way not to tell the boy she quite fancied that she was carrying animal remains about with her.
‘It’s a dead cat,’ said Ant. ‘A bit of one.’
Jay screwed up his face, as disbelief turned to disgust. ‘You’re the cat killers!’ he hissed. ‘You two? I don’t believe it!’
‘No, no! Shhh!’ Without really thinking, Bea grabbed Jay’s elbow and pulled him away from the doorway.
‘No! Get off me!’ He tried to shrug her off, but Ant caught the other arm and they bundled him along the street and into the lane that ran behind the shops. ‘What are you doing? Stop it!’
‘Shh,’ Bea said again.
When they were away from the High Street, they let go of him.
‘I’m not going to “shhh”. You’re a pair of psychos. I thought you were a bit odd, but—’
‘Odd?’ said Bea. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Never mind that,’ said Ant. ‘We’re not cat killers. We’re trying to find out who it is.’
Jay narrowed his eyes. ‘Yeah, well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’
‘It’s true, Jay. We want to stop it, whatever it is that’s going on. The police don’t seem to have a clue.’
‘And you do?’
‘Yes. This,’ Bea said, holding the bag out towards him. He flinched a bit and took a step backwards.
‘So where did you get this exactly?’
‘On the footpath just in from the river, heading towards Lower Leigh.’
‘Yeah, I know it. I go running along there sometimes. Nice. Near Leigh Manor House, down that way.’
‘I dunno about that. I think that’s a bit further along. Anyway, I was walking down there this morning and the dog found it. An animal, all ripped to bits. This is one of the bits.’
‘And you picked it up?’
‘Yeah. The thing is, I saw someone with a cat in a carrier heading out in that direction a few days ago. And as far as we know, they don’t have a cat. And the fur of the animal I found is ginger and one of the missing cats in the Bugle is ginger too, so . . .’
‘ . . .so we reckon we’ve found the cat killers,’ said Ant. ‘Deano and Tank.’
‘Deano and Tank?’ said Jay. ‘Sounds like you just made those names up. Are they for real?’
‘Yes,’ said Ant, slightly offended.
‘Are you sure you’re not adding two and two together and making five?’
Ant drew himself up a little straighter and glared at Jay. ‘I may not be at uni, but I know what two and two makes . . .’
Bea put her hand on Ant’s arm. ‘He doesn’t mean that, Ant. He means we’re jumping to conclusions.’
‘You might be,’ said Jay. ‘Go on, then. Let’s have a look in the bag.’
‘Oh, man. Not again.’ Ant held his nose and backed off several metres, while Bea undid the knot.
Jay peered in. Then he got his phone out, switched on the torch function and shone the bright white light into the bag. Ant’s eyes grew wide with horror as he watched Jay reaching in and picking up the stuff. Jay looked at it intently, then rubbed some of the fur between his finger and thumb.
‘You’re worse than she is. Think I’m going to be sick,’ said Ant. He turned away, trying to control the heaving inside.
‘It could be cat,’ said Jay, ‘but I think it’s a bit coarse for that. More likely to be fox.’
Ant turned back round.
‘Do you reckon?’ said Bea.
‘Yeah. Not a hundred per cent sure.’
‘Is that what you do? In your environmental wotsit course?’ said Ant.
‘No, it’s a hobby. Wildlife. The thing is, if it is a fox, how did it die? You said there was a lot of blood?’
‘Yeah, all round the place, staining the snow. And the ground had been all trampled.’
‘I’ll ask my mates. See if any of them have heard anything.’
Ant started laughing.
‘What’s up with you?’
‘It’s just like . . .who the hell is going to know about some random fox dying in a field? Unless you’re Doctor Doolittle or something. “I’ll ask my friend Mister Squirrel and Mister Badger.” Oh, man, we’re not the weird ones.’
Jay looked at him blank-faced, unimpressed, then he shook his head and started walking back towards the chip shop. ‘I’ll let you know if I find out anything, shall I?’ he said to Bea.
‘Yeah, I could show you where it was. We could walk there together, if you like,’ she said, imagining them walking together by the river – the sun glistening on the water, her stopping to point out the kingfisher, him not seeing, so she puts her face close to his. ‘There,’ she says. ‘Beautiful,’ he says, but he’s not looking at the bird . . .
‘The bin, Bea.’ Back in the real world, in a cold High Street near a chip shop, Ant was saying something. ‘Put it in the bin now. Better wash your hands and all before you order your chips.’
When Bea got home, Queenie wasn’t in the kitchen waiting for her and Bea could hear voices coming from the lounge.
‘—turned out they’d never even been to Blackpool!’
Queenie’s familiar squawking laugh was joined by a man’s guffaw. What the—? Bea walked to the lounge doorway. Goldie was lying on the carpet by the coffee table. She noticed Bea, but didn’t raise her head or even manage a little tail wag. Queenie wasn’t in her usual chair. She was on the sofa and next to her, really quite close, was Bob.
17
‘Oh,’ said Bea. ‘Hello, Bob.’
He got to his feet. ‘Hello, Bea. I was just going.’
‘You don’t need to leave because of me.’
‘No, no. It’s late.’ He checked his watch. ‘Crikey, don’t know where the evening’s gone. Thanks for tea, Maggie.’
‘You’re welcome, Bob. Any time,’ said Queenie.
‘And keep an eye on Goldie.’
‘Why?’ said Bea, feeling the stirring of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She just seems a bit off, love,’ said Queenie. ‘Didn’t eat her biscuits at dinner, and didn’t want to walk very far when we took her out.’
There was almost too much in that sentence for Bea to digest.
Firstly, the dog normally hoovered up anything edible within a matter of seconds. Secondly—
‘You took her out?’
‘Yes. Me and Bob. We just went over to the rec and back.’ She said it casually, but she was watching for Bea’s reaction, her approval.
‘Oh. Right,’ said Bea. ‘Good. I mean, wow.’
‘Might do it again sometime,’ said Bob. ‘I’d better be off now. Let me know if you need a lift to the vet or anything, if you think she needs checking out.’
‘Thanks, Bob. I’ll see you out,’ said Queenie.
‘No, it’s all right. I know the way.’
The next morning, Bea came down to a rueful-looking Goldie and a pile of sick on the floor near the back door. She let the dog out into the garden while she cleaned up. Goldie disappeared for a minute or two and then wandered back inside. Bea didn’t know whether to try her with any biscuits or not, but decided against it and just left her with a full water bowl and instructions to Queenie to text her if there were any developments. Dog ownership was proving to be a lot of work and quite a worry.
As she walked into work, she saw the man with the Bugle trolley, trundling it across the rec. Ah, Bugle day, thought Bea, and now she thought about it, she realised that the man was one of Kingsleigh’s local celebs, or the closest they got to it, anyway – the oldest paper boy in the West Country. There’d been some coverage about him a year or so ago, even made the local TV on a slow news day. Although his spine was curved, he walked surprisingly briskly.
‘Morning!’ Bea trilled.
He looked up and grunted. The trolley rattled as they passed each other on the path, and Bea idly wondered how far the old chap had to walk on his rounds.
At Costsave, Bob was ushering Dot from his car to the staff door.
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ Dot said, as he held the door open.
‘You’re welcome, madam,’ Bob replied. Bea noticed his hand lingering on Dot’s lower back, almost on her bottom, as he ushered her through.
Neville nabbed Dot and Bea as they got to the top of the stairs. ‘Beatrice, I’d like you to do the periodicals before you log on to your checkout.’ Bea could feel a giggle bubbling up inside her. Some things just got her every time. ‘They should have been put out before we opened but, as you may know, an unfortunate rash of sick leave means we’re short of staff today.’
Bea rolled her eyes. ‘Ooh, do I have to? I can’t stand my periodicals, Neville. They seem to come round so quickly,’ she said, her voice wobbling a little as she got the words out.
He tipped his head to one side, wondering if he was being teased, and clutched his clipboard a bit tighter, like a toddler hugging a comfort blanket. ‘It’s not something I normally ask, Beatrice. I’m not sure what your trouble is.’
‘I don’t mind doing them, Neville,’ said Dot, winking at Bea. ‘It’s a long time since periodicals caused me any trouble.’
‘Oh, that’s very kind of you to offer, Dot—’
‘I’m a martyr to these hot flushes, though.’ Dot fanned herself with both hands.
‘I don’t see what . . . Oh. Really, I’d expect better than this childishness, Dot.’
‘Sorry, Neville. I think I’ve regressed while I’ve been away.’
‘I’ll do the mags, Neville. No problem,’ said Bea, and she and Dot linked arms and walked down the corridor to the locker room.
It took Bea a good forty-five minutes to sort through the magazines, removing the out-of-date ones and putting the new issues in their place, checking everything in and out on a stock-monitoring tablet. She did the daily newspapers too, and tidied up the old Bugles. The heap of new ones would be in soon, she thought, then checked the date again. No, she was a day early. They didn’t come in until Thursday.
Although she quite enjoyed doing something different, she was glad to log on to checkout number six and settle in next to Dot.
‘Blimey, Dot, I swear if anyone actually says New Year, New You to me, I’ll smash their face in.’
‘January magazines are a bit samey, aren’t they? Daytime telly’s the same. Diets, detoxes, resolutions, blah, blah, blah.’
‘Can’t remember the last time I made a New Year’s resolution.’
‘Me neither. What would you change if you could?’
‘Dunno,’ said Bea, gently scraping an annoying tag of skin away from the side of one nail. ‘That’s a tricky question when you’re perfect like me.’
Dot grinned. ‘You are, babe. I wouldn’t want you to change. Not one bit, but maybe you want to change your life, branch out a bit, find someone.’
Since Bea’s disastrous fling with Tom, her love life had been a subject more or less off limits. Now Bea breathed out noisily. ‘I dunno, Dot. I don’t know if I can be bothered.’
‘It’s nice having someone around, though,’ said Dot, and her eyes seemed to naturally gravitate to the meat counter, where Bob was busy with the bacon slicer. Bea thought about him and Queenie, how close they’d been sitting on the sofa, and wondered if she should say anything to Dot, but decided against it.
At lunchtime she got a text from Queenie. ‘Dog very sick.’ She rang home for the details. Goldie had carried on vomiting through the morning. Queenie hadn’t managed to coax her to drink anything, and now she was lying on the floor, panting.
‘I’ll see if I can come home early. I’ll try and get us a lift to the vet.’
‘Trouble?’ asked Dot, looking up from her magazine article ‘New Year, New You – our Essential Guide to your Detox’.
‘Yeah. I’m going to have to ask Neville for the afternoon off. The dog’s really ill.’
Dot’s face creased with concern. ‘Ill ill?’
‘Throwing up. Panting. Not drinking. Oh God, Dot, imagine if she died. What would I tell Charles?’
‘Never mind about Neville, ask George. She’s here, look.’
George had, indeed, walked into the staffroom and was heading for the kettle. Today’s suit was a sharply tailored black one, and her bob gleamed under the staffroom strip lights. ‘Bea, hello. You look worried.’
‘Yes, I am. It’s the dog I’m looking after, the one that belongs to Charles? Goldie’s really ill. My mum just texted me. I think I need to take her to the vet. Any chance I could have the afternoon off?’
George frowned. ‘We’re short-staffed anyway today, Bea. I’ll need to talk to Neville. Give me two minutes—’
‘Oh, have your tea or whatever, first. Please don’t—’
But George had shot out of the room in search of her deputy. Bea looked in the mug she had left behind. A spoonful of instant coffee sat in the bottom, so Bea added some boiling water. George was back while she was still stirring it round and wondering whether or not to add milk.
‘Oh, thank you,’ George said. ‘Just a drop of skimmed, please. If you went home now, could you be back for four? Be there for the evening rush?’
‘Yes, I think so. I can stay on later, too, so I do the same hours.’
‘Perfect. See you later. Thanks for the coffee.’
Bea turned to Dot and gave her the thumbs up, then scooted out of the staffroom and into the locker room to fetch her coat. She left via the shop floor and called briefly at Fresh Meat. Bob leaned heavily on the counter as he listened to her.
‘I’m so sorry, Bea,’ he said. ‘I can’t leave at the moment. Cara’s off sick, so it’s only me on here today. Here . . .’ He dug in his pocket and pulled out a grubby ten pound note. ‘Have this. Get a taxi.’
‘Bob, I can’t take your money.’
‘Yes, you can. I insist.’ He leaned over and pressed it into her hand.
‘Okay. I’ll let you know how we get on.’
Bea had been expecting carnage and devastation at home, but Queenie was on top of things. The house gleamed and smelt strongly of lemon Flash. Goldie was slumped in one corner, and didn’t even raise her head when Bea came in.
‘I’ve rung for a taxi, Mum,’ Bea said. ‘Will you help me get her in?’
‘Of course. I’m coming with you. Can’t let you deal with this on your own.’
‘Really?’ Now Bea noticed that Queenie already had her coat and boots on.
Between them they managed to coax Goldie into the taxi. The driver was surprisingly tolerant of having a potentially messy dog in his car. It was only a five-minute drive anyway and soon they drew up on the gravel drive outside a very smart building. It was an Edwardian detached house, but with a massive modern extension on the front. It could easily have been a hotel or conference centre.
‘Do you want me to wait?’ the driver asked.
‘I don’t know how long we’ll be,’ said Bea.
‘I haven’t got anything else at the moment. I’ll wait here. If I get called away, just ring the company number. I’ll get back as soon as I can.’
They entered through the automatic doors and into the bright reception area. Once inside Queenie sat on the nearest chair and Goldie slumped down at her feet, while Bea talked to the receptionist. It wasn’t long before the vet appeared, a woman in her thirties with dark hair tied back in a ponytail and kind eyes behind wire-framed glasses. When she saw Goldie, she came to them and crouched down next to the dog.
‘Who have we got here, then?’ she said, gently ruffling the fur on Goldie’s shoulder.
‘She’s been really sick,’ said Bea.
‘Can you bring her into the consulting room?’
They all stood up and encouraged Goldie to her feet. She plodded reluctantly past the reception desk, through a doorway into the back office area. Bea was amazed how big it was. There were at least four consulting rooms off one side of the corridor and mysterious rooms the other side, clearly marked, ‘Staff Only’. One of the doors opened briefly as a nurse bustled through, and she got a glimpse of various uniformed staff and a state of the art operating theatre. A man at the far side of the table looked familiar. He had surgical scrubs on. Bea couldn’t place him – probably a customer.
The vet ushered them into Room 4 and shut the door. She introduced herself as Xiao and listened as they told her about Goldie’s symptoms.
