by Nikki Attree
That stops Harry in his tracks. His mouth stops motoring and instead drops open. He looks at Jack blankly, and confusion spreads across his ‘rugged’ features. The Lad explains: “we do need to shock her into coughing up. That first photo didn’t do the trick, so we need to get a bit rougher. You were right when you said that a little blood can go a long way when you’re trying to persuade someone. What we need now is some blood.”
“Now yer talkin mate” Harry says, enthusiastically. “I’ll get me knife and we can start cutting ‘em up like.”
“No need, mate” Jack says, and he explains what they’re going to do.
* * *
The next day Jack shuts the dogs in the shed and gets them ready for another photo shoot. This time he’s not messing around with a bit of mud, they’re going to get bloody. He needs to make it look like one of those low budget horror flicks that are all the more effective for being cheap and nasty. He’s thinking along the lines of an X-rated chain-saw massacre.
He grabs the bottle of tomato ketchup and squeezes it liberally over Gizmo’s leg. The pooch is a bit suspicious initially. This red stuff doesn’t smell like anything he’s come across before, but as soon as he takes his first tentative lick he’s convinced. “Mmm, I don’t know what this stuff is, but it tastes wooftastic!” he woofs to Doodle. She joins in the ketchup tasting, and Gizmo must admit, it’s a treat to have her licking it off him.
Jack grabs his phone and starts taking photos before the dogs lick it all off. He’s not sure that his plan is working. The dogs look far too happy and it’s not exactly the horrific image that he was hoping to achieve, but it’s a start.
He chains up Doodle so she can’t reach Gizmo, grabs the tomato sauce, and squirts what’s left of it all over Gizmo and the shed, hoping to give the shot that authentic low-budget, blood-splattered-everywhere horror look. He’d like to have included a few severed limbs and that would certainly have pleased Harry, but the production budget didn’t run to expensive butcher’s bills. He also knows now that the logistics of doing everything himself would have meant that the severed limbs would only have ended up as an enjoyable treat for the dogs.
Right now he needs to stop Gizmo from guzzling the ketchup, so he tries bribing him with biscuits. Gizmo scoffs the bribe and is busy removing the ‘blood’ before The Lad can get the shot. Doodle is not impressed. She was enjoying licking the red stuff off Gizmo, now she’s chained up and forced to watch him scoffing bickies. She turns her back in disgust, sulking, just as Jack manages to get them both in the shot.
He tries bribing her as well, but the photo shoot has gone pear-shaped and he abandons it. He doesn’t want another dog with a dodgy tummy from overindulging in tomato sauce and biscuits.
All is not lost though. When he looks at his very first shot, it’s not too bad. OK, so Gizmo is licking his paw, but if you don’t know that he’s just discovered the great taste of ketchup, then it doesn’t look so much like a commercial for the stuff (as we know only too well, every other advertisement these days has to have a cute dog in it). After all, if he was really bleeding then he probably would be licking his paw anyway. He managed to take the photo just before Doodle joined in, so she seems to be looking at Gizmo’s ‘bleeding’ leg intently; and again, if you don’t know that she’s just about to start greedily licking ketchup off him, it looks like she’s upset at the sight of all that blood. Anyway, he did his best and it will just have to do. He unchains Doodle, and gives both dogs a cuddle.
Later that day he shows the photo to Harry. His partner is predictably unconvinced by it: “ha, is that s’posed to be ‘ard-core violence mate? I’ve seen more blood in Tescos. Where are the body parts? I told yer that we should cut bits off them fekin mutts.”
Harry wants to go straight round to Elizabeth’s house in ski masks, rough her up a bit, and deliver the photo in person. He thinks it would have more impact that way. Jack persuades him that there’s no rush. They should leave it a few days for the AMHGF effect to work. He agrees with his partner that the photo could be more authentic, but he thinks that if they combine it with a nasty enough note, it should do the trick.
That evening, while Harry is at the ‘Bucket of Blood’ on his futile pursuit of Rosie the barmaid, Jack sits down to write a new note to go with the photo of Gizmo covered in ‘blood’. This one needs to be even nastier than the previous two if it’s going to shock Elizabeth enough, and satisfy his partner’s penchant for violence. The trouble is, Jack is beginning to think that he doesn’t ‘do nasty’ very well.
It’s always been a bit of an obstacle to his progress up the criminal career ladder, to be honest. He’s ambitious, hard working, clever, but to be a really successful criminal he must also be good at cruelty, brutality, and strong-arm tactics. He’s beginning to realise that there’s a contradiction between his aspirational dreams of success and his moral, caring side.
“Look at me ... sitting down to write a bloody ransom note and getting all philosophical instead. It’s pathetic. No wonder Harry gets so pissed off with me” he thinks. “It’s easy for him. All he’s ever wanted to do is to beat people up. It’s the dream job for him.” He scratches his head pensively. “The problem is, I’m a bit more complex than that ...” He stares into space ruefully. This isn’t getting the bloody thing written.
“OK, let’s keep things simple. Let’s imagine that Harry’s writing the note. Mind you, can he actually write? I mean, I’ve never seen him write anything ...”
This is getting him nowhere. “There you go again Jack ... heading off at a tangent instead of getting the job done. Now then, how would Harry start it?” He tries to reprogram his brain into Harry-mode. It’s tricky, but eventually he manages it and starts typing on his laptop:
Elizabeth - you are one stupid bitch.
See this photo of your dog - SEE WHAT YOU MADE US DO?
Show this to Miranda, and see what she thinks ... Because if we don’t get our money, BOTH DOGS GET CHOPPED UP, and SHE GETS TO KEEP THE PIECES.
He reads it back, and he’s quietly pleased. “Of course it’s a pastiche, but not a bad one, if I say so myself” he thinks to himself. Getting into character did the trick and he still might have a future as a ransom note copy writer.
The next afternoon, when Harry wakes up after yet another unsuccessful night at the ‘Bucket of Blood’, Jack shows him the new note and asks him to call Pauline. For once, Harry is quite impressed with The Lad’s literary efforts: “not bad mate. It’s like ‘ow I’d ‘ave said it me-self.”
Jack sighs, and suggests that he call his ma to arrange delivery. There’s no answer when Harry rings, and it isn’t till that evening that he eventually manages to rouse her. It turns out that she’s also been on the booze and once again has a “muvver of a ‘angover.” She won’t be in any fit state to deliver the envelope for a couple of days. Harry tells her to call him as soon as she’s able to walk in a straight line again.
Pauline takes rather more persuading this time. When she eventually gets round to ringing the dognappers, she’s in no mood to be messed around. She’s getting very “‘acked off with the fekin granny gear” and she’s not sure if she can trust her son and his smarmy git of a sidekick. She demands an advance on her fee, or else she “aint goin nowhere near ‘Ampstead.”
Jack explains that there’s a cash-flow issue, but she’ll be paid as soon as they get the ransom money. She chances her arm at negotiating a rise by threatening to go on strike, and it works. Jack offers her two thousand to deliver the latest note, making a total of four grand so far. Not bad as a grand total for about an hour’s ‘work’. She reluctantly agrees.
After struggling into her disguise (which is beginning to look more like a tramp than a sweet old lady) she gets the night bus to Hampstead, mentally totting up all the fares that she’s going to have to charge as expenses. She does the furtive slink up to the house, and again she has the feeling that she’s being watched. She posts the envelope, and power-walks back to the bus sto
p.
* * *
The next morning Elizabeth is running a bit late, and she’s too slow to stop Miranda from picking up the envelope from the postbox. There’s a horrified gasp as she tears it open to find the photo of Gizmo covered in ‘blood’. Elizabeth grabs it from her daughter, reads the note, and puts both in her pocket.
Miranda is hysterical with grief, sobbing uncontrollably and looking like she might faint at any moment. Elizabeth puts her arm around her daughter, steers her into the kitchen, and makes both of them a cup of tea.
“Look, don’t worry darling, at least they haven’t hurt Doodle. That’s Gizmo with blood on his paw.”
Miranda can’t believe what she’s hearing. Is her mother really telling her that she shouldn’t be upset because it’s not her dog that’s been mutilated by a gang of vicious sadists? “Of course I know which dog it is!” she screams. “Is that supposed to make me feel any better?”
Elizabeth is aware that she’s made a miscalculation and needs to do a u-turn: “um, well no, I suppose not sweetie. I didn’t quite mean it like that.” She’s actually genuinely surprised that Miranda is so upset for Gizmo, rather than relieved about Doodle. “I just thought that you’d be thankful that they don’t seem to have hurt her. You know, grateful for small mercies?”
“Small mercies?” Miranda shrieks, “what planet are you from? Can’t you see what they’ve done to Gizmo? They’re torturing him. Can’t you imagine the pain he must be feeling?”
She slumps in the chair, puts her head in her hands, and weeps. “How long will it be before they do the same thing to Doodle?” she yells, rage replacing grief now. “Call yourself my mother? You’re a monster!” She storms off to her room.
Elizabeth is genuinely wounded by the outburst. Her daughter has never spoken to her like that before, and she’s shocked by the strength of feeling. It’s harder to dismiss as a teenage tantrum and more like Miranda is growing up and speaking her mind. Worryingly, her mind has embraced the idea that her mother has to earn her respect. “Perhaps I’ve underestimated her” she thinks to herself, resolving to try to treat her more like an adult from now on.
Anyway, right now there’s work to do. She decides to leave Miranda alone to calm down, but she’s too worried about her to go to the office. She phones her daughter’s school and tells them that Miranda has a stomach bug, and then e-mails her PA to say that she’ll be working from home today.
She scans the dognappers’ photo and e-mails it to her journalist contacts, adding an emotional press release, and requesting an interview so that she can appeal to the public again. It’s a slow news day and they gladly accept the offer of a ‘filler story’ with cute animal and minor celeb content. An hour later she’s doing a live interview for a major news channel via a video link from home.
The message is much the same as Elizabeth’s previous broadcast. She begins by telling the interviewer how much she and her daughter love their dog and how devastated they are. Then she produces the photo, and there’s an impressive flood of tears.
At this point the presenter asks her what she’d like to say to the dognappers, if they’re watching. She tearfully appeals to them not to harm the dogs, because they will also be harming a film that “needs to be made”.
“Judging from this photo it looks like they’ve harmed one of them already” says the interviewer, hoping to provoke a reaction and spice up the package. Cue another flood of tears. “I can only hope that they have a conscience and realise that what they are doing is very wrong. I mean, they are depriving the public of a hugely important work of cinematic art.”
“As well as torturing poor Gizmo?” the presenter reminds her, doggedly trying to divert Elizabeth from plugging the film.
“Yes, that as well, of course.”
“So, speaking of the public, is there anything they can do?”
“Well, I’m glad that you asked me that. I want to appeal to the public, especially all dog lovers, to help us find our stars. We’re offering a reward of two thousand pounds for any information that leads to their return, and allows this wooftastic film to reach the audience it deserves.”
The presenter thanks her, wishes her luck in getting the dogs back, and swiftly moves on to the next item. Elizabeth goes to find Miranda and see if she’s calmed down a bit. Unfortunately her daughter has been watching the live interview, and to be honest it hasn’t done much to earn her mother many respect ‘brownie points’. Frankly, Miranda was not impressed. She thinks that her mother should have spoken a lot less about the film, and much more about the dogs’ suffering and the dognappers’ wickedness. Elizabeth is a bit peeved: “what more can I do, darling? I’ve appealed to all the dog lovers out there and we’ve offered a generous reward. I’m doing all I can, sweetie.”
“No, you’re not!” Miranda yells. “You could just pay the ransom. Give them what they’re want, and we’ll get Gizmo and Doodle back. You can find the money, I know you can!”
Elizabeth considers this. It is, after all, one of the options that she was weighing up: to raise the ransom money, pay the dognappers, and finish the film. Perhaps it would also heal things with her daughter. She’s on the point of telling Miranda that yes, maybe she’s right, when her phone rings.
It’s Annie: “hello Elizabeth. I just watched your interview, and I’m rather worried about this photograph. It would seem that the people we’re dealing with are nastier than I thought. Can you send me a copy please.”
Elizabeth promises to send it, hangs up, and turns back to face her daughter: “you see darling, I am doing my best to get the dogs back. We’ve got this awesome pet detective on the case - if she can’t find them nobody can. I am sympathetic sweetie, truly I am, but the problem with just giving these bastards the money is that there’s no guarantee that they’ll play ball.”
Miranda shrugs, mutters a “wadever”, and re-engages once more with the world that is her phone. Elizabeth goes back to work and e-mails the photo to Annie.
The private investigator replays Elizabeth’s interview, and shares some of Miranda’s feelings. “Quite a performance” Annie thinks, but she can’t understand how Elizabeth can be so tough and detached when her dog is being tortured. Yes, plenty of tears were shed for the camera, but were they crocodile tears? “How can she be more concerned about publicity for the film than the welfare of her pooch?” she thinks. “I just don’t get it.”
The producer’s e-mail arrives, with the ‘bloody’ Gizmo photo attached. Annie examines it closely, blowing it up and lightening the exposure in Photoshop. Looking for clues in the background of the shot, she notices some tins of dog food. When she enlarges them she discovers that they’re one of the most expensive brands on the market.
“That’s a bit odd” she thinks. “If you were some low-life who’d stolen a dog and were holding it hostage, why would you bother to buy it the best dog food? Wouldn’t you just give it any old crap?”
Then she scrutinises the blood on Gizmo's leg, comparing it to reference images of operations on vet’s websites. There’s definitely something strange about the colour of the ‘blood’. The more she looks at the ‘wound’, the more she’s convinced that the blood isn’t real.
Finally, neither dog’s posture or behaviour say: “I’m being tortured and in great pain” to her. Yes, Gizmo is licking his paw as if he’s got blood on it, but he’s sitting up and happily looking at the camera rather than being collapsed in agony. And then there’s Doodle. Sure she’s looking at Gizmo’s paw intently, but not with an expression of shock and horror, more bemused interest.
Annie breathes a sigh of relief. Everything about this photograph says: “fake”. The dognappers are certainly cruel to send an image like that, but not barbaric monsters who torture their hostages.
She phones Elizabeth with the good news. There’s a moment’s silence, and then the producer says: “well, that’s certainly a relief.” The weird thing is though, to Annie she doesn’t really sound that relieved. Perhaps it’s ju
st her matter-of-fact manner on the phone.
Annie list the clues that give the pet detective the impression that in fact the dogs are being well looked after. She reassures Elizabeth that there’s no need to mention the photo to Miranda: “I hope that you managed to keep that photo away from your daughter?”
“Well, no. Unfortunately she got to it before I did.”
“Oh dear, what was her reaction?”
“What do you think? She went into melt-down.”
“OK. I think I need to speak to her. Not just to put her straight about the photo, but I also want to ask her about some stuff that she’s been posting on Facebook and Twitter. I’ll be at your house in about an hour, and we can have a chat.”
Elizabeth isn’t exactly keen to see Annie, or for her to chat to Miranda, but before she can protest Annie has put the phone down.
* * *
As the private investigator drives down Elizabeth’s quiet, leafy street she’s struck by how different it is to her own patch of vibrant, cosmopolitan Stoke Newington. No noise, no smells, it seems a bit devoid of life really. She marvels at the houses, each one bigger than the previous, and at the end of the cul-de-sac, backing onto Hampstead Heath, is the biggest of them all: Elizabeth’s magnificent Grand Design.
As she approaches the house the gates swing open, as if by magic. Annie parks her battered old Renault Five next to Elizabeth’s immaculate silver Mercedes convertible, feeling slightly sorry for her much loved jalopy, and rings the bell. Elizabeth greets her politely, but not exactly enthusiastically.
“It’s great that you have the Heath so near” Annie says, gesturing to the garden. “Doodle must get loads of walks?”
“Yes, well we pay someone to do that” Elizabeth replies, ushering the pet detective into the living room. The two of them sink into the plushness of the wraparound leather sofa, losing themselves in it’s vast open spaces. Annie tries not to gawk, but it’s difficult not to be overwhelmed by the expanse of leather, marble, and glass.
