Dark Vet

by CJ Hannon

  ‘Got it. So, we’ll confirm the species. How soon?’

  ‘A unit at Falmer in the university will do the test for us tonight.’

  ‘Quick thinking, gents. Clive, is there anything behavioural about elapids that might indicate where it might hide?’

  ‘In the wild, they’d probably hide in burrows, under rocks and holes. So anywhere where there’s cover. My guess is, it must have got out before we arrived.’

  ‘What’s the risk to the public?’

  ‘The poor thing is probably scared.’

  She likes that he thinks of the snake’s welfare as much as the health of Joe Public.

  ‘It takes a lot of energy to produce venom, so it’ll be weak, it’ll take days to produce more. The main thing to consider right now is the cold. Elapids are tropical and sub-tropical. It’s barely three degrees tonight. If it’s outside it’ll go into brumation, a dormant state, and will die eventually unless it finds warmth and a food source.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like it’ll be slithering around George Street looking for a cappuccino, then. We need to keep this tight, no need to cause unnecessary panic. We’ll get a message out to any patrols covering Hove tonight. We will notify you the second there’s a sighting.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Clive, would you do a sweep of the immediate vicinity too, please? Let me know on my mobile if you find anything.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Dr Hall is tapping on his phone. ‘The photographer’s done. I’m going to get the body moved to the mortuary. I’ll conduct a post-mortem tomorrow. See you then, Detective?’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Astrid says, with what she hopes sounds like jokey bravado.

  Astrid and Collins give their protective equipment to the forensics team, who will test it for trace samples, and return to the pool car.

  ‘That it for us tonight then, guv?’

  She climbs into the passenger seat, the window covered in rain splatter, and pulls her jacket a little tighter around her chest. ‘Get that heater on, Collins.’

  Maybe it’s the dead body, maybe the cold, but getting back to her snug flat and lying under a thick duvet next to Jenna’s warm body can’t come quickly enough.

  ‘Drop me home, would you?’

  ‘You got it.’

  The Ford Focus pulls out, taking the seafront road. The sea and her mysteries lie beyond in the blackness. She raps at the window softly with a knuckle.

  ‘You’re thinking.’

  ‘That I am, Charlie,’ she sighs. ‘I’m wondering what worries me more. That we don’t know where the venomous snake is, or the wife.

  6

  Melody

  Melody wakes. The empty space in the bed next to her is formidable. She rises, brushes her hair straight, checks the clock. Late morning. Most unlike her, but then, there were extenuating circumstances. They hadn’t gotten back from Bradshaw’s farm until gone two am. And, of course, Martin was… gone.

  Gone too, is Ally. A note in the kitchen reads:

  Listen to music. Call me if you need. A x

  Foggy headed, she picks up her phone. Her home screen is mobbed with notifications and missed calls. For now, she ignores them, and makes the only call she has to.

  Hugh picks up immediately. ‘Melody? I’ve been trying to call all morning, what on earth has happened? There’s police tape blocking entrance to the practice.’

  ‘I know,’ she says, ‘I’ve got some difficult news to share.’

  ‘Please, God no. Not Martin, don’t say it’s Martin.’

  ‘He’s gone, Hugh.’

  Hugh’s breath catches, ‘But no. He can’t… How?’

  She tells Hugh how she’d found Martin the night before. ‘I know it is a lot to ask Hugh, but could you tell Kathy and Lydia for me?’ She imagines they’ve all encountered the same scene on arriving at work. Perhaps she should have told them the night before. ‘We’ll be shut, of course, until… you know, I have no idea. There’s just a lot to process, and practicalities to attend to.’

  ‘Leave it with me. The appointments, your call-out duties, I’ll get it all covered, just forget the practice for now, Melody. Just…I can’t believe it.’ His voice wobbles a little and cuts off with a sob.

  Word spreads fast. Her phone rings and peeps with message notifications. She ignores them all, she doesn’t want to speak to anybody.

  She makes a simple brunch; staring at the eggs jostling and bobbing in the boiling pan until the timer goes.

  Dining room table. The lonely clink of cutlery on crockery. Cleopatra hops up on the chair next to her, curls into a ball. Melody chews, runs her hand over her warm, soft fur. It is too quiet.

  She twists the radio on. Vintage U2, before the decade turned and all music curdled. After, she rinses the plate and starts to stack it in the dishwasher, then opts to wash it up in the sink instead. No need now. It’s just her.

  Time to face the music. She listens to her voicemails, four are from a detective with Sussex CID, increasing in urgency and exasperation. Better call this one back.

  ‘DI Van Doren.’

  ‘Hello, this is Melody Kitteridge, responding to your voicemail.’

  ‘Mrs Kitteridge.’ There is a high level of surprise in her voice. Between a seven and an eight. ‘Thanks for finally getting back to me.’

  ‘Finally?’

  ‘Mrs Kitteridge, I have a rather urgent question that couldn’t wait, and yet I struggled to get hold of you last night and this morning.’

  ‘It’s been a strange time. I’m ready to talk to you now.’

  ‘At the practice, do you keep any snakes on the premises?’

  She takes a beat to process the question. ‘Snakes? No. We don’t. Occasionally someone brings in a milk or corn snake but we tend to recommend Crawley or Kemptown for anything really exotic. Why do you ask?’

  ‘And no snake at home?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘And when you discovered your husband’s body, you didn’t notice anything moving in the room?’

  ‘Why would‒ I think you’d better explain what’s happening here, Detective.’

  A pause in which she senses the shape of a mouthed swear word on the other end. ‘Your husband had some unusual bites on his leg.’

  ‘Snake bites?’

  ‘Probably. Post-mortem is scheduled to take place in the next hour or two; but the official report could take a while.’

  ‘Venomous, if you think it killed him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kitteridge, but we don’t yet have the full picture. Suffice it to say, we’re extremely focused on trying to find it. We have a team sweeping the local area.’

  ‘It’d be too cold for it to survive long outside.’

  ‘I’d like to meet and follow up on your initial statement,’ Astrid says, ignoring her helpful observation. ‘We may know more then.’

  They arrange a time to meet at the house, and the detective ends the call.

  Melody raps her fingers on the table. Thinking. Cleopatra stares, then closes her eyes, indifferent to this revelatory news.

  With the practice closed, home reminds her of Martin. So, she runs.

  Melody plants a trainer on the beach wall, stretches into her calf muscle. “Africa” by Toto plays through her headphones. She hasn’t been to any classes with Ally for a couple of weeks now. This will test her fitness.

  She takes off, jogging past wrapped-up dog walkers, being passed by electric scooters and cyclists. Frost lurks in the shadows, hiding from the weak sun. A Martin-less world. The very fact of him, gone. Impossible.

  Her, a widow at thirty-eight.

  Alone. Free. Terrified. Excited.

  The sea is a deep Cook’s Blue by Farrow & Ball. On the mudflats two men in wax jackets are out with spades digging for lugworms. At Hove lagoon a windsurfing lesson is underway; a girl in a wetsuit wobbles, falls and the sail timbers into the water after her. The world still carr
ying on, like nothing had happened.

  Sea air to drink by the lungful. “Africa” ends, and the shuffle serves up “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” by The Smiths. Death anthem. Was there nothing algorithms wouldn’t leave their pawprints on?

  Breathing harder now. Her arm throbs in time to her blood pumping, off beat to the drums.

  Just keep running.

  It’s supposed to clear her mind but instead practicalities flood in. Her in-laws Harold, and bitchface Susan. The staff: Hugh, Kathy, and Lydia. And Kitteridge’s? It would be entirely hers now. Should she bring in a new vet to replace Martin? Sacrilege to think something so soon. There was a funeral to arrange. If she could just fast-forward a few months, or even a year, she’d do it in a heartbeat.

  She spins suddenly, taken off balance and it takes a moment to realise: someone has grabbed her.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  He’s tall, in a thick black coat with the hood pulled up. A crescent scar on his chin, a sleeper earring. Pug-like.

  Melody removes her earphones, and repeats, voice sharp to cut, ‘Excuse me!’

  ‘Mrs Kitteridge?’ he has a low gravelly voice.

  This checks her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sorry to grab you like that. I didn’t think you’d hear me with your music on.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘An acquaintance of your husband. Your late husband, as I understand. We were sad to hear about it.’

  ‘We?’ She looks around. It’s just him.

  ‘Have you heard the name Richie Sheridan?’

  ‘By reputation…’ Her eyes narrow. ‘You work for him? What do you want?’

  ‘To talk about the Napoleonic code.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘In marriage a woman and a man share their assets, what’s his is hers and hers is his. Nice and simple, like. We’d like to offer our condolences while reminding you of your husband’s obligations.’

  ‘Obli–’ Martin’s gambling. ‘How much does he owe?’

  Pug hands her a piece of folded paper, she opens it and gapes at the number.

  ‘But…’

  Pug holds up his hands. ‘It’s already overdue, but Mr Sheridan is not… shall we say insensitive to your predicament. He can be a reasonable man.’

  Oh Martin… what did you get yourself into?

  ‘The first five grand as a show of good faith, within forty-eight hours.’

  She holds up the paper; the total, an astronomical sum.

  ‘If you don’t believe the number, just ask his mate. He’ll tell you. Two days. I’ll text you the address.’ And Pug is gone.

  You don’t have my number.

  And his mate? Which mate?

  Then it hits her who he means.

  7

  Melody

  Hastings 1990

  Winter gives way to a chilly Spring, but Melody cannot forget. Those poor kittens. She wakes, desperate to cry but it’s like the tears are blocked by some machinery.

  It was all the boy’s fault. He got away with it.

  Above. The underside of the top bunk. She imagines a spike skewering up straight through the middle. She plots, finds a small box of tacks. Considers hiding them in his bed. Tests it by pushing two of them into her arm. The pain is sharp, but not unbearable. It isn’t enough.

  When the mother cat appears in the yard, it overwhelms her. The guilt is an over-stretched balloon.

  It was all the boy’s fault.

  The idea comes while staring at the hearth.

  One night, she stays awake, listens out for the sign that the lady has gone to bed. The boy has a cold. His wheezy breathing is rhythmical.

  Downstairs. Orange smiles under the grey coals, their tops dusted with ash. Dusted. Snow. Like Christmas. She removes the fire guard, stands it to the side, thrusts the poker into the centre. Embers crackle and spit. She waits, then tests the heat with hovering hands. She carries the poker, creeping up the stairs. The shadow on the wall is a hero with a sword. The tip glows red, leads her. Like Rudolph’s nose.

  It still glows in the bedroom. Gently, so gently, on tiptoes, she peels back the duvet. Hard to reach. The boy’s arm flops, dangles down. The perfect height. A sign. This is just. Not willing to let it cool any longer, Melody grips his wrist then holds the tip of the poker to the forearm. Presses it in.

  Flesh singes, hisses. Then comes the scream.

  They try and punish her. She is sent to bed straight after supper for a week. Her skipping rope is confiscated. The lady asks and asks, but she is silent. The boy’s arm is wrapped in a bandage and he is watchful of her, wary.

  When the lady dozes one afternoon, glass smashes. The boy has a cricket bat and jars. He lays out a carpet of jagged shards in the spots where mother cat usually drops down from the fence.

  The woman with the frizzy hair appears. There is some problem with the lady; she can’t look after them anymore.

  Melody packs her belongings and waits at the appointed hour in the sitting room. The boy sits too, his own bag at his feet. He is going somewhere different.

  ‘Can I see it?’ She knows this will be her only chance.

  He raises an eyebrow, roughly yanks up a sleeve.

  The scar is shaped like a rocket. Red. Underwhelming.

  He pulls his sleeve back down and stares daggers at her.

  The lady comes in, and hands Melody her skipping rope, bunched up together. She takes it, stuffs it into the top of her bag.

  The lady cries. ‘I’m sorry. Just so sorry.’

  But why? She has nothing to be sorry for, she didn’t kill the kittens. The lady hugs her, she accepts it, dislikes the sensation, the smells, the closeness.

  Frizzy Hair takes her away.

  ‘They’re a very nice couple, they’ve got three other foster kids. All boys. I think they were desperate to have a girl in the house, truth be told.’

  Off the main road, streets corkscrew away. They take one. Terraced houses with plastic cladding and neat gardens. She gets out and hoists her bag on her shoulder, nearly topples over.

  ‘Let me,’ Frizzy Hair says.

  She sniffs. Briny air. The sea must still be close.

  A man and a woman wave from a doorway. They look tired. The man is slightly balding with big hands. The woman has a crooked nose, but pretty eyes. They give her a tour and a long list of rules. The boys aren’t in, so as not to overwhelm her. They’re all much older. She is shown a framed photograph. The oldest one is scary-looking. The sort of face that might appear on the evening news.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything, young lady?’ the woman says.

  She shakes her head; hands back the photo.

  ‘She’ll talk when she’s ready,’ Frizzy Hair says.

  Her room is shared with the youngest of the boys. She won’t bother with names. Not yet.

  Posters of aggressive-looking rock bands cover the wall around his bed. Hers is bare. Stained wallpaper, spent Blu-Tack and pins. Must all the walls in her life be ugly? She must be replacing someone. One out, one in.

  ‘Oh!’ A cat appears. She bends to stroke it.

  The adults all exchange a look.

  ‘You like cats, don’t you?’ Frizzy Hair says.

  She gathers it in her lap, strokes its grey fur.

  ‘That’s our cat, Ashy,’ the woman says.

  ‘Perhaps Melody could help feed it, help take care of it?’ Frizzy Hair suggests.

  ‘Is she, you know, capable?’ the man asks.

  Melody hugs it. The purrs are perhaps the most soothing of sounds. She loves it. Instantly and unconditionally.

  Their cat? Not anymore. It’s hers. And she will protect it. Nobody will harm this one. Nobody.

  8

  Astrid

  Astrid steps out onto the balcony. Jenna’s messily tied hair whips in the breeze. She taps her cigarette into an ashtray. She’s in a black T-shirt, denim dungarees. She is so beautiful,
Astrid’s heart aches.

  Astrid steals the cigarette and takes a drag.

  ‘Morning to you too.’

  Below, Brighton Marina is chock full of moored boats. Rigging whips and clangs.

  ‘Christ, it’s cold out here.’

  ‘That’s it. Last one ever. I’ve just quit,’ Jenna says.

  She might respond with a Yeah right, but if Jenna said this was her last one, then that’s what it would be.

  ‘And there was me cadging the last couple of drags off you.’ Astrid scrunches it against the brickwork. ‘You want to frame the stub?’

  ‘Just bin it. I’ll make breakfast.’

  BBC Radio 6 Music is playing prog rock. Jenna cracks eggs into a bowl, whisks, dunks in some bread.

  Astrid fills up their mugs with coffee, gets the milk from the fridge. Duck fillets? A whole coconut, half a pineapple, ginger, lemongrass, and chillies. Her heart sinks.

  ‘Is it tonight that Caz and Sam are coming round?’

  ‘It’s been in the diary forever.’

  Astrid pinches the bridge of her nose. Caz and Sam – though lovely – were in the slightly nauseating honeymoon glow of their recent marriage. Jenna had been inviting them over more and more often as if signalling, without consultation, a shift in their own relationship; fewer wild nights out and more dinner parties. For her, it was an uneasy metamorphosis not helped by the expectations of her work. Acting up to DI was a live audition. Her commitment, work ethic and intelligence were constantly under the spotlight. It was work with little respect for diaries.

  ‘Christ. Sorry, not enough sleep. I knew that.’ She thinks. If she busted her arse all day, barring anything unforeseen, she could probably be back in time.

  Jenna flips the toast in the pan. Jaw set. Astrid knows Jenna. Every corner of the labyrinth. Jenna will want to say, Make sure you get home on time, but won’t, hating the idea of being some domesticated “other” to the busy cop.