Shelter

by Rhyll Biest

She swung the door with its heavy steel bars and stepped inside her new workplace.

  Disinfectant settled over her, pungent and yet unable to entirely mask the scent of anxious animal pheromones and pee. What the disinfectant missed, stark fluorescent lights vaporised.

  Eyes turned her way, but she studied the pets rather than their seated owners. Two Angora rabbits, one morbidly obese cattle dog, a spooked crated Burmese, a shivering toy poodle. All the four-legged visitors had either been brought in for veterinary treatment in the attached clinic, or to be surrendered to the shelter. A few might be lucky enough just to be boarding with the commercial kennel and cattery in the building out the back.

  She approached the desk where two receptionists wearing seen-it-all faces stood. Her brain did its usual thing and classified them according to what she imagined they’d be most likely to try to smuggle through customs and quarantine.

  The heavy-set brunette with a rockabilly beehive, a rainbow of tattoos on her arms, and a name tag that read Sharon, would be most likely to smuggle counterfeit designer handbags. Not a quarantine issue unless they were made from untreated hides, which would be most unlikely. More of a customs issue. Kat admired her tattoos but getting inked was not for her. Tattoos carried the potential risk of infection with HIV, hepatitis B, hepatitis C, staph (including drug-resistant Staphylococcus aureus), and tuberculosis.

  Sharon didn’t look Kat’s way, kept busy by a thin man in a singlet and grubby, threadbare tracksuit pants with a folded magazine shoved down the back of the waistband.

  Kat picked him for the type to smuggle rare lizards—also down his pants.

  The other receptionist—a spritely, greying woman in her fifties whose badge read Beth—frowned at something the man said before smiling at Kat. ‘Hi, how can I help you?’

  Kat wanted to smile back but the man’s posture ate at the edges of her vision. He was leaning too far over the counter, his neck and shoulders overly tense, his chin thrust too far forward, his face inches from Sharon’s.

  He was ‘danger close’.

  If Kat were the receptionist, she’d have told him to back it up, but she wasn’t.

  Ignore him.

  She kept her eyes on Beth—who could be the sort to not declare plant-based medicinal items. ‘Hi, I’m Kat Daily, the new inspector. I’m here for my induction.’

  Beneath her stylish pixie cut, the woman’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘Oh, Kat, I’m Beth, we’ve spoken by phone a couple of times. Lovely to meet you.’ The woman’s gaze swept over her and Kat was pretty sure she heard cogs grinding as the receptionist took in her too young, too slight appearance.

  ‘If you go to the door on the right, I’ll buzz you through.’

  Kat nodded and waited, stepped through the door once it opened. It closed behind her with such a heavy thud that she glanced back. Was that the sound of steel reinforcement?

  Beth caught her glance and explained. ‘Each door has a one-way lock so you can retreat through the building if you need to. The doors are also double reinforced to help prevent the spread of fire. We had a bushfire rip through here about two years ago and thought we’d lose the building. The fire department recommended these doors.’

  Kat nodded, still hung up on the words ’retreat through the building’. There was only one reason she could think of for having to retreat—because someone was chasing after her with a machete and a Jack Nicholson grin.

  ‘Follow me.’

  As Kat followed the receptionist her gaze was drawn to the pager clipped to Beth’s waistband bumping against her petite hip. Who would be paging the receptionist? One of the vets?

  Beth stopped in front of a giant steel filing cabinet to slide the top drawer out and Kat was inappropriately reminded of a morgue scene out of a crime show. This is your vic, detective, as you can see she died of multiple stab wounds delivered by a posse of RSPCA haters.

  ‘This is for you.’ Beth handed her a pager of her own. ‘All staff wear a personal panic alarm while in the building. Pro-active activation is required. See these two buttons? You have to press both buttons and hold for thirty seconds to place a direct call to the Walgarra Police Station. The two-button press is so you don’t accidentally butt-dial the cops.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And don’t be pressing it so you can flirt with the police when they arrive. Sharon tried that and they were not amused.’

  Kat nodded in what she hoped was an intelligent way and clipped it to her waistband. ‘Have you ever had to press yours?’

  ‘Once or twice.’ Beth’s tone remained matter-of-fact. ‘In the ten years we’ve been here there’s been sixteen incidents of assault and more verbal threats than anyone could be bothered to count.’

  ‘Anyone hurt bad? Besides, you know …’ The murdered inspector.

  Beth nodded. ‘Facial lacerations from bird shot.’

  A face full of bird shot? Kat hadn’t read about that one. She wanted to ask more but didn’t want to sound too interested. They were probably already taking bets on how long the new inspector would last, and truthfully she had no idea herself whether she had what it took. She was going to find out the hard way.

  They ’retreated’ behind another secure door, Beth setting a brisk pace despite her small stature. ‘When you’re out and about you’ll carry pepper spray but if you’re working inside this building you’ll wear the pager with its panic button.’

  ‘Got it.’ She’d never been one for accessories but she’d get used to it.

  ‘Any questions?’

  Her bladder chimed up. ‘Bathroom?’

  ‘Long drive, huh? This way.’

  Following her, Kat eyed the white board dominating the room, a list of names on a weekly schedule for clinic, surgery and a couple of abbreviations she couldn’t decipher.

  Beth nodded at the board. ‘The roster changes weekly and we send out an electronic version to staff. We have a few part-timers and volunteers, so it’s the best way to find out who’s on duty at reception, the clinic and elsewhere, and at what time. As you can see there’s a largish number of staff here what with the reception, admin, nurses, cleaners, kennel hands, dog trainers, volunteers and maintenance staff. Plus the other inspectors.’

  Kat nodded. As a newbie she’d be the junior inspector, learning on the job after spending a couple of days with a senior inspector. ‘Any other inspectors around at the moment?’

  Beth pursed her lips as she squinted at the board. ‘Evert, maybe.’

  ‘His name is Evert?’

  ‘Sorry, Nick is his first name but we often call people by their surname here. It’s what you see on the roster all the time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Beth smiled. ‘You’ll find yourself being called Daily after a while.’

  Lucky her last name wasn’t Crapp, Stains or Blows.

  The receptionist held up a white plastic-bound folder. ‘Now, this is your bible. It’s got every scrap of information you need to know about this place plus a whole bunch of information you’ll probably never need. Read through the sections marked with red carefully, that’s the stuff you’ve gotta know, like what to do if your ride gets stolen and that sort of thing.’

  If her car got stolen? She thought that sort of thing didn’t happen in rural areas. In time, Walgarra would no doubt disabuse her of all her quaint misconceptions about country life.

  Beth handed the folder over with a smile. ‘Welcome to the team.’

  A flush warmed Kat’s ears, part pride at the knowledge she was doing something important, and part terror at fucking it up. ‘Thanks, I’m looking forward to working with you all.’

  Beth laughed, though not unkindly. ‘That just proves you don’t know us yet.’

  Kat summoned a faint smile.

  Beth grinned. ‘Okay, I better get back to reception before Sharon comes and hunts me down. You’ve got the code in your folder to access all areas, so just take a wander. If you want to chat with some of the other staff you’ll probably find them around the kennels and other areas
.’

  Beth hustled out and Kat flipped through her folder to find the code. Four digits. Yet another set of numbers to memorise.

  She found the bathroom and used it—along with the mini sachet of hand sanitiser she always kept in her bra—before returning to the tea room, a narrow space of polished laminate tables and linoleum wedged between cinderblock walls painted institutional green. A décor style known as ’invitation to clinical depression’. No staff. She glanced at her watch. Maybe 2.30 pm was too late for lunch and too early for afternoon tea.

  She hefted the white plastic-bound folder Beth had given to her, opened it to a random page. One passage leaped out.

  This job is as much about people as it is animals. You need to learn to care as much about the community you serve as the animals you rescue.

  She could probably take that with a grain of salt since this particular community had killed its last inspector.

  And in her opinion, maintaining distance was a highly underrated skill, one the general populace could use more of.

  You have selfish heart, it pumps black blood.

  Thank you, Galenka.

  You will die here.

  Yeah, whatever.

  That was the good thing about getting into it with Galenka, the clash gave her a spike of anger, and anger turned her criticism outwards rather than inwards. Anger was the perfect worming paste for the parasite of doubt.

  Wrong to leave last job, Galenka grumbled.

  Hah! As if she could have stayed. Though it was a bit extreme to opt for a job that offered the possibility of being gut-shot. Perhaps a career in retail instead?

  Yes, silly girl, you realise now.

  Hey, I know, why don’t you shut it unless you have something useful to say?

  Galenka gnashed her teeth.

  Kat shifted in her plastic chair. Her butt still felt vaguely cube-shaped from the long drive. She closed the folder and stood.

  Time to explore.

  She dutifully punched in her code to pass through doors, found the next building more solid, thick slabs of concrete keeping the air so cool her skin tingled. Muffled barks and whines grew louder as she walked by, dodging the large drains set into the slab. She paused at each cage, greeted a number of friendly, high-intensity dogs—mutts, terriers, boxers, cattle dogs and a kelpie—and eyed the quieter more reserved breeds as they eyed her right back.

  She passed a starving bull terrier cross, his ribs prominent, his mange-ridden coat criss-crossed with scars, an ugly story of abusive ownership physically stamped on him. The name taped to his cage read ’Max’. Someone had scrawled ’mad’ in pencil above it and she had to admit that he did look a little crazed, though who could blame him? A note on the cage warned that he was a biter. She frowned. She’d had a rabies shot just two years ago but perhaps she’d review her notes on avoiding dog bites.

  A left turn and punching her code in once more brought her into the hush of the surgical area, the animals housed in those cages either recovering from or waiting for treatment. Puppy-prone, she paused longest by the cage of a Weimaraner puppy, his sky blue eyes and baggy silver pelt a startling contrast that gave her heart a good pounding.

  Their eyes met and for several heartbeats her spirits were raised high, floating upon a cloud of tender, gooey feelings stirred by his soulful and slightly befuddled gaze, the oversized ears shaped like angel wings. He was the most exquisite specimen of dogdom she’d ever seen—and he was missing two hind feet.

  With a thud her heart made contact with reality.

  Sweet cannabis-stuffed surfboards, how had that happened? An accident? And if not an accident, who would do such a thing?

  She stroked the bars of his cage with a finger. The tag taped to his cage read ’Stumpy’.

  ‘Stumpy, that’s a raw deal with the feet, mate.’

  The puppy blinked, gave her an anxious look.

  ‘Don’t worry, everything will be fine.’ She would make sure it was. It was her new calling, after all, to protect Walgarra’s abandoned and abused animals. And if she could successfully take on the responsibility for a puppy with no feet, then that would be proof that she could do anything, wouldn’t it?

  Her stomach rumbled. Had there been a vending machine in the waiting room? She should have stopped somewhere for lunch before coming in but the truck-stop restaurant she’d passed had looked unappealing. First she would eat, and then she would talk to someone about Stumpy.

  She retraced her steps, her hand going to the unfamiliar pager bouncing at her hip. Having a big lump of plastic hanging off her was going to take some getting used to.

  Re-entering the reception area, she walked into a war zone.

  Chapter 3

  Kat blinked, wrestled to recalibrate.

  The man responsible for the ruckus was the one she’d passed earlier with a magazine tucked in his waistband. Beth’s pleasant face, so calm only a moment ago, turned red as a turkey wattle at the man’s ranting. ‘There’s no need to shout.’

  The man’s nostrils flared. ‘Then what am I meant to do with it? Take it home until the owner comes for it? Perhaps I should just stay at home forever and wait around for them to come. Do you think that’s a good idea too? Huh? Do you?’

  Kat’s eyes narrowed at the man’s machine-gun patter and his greasy, greying hair.

  Drug addict, Galenka whispered.

  ‘If it’s not your animal to surrender, we can’t accept it, sir.’ Beth’s tone suggested that by ‘sir’ she meant ‘arsehole’. ‘Stray animals have to go to the council pound.’

  Tendons stood out on both sides of the man’s neck. ‘I’m not taking it to the bloody council, that’s on the other bloody side of town.’ A gobbet of spittle flew from his lips, hit the back of Sharon’s desktop monitor and slid down the black plastic, slimy as all Kat’s worst childhood memories. The spittle made her wish she hadn’t left her telescopic baton in the car glove box.

  Past the man, two downcast girls in grubby dresses stood by a pet crate with a wide-eyed ginger cat inside it. One girl, around nine, wore a cast on her arm and kept picking at the edges of the plaster cast covered in colourful felt pen signatures. Kat suspected she knew how—and by who—the girl’s arm had been broken. Her own once-broken arm throbbed.

  The other girl, no more than seven, chewed the ends of her long, blonde hair as she hovered over the pet crate, sticking her fingers through the wire mesh.

  Kat hesitated. She wanted to help but wasn’t certain what to do.

  Run at old goat with hammer, Galenka suggested.

  Somehow Kat doubted that was shelter policy. What about some back-up? A scan of the waiting room revealed a sudden collective deafness along with newspapers and women’s magazines raised high like shields. Dammit, why had she left her telescopic baton in the car? It would feel so good in her hand right now. As would a crowbar.

  ‘You think it needs to go to the pound, you take it there.’ The man backed away from Sharon, his sore-riddled face triumphant. ‘Get in the car, you two.’

  Both girls’ gazes were glued on the cat crate in a way that made Kat question whether it was really a stray. She wouldn’t put it past their deadbeat dad to spin a story about it belonging to someone else.

  The father grabbed one daughter, the hair-chewer, by her skinny arm. ‘Get in the bloody car or you’ll get a bloody hiding.’

  Cold paste filled Kat’s spine, closely followed by a fantasy about slamming the man’s face into the reception counter. Repeatedly.

  Davai. Do it, Galenka whispered.

  But Sharon was quicker. She swung the counter top up, bustled out from behind the reception desk—knitting still clutched in one hand. ‘Don’t you dare.’

  Kat blinked at the bee-hived receptionist turned rampaging mama-bear.

  The Father of the Year, however, was unimpressed. He raked Sharon with bloodshot eyes before muttering, ‘Fuck off.’

  Helium filled Kat’s head at the casual malice in his tone.

  Sharon’s fa
ce tightened but she held her ground. ‘Touch those girls and I’ll call the police.’

  Uh-oh, an ultimatum. Kat winced at what would come next.

  ‘Yeah? You gonna?’ Two steps brought the Father of the Year face to face with Sharon. ‘Go right ahead.’ He lifted a hand as if about to give her a shove.

  Kat’s stomach took a dive and a coppery taste soured her mouth. ‘Hey!’

  His eyes turned her way. The waiting room became a tight vacuum of silence. Between the crushing silence and the weight of his stare, all the air was squeezed from her lungs, leaving her suffocating.

  His enormous pupils were two huge, black moons of eclipsed judgement as his lip curled. ‘Can’t your ugly lesbian husband here stand up for herself?’

  A vein bulged at his temple. The thick blue slug told Kat he’d very much like to give her a shove, and perhaps something a little extra. Bad memories bobbed for apples in her belly before a familiar cocktail of adrenaline and dread coursed through her veins, starching her muscles with readiness.

  His greasy hair and shitty attitude made her fingers twitch with the urge to bludgeon him with her shelter manual. But he had a good thirty or forty centimetres on her and, tweaking or not, he looked like he packed a mean punch. Plus, it was probably considered very bad form to shed blood before one’s first day on the job. ‘Leave the cat and go.’ She’d take the cat herself if she had to.

  But if she thought she’d de-escalated the situation she was wrong.

  He ground his teeth and his eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, I’ve got your permission to do that, have I?’

  Damn, she shouldn’t have phrased it like that. She knew better.

  Beth waved her pager. ‘See this? I hit the panic button and that’ll bring the police. You better get outta here.’

  Kat could have slapped herself. She’d forgotten her panic button.

  The man’s gaze darted from Beth to the pager at Kat’s hip. ‘Aren’t you going to reach for your panic button too, toots? Or do I need to give you something more to panic about?’ His shoulders squared, signalling intent.

  She took a step back as he reached for something behind his back and she had only a blurred second to guess what it might be before he swung it at her.