Dark Vet

by CJ Hannon

  ‘Feet together. The rope’s thin as a cracker, there’s no need to jump so high. Hasn’t anyone ever taught you?’

  It works, and she jumps lightly on her feet, her wrists twirling. The rope scuffs lightly on the ground and skims brickwork if she loses position. The sound is good, a repetitive, thwack, thwack, thwack.

  A cat with a wobbly belly walks the tightrope of the fence top with casual grace, and pauses to watch her.

  Hers is the bottom bunk. The carpet is brown, the walls a yucky banana colour. Maybe one day she could have a wall, just one would do, and paint it just the way she likes. It smells like moths, but it is nicer than the last place. The birds here shriek. Huge white and grey things who stamp and scratch the roof at bedtime.

  ‘Sounds like a giant tapping his fingers on the roof tiles,’ the boy says. ‘Trying to tell if there’s food inside.’

  She pulls the covers up tighter to her neck.

  ‘Do you know how to talk?’ He appears upside down, hair electrified.

  She nods.

  ‘You don’t have to. I don’t care.’

  Will a giant come, hinge open the roof and lick them off his finger like ants?

  That night, she wakes up uncomfortable, her pyjamas damp, warm, and clinging to her skin.

  Melody shakes the lady. She comes to, coughing and hacking. The bedside light blinks on, and she sips water.

  ‘What is it? Oh… come on, let’s get you cleaned up.’

  At school, the other children are curious, asking her questions. The teacher asks her things too. She listens. Does her work faster and better than anyone else. A little sponge, the teacher calls her, sponges are squidgy and rough but it sounds like the teacher means it in a good way. She has drawn the cat in her garden and it hangs on a peg in the classroom with a yellow star stuck in the corner. It is by far the best drawing, the colouring neat and tight to the lines.

  There is a woman she has to talk to, the one who brought her to the house. Big frizzy hair. She appears, usually with chocolate or sweets and lets her nod or shake her head to her questions.

  Does she like living with the lady? A nod.

  How would she feel about living somewhere else? A shake.

  How does she get on with the boy? A shrug.

  Does she like the school? A nod.

  Is anybody mean or nasty to her? A shake.

  Then she disappears again.

  One morning. She is prodded awake.

  ‘Pssst. Come on, Melody, wake up!’

  She rubs her eyes. Weak light behind the curtains. Morning? It must be.

  ‘Come and look.’

  He places a finger over his lips. She tiptoes after him. This feels naughty and exciting. The staircase is old, creaks, but the lady is snoring, her door ajar. The kitchen is dark and quiet. The boy reaches up and turns the key, and beckons her.

  The yard is damp. The cold soaked paving stones chill her bare feet. A snail hangs on the edge of the watering can. Dew drops on the handles of her skipping rope. It is cold, she wants to go back in. They shouldn’t be out here.

  ‘Look over there, can you hear them?’

  Following his finger, there, against the fence, by the overgrown creeper, is movement.

  She rubs her arms, bumpy gooseflesh. A step closer. Mewling sounds.

  She gasps. ‘Kittens.’

  The boy is delighted. ‘You spoke! I did it! I knew I’d get you to talk.’

  Melody puts a hand over her mouth, like she’s broken a rule.

  ‘Do you want to help me name them?’

  She nods and points to one with a two white socks. ‘Socks.’

  ‘This one can be Roger.’

  She gives him a look.

  ‘Like Roger the Dodger from the Beano comic?’

  She shrugs, points at the next one. It’s obvious. ‘Snowy.’

  The boy names the last one Plug, and the litter is named. Socks crawls onto her lap, the others fuss and play.

  She gives Socks a squeeze, ruffles the head of Plug.

  It is all she can think of. At school she draws them all, individually and together in various states of play. Maths problems are done in kittens. Four kittens divided by two are two kittens. In the morning, she is first up, and plays with them before breakfast.

  After her porridge she clears her throat.

  ‘Please could I give the kittens some milk?’

  The lady stares. ‘Of course,’ she fetches a saucer, and some food scraps. ‘They’re getting milk from their mother but I suppose a bit extra won’t hurt now, will it?’

  Melody shows them how well she can skip. Counting up the tens into a hundred and beyond in her head. The kittens are playful, knocking over the watering can, tumbling off the little wall, squirming over one another.

  The boy appears at the doorway.

  ‘Cats are amazing. You know that they have a superpower that means they always land upright on their feet?’ He gathers up Roger, stroking him. ‘Watch this.’

  The boy stands up on the brickwork of the raised bed, reaches to the top of the fence and posts Roger over. There is a damp thud on the other side.

  ‘Did you hear that? No cry out in pain. Nothing. It just landed. Just you wait, in a couple of minutes it’ll be back over here.’

  It is the most amazing thing she’s ever heard. Melody bends down and strokes Socks, and knows she has to try. The boy weaves his fingers together to give her a bunk, and over Socks goes. She listens for the sound, smiles in amazement. The boy is really rather clever to know this.

  The boy posts over Plug, and she takes the last turn with Snowy.

  The mother cat is unsettled, roaming about looking for her babies. The yard is suddenly very empty without them. Some time passes. The kittens don’t reappear.

  ‘You know… it’s possible they haven’t learned to climb yet.’ The boy scratches his head. ‘They might be stuck in next door’s garden.’

  This horrifies her, but just then, the doorbell sounds.

  ‘Phew. I bet that’s Mr Larry next door bring them back round.’

  She races. The lady is there already. A man, grim, holds a shovel.

  The kittens are in a mangled mess, heaped one atop the other. She tries to put them back in order in her head, like a jigsaw puzzle.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ the lady says, and braces herself against the hallway wall. Melody hides behind her legs. ‘Don’t let the children see, Larry!’

  ‘They should see, was them what did it!’

  The lady turns.

  ‘She did it.’ The boy says, pointing at her. ‘I told her not to.’

  ‘Melody?’

  The kittens are gone forever. She is dropped glass about to shatter into a hundred little bits.

  4

  Melody

  Bubbles rise. The world above the film of water blurs and shifts. The ceiling spotlights are bright miniature suns. Surface. Her long black hair gathers on her shoulders. The ceiling could do with a freshen up. Something brighter, less creamy, maybe a Loft White by Little Greene.

  The free-standing bath is decadent. Brass feet on oak flooring. Steam rises, the disinfectant, working slowly. The great purge. She sniffs her skin. A little more. The dead calf has impregnated every pore. Dead.

  Martin is dead.

  ‘Do you want a drink? Something strong? Mel?’ Allison peeps around the bathroom door.

  ‘Somebody should tell the staff, Ally. I should call them.’

  ‘It’ll keep ‘til morning, let them have a good night’s sleep at least. It’s more than we’ll get.’

  ‘A Bloody Mary, then. But don’t you make it, you won’t do it right.’

  ‘Teach me.’

  ‘Hand me that towel.’

  There is comfort in the ritual. Ice cubes smoke at the bottom of the glass, Grey Goose vodka, organic tomato juice, Worcester sauce, squeeze of lemon, quarter of a teaspoon of horseradish, twist of black pepper
all mixed up into a red whirlpool with a crisp stick of celery. To finish, she laces the top of the ice cubes with Tio Pepe sherry, adds a little lemon zest, and pokes in a straw.

  ‘Try it.’

  Ally takes a sip, coughs. ‘Holy cow! Let me go again,’ takes another sip, ‘Wow… yes.’

  Melody tries it. It’s strong. A pinch over-peppered, but fortifying. A real slap across the cheeks.

  ‘Make me one.’

  ‘You need to drive home.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I’ll stay. Tristan can handle the girls.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’ But she’s already reaching for another glass.

  Cleopatra slaloms between her feet, leaning into her flesh. Warm. Alive.

  They clink glasses, a morbid toast to Martin. The Bose plays “Invisible Touch” by Genesis on her eighties playlist. Surreal. Like getting ready for a night out. He could almost burst in, take a sip from her glass and ask about their plans for the evening, passing imperious judgement on their restaurant options. ‘The Oriental Palace? We had a take-out from there about a month ago, didn’t we, Moody? Place has really gone downhill.’

  ‘How do you feel?’ Ally asks.

  ‘Like I want to get drunk.’

  Her phone rings.

  ‘Don’t answer it.’

  Melody ignores her. It’s Simon Bradshaw, a farmer near Pyecombe. Can she come?

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  Ally stares at her. ‘Tell me you’re not serious, Mel?’

  ‘I’m on call-out. Nature doesn’t care about our personal lives. Bradshaw’s got two in labour and one’s brought her calf bed out.’

  ‘Not to state the bleeding obvious, but Martin’s just died! You could at least take more than an hour off work!’

  ‘What difference does it make? Come on, Al, there’s time yet for something good to come from today.’

  ‘Bloody supervet. I’ll put these in the fridge for when we get back.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Please. You might be under the limit but there’s no way I’m letting you drive.’

  Al pulls the Defender out of the drive and takes a right onto Church Road.

  Melody pats her pockets. ‘Damn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I left my phone.’

  ‘Want me to turn and go back?’

  Bradshaw sounded desperate. Wasn’t one to make a fuss unnecessarily. ‘No… I know the way, let’s just get there. Every second counts.’

  An unmarked police car with blue lights on the dash shoots past them.

  5

  Astrid

  Astrid presses her ear to the door, tries the bell. Then knocks again.

  ‘Are you sure about the address? Medina Villas?’ She backpedals, squints at the top floor windows. Dark. No lights on.

  ‘This is definitely the listed address for Martin and Melody Kitteridge.’

  Astrid looks up and down the street. Perhaps the wife’s done a quick run to the off-licence.

  What a beautiful place to live. Victorian villas just metres from the seafront, very desirable. The innumerable estate agent signs all up the street attest to the normal fate of these villas; being carved up into apartments and studios. All except this one. A statement house. Must be worth well north of a million.

  ‘No car in the drive, either,’ Collins says.

  Again, a difference. The only house she can see with an actual drive, albeit a stubby one. The rest of the street is crowded with cars. Are they resented by their neighbours? Seen as haughty and rich?

  ‘Maybe she went to stay at her friend’s?’ Collins offers, blowing into his hands.

  ‘I’m going to try her mobile again.’

  The call connects, rings and rings and cuts through to an answer phone. Mrs Kitteridge’s voice is brisk, no-nonsense. This time Astrid leaves a message asking to be called back.

  She thumps the side of the car with her palm, takes a deep breath. ‘Tom Weston. He knows better, Charlie.’

  Collins jumps on the spot. ‘Got an idea.’ He rings Weston, asking if he’d taken a name or contact number for Mrs Kitteridge’s friend. He shakes his head, hangs up.

  ‘Urgh. Basics!’ She stares at the dark house, helpless. ‘What else can we do but wait for the RSPCA sweep?’

  ‘I have a suggestion.’

  ‘What?’ she snaps.

  ‘We could get something to eat. You’re hangry.’

  Collins chooses Nayeb’s, an upmarket kebab joint. It’s warm and close enough to the Kitteridge Practice, and that’s good enough for her.

  ‘Charlie!’ the guy behind the counter says, and offers Collins a handshake. ‘Good to see you, man. What’ll it be?’

  ‘Regular here, are we, Collins?’

  He gives an embarrassed smile. A TV blares out in the corner, a foreign news channel. A group of four men in leather jackets sit at the back with plates of rice, salad, and meat, conversing loudly in Arabic. On the wall: photos of a palace, and a city underneath a snow-capped mountain. Tehran?

  They take a table by one of the massive photo prints with their food and discuss a recent drug bust, right before she got called up to act as DI. It was a terraced rental with the carpets stripped out. Almost every inch of available floor space was dedicated to growing marijuana plants under heat lamps.

  ‘Very entrepreneurial. You have to admire it, a little,’ Collins says between mouthfuls, yoghurt and chilli sauce dripping out of the seam of the wrap.

  The court case is in a week, just a formality, but it’s one she’ll have mixed feelings about. On paper, a good bust, a street value of a few hundred grand. When she strips it back, it was a Vietnamese family of immigrants with no real connections to organised crime. Just a family business in a black market that had got big enough to blip on their radar. Of course, she couldn’t say any of this to anyone – Jenna excepted – because it wasn’t her role to judge.

  ‘And what do you make of this snake circus with the vet? Food’s good, no?’

  Astrid takes a sip from her Coke. ‘It’s a weird one.’ She dips the meat in yoghurt and spears lettuce. Bites, thinking. ‘You first.’

  ‘Mostly about the snake. What type, how’d it get there?’

  ‘And was it the cause of death?’

  Collins jabs a finger at her twice, ‘Was it the ultimate cause of death?’

  ‘And where is the wife?’ She picks up her phone. ‘And why the hell isn’t she answering my calls or trying to get back to me?’

  Her phone bursts into life, slips from her hands, and into a dollop of yoghurt.

  Collins stifles a laugh.

  ‘Don’t.’ She wipes it on a napkin. Answers. ‘Van Doren.’

  It’s Tom Weston. Voice chastened, contrite. ‘Ma’am, the RSPCA chap’s just finished. The paramedic’s certified the death and forensics teams are in there now.’ Ma’am? He must be feeling embarrassed. ‘Be there in ten.’

  ‘Here.’ Astrid offers the cardboard tray to the rookie.

  ‘Thanks, ma’am.’ She takes a coffee, a sugar packet, and a stirrer.

  ‘Did you see the body, Constable?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And are you doing okay? First time can always be an experience.’

  ‘Would you be asking me that if I was a man?’

  ‘Oh, I like you.’ She pats her on the shoulder. ‘You’re going to be fine.’

  Astrid joins Weston, the Crime Scene Manager and Clive from the RSPCA, who’d also dealt with the Kemptown python. They each take a coffee, leaving a couple for the forensics team.

  ‘Clive, we should really stop meeting like this. Find anything?’

  ‘I swept every room twice. If I’ve missed it, then it would have to be in a very, very small space.’

  ‘And it’s definitely a snake?’ Collins asks.

  ‘Oh yes. I’ve seen the bites. The spacing suggests something at least medium sized, the head would have
to be,’ he holds his fingers a couple of inches wide, ‘roughly this size at a guess. Whole thing is probably a couple of metres long.’

  ‘Any way to tell what species?’ ‘Let’s go in and chat with the pathologist. Between us I think we have an idea or two.’

  Astrid climbs into new coveralls and gloves, and stretches on overshoes. Malone, the CSM, clears the forensics people and the scene photographer out of the room. The pathologist stands by the body and is on the phone, holding up a finger to give him a second.

  ‘DS Van Doren,’ he says, after ending his call. She doesn’t correct him on her Acting rank.

  ‘Dr Hall.’

  ‘Just giving the lab a heads up. The blood sample’s on its way.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Bike courier. It’s golden hour. Time was of the essence.’ He beckons them over. ‘I understand we might have a snake on the loose, so determining the species seemed paramount.’

  ‘Indeed. Clive here tells me you have an idea?’

  ‘The inflammation around the bites themselves suggests venom, but also look here. See this slight puffiness around the eyes?’

  She actually hadn’t on her initial inspection, but now it had been pointed out to her, there did appear so be some thickness to the eyelids.

  ‘Early stage of ptosis. It’ll get worse, even after death. Then there’s this.’ He opens the mouth, and shines in a torch and feels the tongue. ‘Swollen and stiff.’

  Clive chips in, ‘There are three main types of venomous snake, but these features are indicative of neurotoxic venom. Elapidae or elapids are the most likely family.’

  ‘Elapids?’

  ‘Black mambas, taipans, cobras and a lot of sea snakes. They tend to have shorter fangs, the puncture wounds of the bites are relatively shallow, so I’d say it’s a pretty good bet. We’ll know for sure with an enzyme immunoassay.’

  Black mambas? Cobras? In Hove? She shudders. ‘What’s an enzyme immune-wassit, or do I not need to know?’

  ‘We use enzyme labelled antibodies and antigens to detect the biological molecules distinct to a specific species. The enzymes remain active for a period after death, not indefinitely. Hence Dr Hall’s rush with the blood sample.’