Matthew still wore pyjamas at the breakfast table. He looked up with eyes rubbed so red they were almost bruised. "Did you find her?"
Eric shook his head, dropping a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder. "She’ll be around somewhere. You know her, she probably followed someone home and scabbed dinner and a warm bed."
Matthew dropped a spoon into his cereal bowl, splashing a corona of milk around the table. "How did she get out anyway?"
Eric didn’t remember if he’d checked the gate when he’d let Hayley out. She ran into the yard happily and he went back to alternating between reps on the rowing machine, scanning JobFinder.com.au, and running surgical strike missions with his Acts of War Online clan.
Now wasn’t the time to cede his authority. "Mate, we’ve been over this. Dogs are smart and curious, they find ways to get out. Hayley will come home when she gets hungry. Now get yourself ready for school and I’ll walk down with you. We can keep an eye out for her on the way."
Matthew’s mood improved when Eric pointed out his posters.
"Did you check the charge on your phone, Dad? Someone might call." A flashing warning light heralded its imminent failure. Matthew rolled his eyes. "Charge it when you get home," he said as they parted company at the school gate. "Don’t forget, okay?"
Okay. It was a simple way to avoid disappointing his son. And still, he nearly forgot. He stopped by the letter box to collect the mail, dropped his keys as he opened the front door, and tripped on the cracked tile in the doorway he’d promised Craig he could fix. He almost put the phone down with the rest of the paraphernalia when it buzzed a message alert.
The message displayed an unlisted number. No text, just a file format he didn’t know. He spam-filed it. Then he connected the depleted phone to his office computer, relieved to have remembered his promise.
He called the study nook next to the lounge his office; it was a workstation inset into the wall with a small shelf stacked high with job centre forms, discarded applications, and computer game walkthrough guide magazines. On one side hung photos of Craig, Matthew, and Matthew’s mother Gemma, all fading fast as the cheap department store photo paper lost its grip on their images. Discarded pens, bulldog clips, and employment agents’ business cards occupied the space around the keyboard and mouse. What little desktop remaining visible was spattered with coffee rings and energy bar crumbs.
Using his coffee mug to clear space for itself, he sat down to work. His inbox highlighted communications from job registries as urgent; Craig set it up to save time. Today it was empty, so he checked the community calendar website, where temporary vacancies and casual labour jobs were sometimes listed.
No bites. He made a note of the unsuccessful search. Craig made him keep a job diary.
Then an article headline caught his eye: "Council spokesman denies animal cull". He scanned the first few paragraphs. Across the surrounding suburbs, dogs were being reported missing. Rates payers were pointing fingers at the local council, accusing them of everything from failing to act to conducting an indiscriminate roundup of pets.
Eric’s read on into the comments section. A couple of readers claimed their dogs had gone missing in recent days. Many more chimed in to retort their pets were safe and well, bluntly calling into question the previous commenters’ fitness to own animals. There was nothing useful after that.
He typed his own reply into the forum, adding his voice to the demand the council increase patrols for missing animals. Committing to the comment left him with a small sense of accomplishment. Not as good as finding Hayley, but something.
The whole business had ruined him for the day’s job-seeking grind. The prospect of trawling through search after search of employer websites was too much.
Instead, he ran through a quick workout on the elliptical trainer and took a shower.
He’d just logged into AoWO with his combat medic build when his mobile phone rang. With one hand, he typed a quick greeting to his clan mates already gathered for the morning’s skirmishing. With the other, he scooped up the phone and thumbed the answer button without looking: "Hello. Eric."
"Have you found your dog yet?" The man’s voice sounded cool, almost disinterested, and distant as a speaker phone in another room. It was nobody Eric knew.
"Not yet," Eric said, fossicking for a pen. "Have you seen her? She’s about five, a golden retriever cross with big ears–"
The voice interrupted, "Is this her?"
A peal of hoarse barks like a mulcher choking on a tree burst from the phone. Overwhelmed speakers cut in and out as the sound resolved into a castanet-rattle of hacking coughs.
"Hayley?"
Eric clapped a hand to his mouth and dropped the phone. It bounced from the keyboard toward the floor, swinging on its charging cable. Hoarse moans, grunts and ragged, breathless growls still came through with awful clarity.
He clawed up the phone with shaking fingers and looked at the number of the incoming call. Hayley’s voice had subsided to a disturbing rhythm of half-howls too starved of breath to reach their former volume.
Private caller. No number.
Eric yelled, "Who is this? Where’s my–"
The call disconnected.
His left hand hurt. He looked at it and saw a flattened ring of purpling tooth marks gouged into the flesh of his palm. An itch like busy mosquitoes spread from his ears to his shoulder blades. He tried to rise from his chair. His legs wouldn’t take his weight.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the crescent imprint of his own teeth.
One ferocious laugh, a guffaw that stretched the skin of his ribs, emptied his lungs.
#
Eric popped the lid of a plastic tea container and found nothing more substantial than a whiff of stale leaves. He shut the lid with shaking hands.
Returning the call had gone through to a message service with no message. After a long wait, an electronic voice informed him the recipient's full inbox had discarded his recording. He tried three times without success.
He called Craig. The call diverted straight to his messages. Eric wondered how Craig’s clients managed if they could never even get through to his assistant.
Should he try Gemma? Even if she answered – and he knew she wouldn’t – what would he say? He couldn’t ask her for help. That bridge burned down long ago and blew away on a gale of solicitor letters and court hearings.
Gripping the kitchen bench with one hand, he fished more plastic jars from the overhead pantry. The collection soon covered the narrow bench space. He clawed one lid off after another, finding water crackers, imported salt flakes, and a set of herb-infused vinaigrettes in designer bottles.
There must be some plain black tea stashed somewhere.
Craig considered the kitchen his domain. He’d equipped it with utensils and appliances endorsed by the best celebrity chefs. After every business trip, he returned with another jar of locally-sourced jams, preserves or olive oil. A meticulous organisation sorted the pantry by size and contents, everything labelled and dated. Marco Polo would have envied Craig’s spice shelf.
Eric did most of cooking using a basic utensils drawer. The only time Craig put his kitchen to use was for the dinner parties he threw for rich friends or important clients. Depending on the progressiveness of the client’s views and whether Craig wanted to talk business, he might sometimes invite Eric to join him. As far as he knew, Matthew had never tasted anything Craig cooked.
The odd night off would be nice but responsibility for Matthew's welfare was his alone. By unspoken agreement, Craig put a roof over their heads and nothing more. When things with Gemma went from bad to crazy, Eric grabbed the lifeline Craig threw and held on with both hands. He knew better than to mess it up by asking for more than he was offered.
The last container rattled as he unclipped the spring seal, releasing an altogether different scent. He retrieved a packet of cigarettes, still wrapped in its plastic sheath. The cover depicted a mouthful of cracked teeth jutting like
flood debris from wasted black gums. Conspicuous letters threatened disease and addiction.
They weren’t his. He’d given up ages ago, quitting cold turkey almost by accident during the chaos of his divorce. In eight months of drama, smoking was the one small thing he stayed in control of. Every accusation, every disbelieving scream, even both slaps – he swallowed them and turned them into a refusal for the next smoke. It worked.
If they were Craig’s, wouldn’t he smell them on his breath and clothes? When Eric quit, suddenly everything he owned reeked. The stink still lingered on some of his favourite clothes. Mouth to mouth, head to head, together with Craig almost every night. He would smell tobacco, wouldn’t he? Yes. Surely yes.
That left Matthew, who was twelve and angry.
Eric drained a glass of water, contemplating and rejecting parental strategies. His mobile shivered against his thigh.
"Hello." His subdued greeting received no response. He rolled his wrist around to look at the screen. Anonymous again. A grey thumbnail image revealed nothing.
A soundless video played without prompting. The monochrome blurs of the thumbnail resolved into silent movement.
Hayley circled on a concrete floor painted with puddles of various shades, her blonde fur matted and dishevelled. Her teeth were bared, gums rimmed with froth and muzzle dark and dripping.
She drew down low onto her haunches, ears flat against her head, eyes steady and staring. Bars rose behind her. The camera shook, losing her image and returning to it in an instant.
Hayley inched forward, the fur at her throat ruffling as she snarled, her whole frame poised and quivering. The tension in her posture, the vicious power she held in bare restraint, was alien to her usual placid indolence.
She opened her mouth in an unheard bark and leapt forward. Another shape, some kind of long-haired, long-faced, European hunting dog, crashed into her, jaws first. Its hair looked as though it had been well-groomed a few minutes earlier.
The dogs bounced off each other and rolled apart. Legs splayed and thrashed as they regained their footing.
Hayley rushed forward and clamped her teeth on the side of the other dog’s head. The unsteady camera obscured things. When they parted, a slick of dark fluid trailed in the wake of Hayley’s jaws. Blood gouted from the ragged hole where the other dog’s ear had been.
The camera held on the other dog as it let rip with an inaudible peal of full-throated protests, its jaws working away like it ate the air. Hayley swept in low, her head rolled sideways to get a clear shot at the other dog’s throat. It backed off, rolling its face away to deflect her assault onto the scruff of its neck. She twisted and drilled her snout up under its chin. Her teeth caught hold. Fresh blood jetted from either side of her muzzle.
Hayley bore the other dog to the ground, forcing it with unrelenting jaws to roll onto its back in helpless submission.
Eric felt a sense of breathless dread as the camera moved away from the struggling dogs. More dogs were inside the cage or pen, whatever it was. Every size and breed imaginable, from pocket novelty breeds to cavaliers, cattle dogs and hulking mastiffs. They circled the fight, staring intently.
The picture finally stopped on an enormous hound resting on its haunches. Half as big again as its largest companion, the beard-muzzled wolf hound held itself with a lean muscularity. Its thick hair curled into an incongruous perm. Its lower jaw hung open, tongue panting as it watched.
The video froze on the large dog’s intent glare. No matter which way Eric tilted the phone, those eyes remained fixed on him.
The phone vibrated. Eric’s hand recoiled as if bitten. He dropped it on the stack of leftover posters, mud-spattered and curling at the edges.
Eric squeezed his eyes shut, breathing fast and heavy as he tried to push back against panic rising like a snake. His drumming fingers became slapping palms, hammering the kitchen bench as if beating the sensation from his hands could drive out the image of the dogfight.
And another image: Matthew’s face, crushed and anxious.
Something buckled inside Eric. Outrage and horror ran in parallel.
Who would do something like that to innocent dogs? Who would send him something like–
His eyes snapped open and fixed on the topmost poster. He pushed the phone out of the way, clearing the decks for a close inspection.
House line. Craig’s work number. No mobile contact details.
So how did the dog-torturer know who to call?
Eric snatched up the phone and thumbed through to the log files. The number was unlisted. He selected the log entry and hit the redial icon anyway.
It began to ring, displaying a number that hadn’t been there a moment before.
He pressed the phone against his ear; it rang. His ears thundered and burned. He felt light-headed as the call connected and a woman began to say: "Hello?"
"What kind of bloody fucking monster are you?" his voice erupted from him, louder than he meant. "Where’s my dog? What the hell have you done with her, you–?"
A voice pushed through the haze roaring in his eardrums, calm but firm and urgent. "Please calm down, sir. I understand you’re upset. I want to help you, sir. Please calm down."
Eric heard himself trail off, as if he were witnessing a distant argument draw to an unexpected standstill. The woman’s voice burred with a cool timbre and the hint of an Asian accent he couldn’t place. She said, "Thank you, sir. Now to whom am I speaking?"
Eric wasn’t ready to give ground. "Who am I speaking to?"
"My name is Chun, sir. You’ve called the Cooper Gardens Animal Control Centre. Do you have a concern about a dog?"
He caught himself stamping like he was working the kick-bass pedal in a heavy metal band. The tips of his fingers tingled. He loosened his grip on the phone.
Feigning calm until his nerves steadied, he explained about Hayley. He described her in detail, down to her favourite food, which was chicken mince, and her favourite toy, a clown doll made of rope and leather. He felt ridiculous. It was right there on her sleeping mat by the back door.
"I’m very sorry, Mister Ullman. We don’t have a dog fitting Hayley’s description with us at the moment."
Eric asked for the depot’s address. With only the slightest pause, Chun gave it to him. Eric wrote it down and hung up.
The phone chimed immediately. "Craig? You won’t believe–"
"Is there something wrong with you?"
"Craig, love, I’ve had a really difficult morning–"
"Shut up. I’ve been calling for twenty minutes." Craig’s voice had a down-low pitch that sometimes meant he was horny but more often signalled anger.
"Eric, I have a project board meeting in six minutes. Dealing with your shit is messing up my preparation."
"Craig, what are you calling about?"
"The school, Eric. They called me on my office phone. A number which I presume you gave to them."
"I gave your name as an emergency contact in case–"
"I worked that out for myself, thanks. Get my name off the list, Eric. I don’t want to be disturbed at work by a school principal who thinks I’m a free babysitter."
Eric’s teeth crushed back and forth. "What did they call about?"
"Matthew started a fight and hurt a kid. The principal wants to talk to you about suspension."
"Matthew started a fight?"
In the same tone he used to discipline incompetent interns, Craig said, "You need to sort this out, Eric. Take charge for once, okay? Straighten Matthew out."
#
"Is everything all right with your domestic situation, Mister Ullman?"
Eric cocked his head. His attention had wandered when he caught a glimpse of movement through the window. It was just a cat haring across the school courtyard.
"I’m sorry, Anne – my what situation?"
He shuffled in his chair, returning Principal Lynch’s cold frown with an apologetic nod. Beside him, Matthew let out a small hiss like a leaking bike valve
.
"Are you and your partner providing Matthew with a stable home environment, Mister Ullman?"
"What? I’m here to talk about Mattie."
Anne Lynch wrote something in tiny angular letters on a form. "That’s precisely what we’re talking about, Mister Ullman. Matthew has been exhibiting markedly abnormal behaviour. In my experience, when a child demonstrates temperamental changes of this sort, it’s invariably associated with something they’ve witnessed or experienced at home."
Eric felt a scratching sensation crawl down his back. "Matthew is upset because the family dog is missing. We’re all upset about Hayley."
"Matthew told me about the dog, Mister Ullman." The principal looked down at her form, took more notes and filled boxes with cross-marks. "Matthew’s teacher told me this has been going on for weeks."
"Matthew’s environment is very supportive." He pressed hands to knees to stop his legs shaking. "He has everything he needs at home."
She adjusted her glasses with a fingertip to each hinge. "I understand he has not had access to his mother in some time."
Matthew stared at the floor, his ears turning bright scarlet.
Eric said, "She’s missed her last couple of visiting weekends. It’s nothing, okay? Just ordinary mix-ups."
The principal leaned across her desk, a storm building across the equator of her face. "Mister Ullman, I don’t think there’s anything ordinary about this. Matthew bit another student in front of several witnesses. I’m afraid he is suspended from school for one week."
"You can’t do that."
"The suspension is mandatory and immediate. I’m also recommending you meet with a community service case worker."
Matthew snarled. Eric rose out of his chair to protest but the words weren’t there.
"Mister Ullman, your home life is not my concern. Matthew’s welfare is. I urge you to consider, are you are really setting a good example for him? Or are you just doing what you want to do?"
Eric blinked, willing strength back into his knees. "I don’t want any more counsellors around Matthew, Principal Lynch."
"I strongly suggest you see this one, Mister Ullman. If there is any repeat of his aberrant behaviour when Matthew returns, you will be looking for a new school."
Mnemo's Memory Page 19
