by Chris Simms
The terrible sound broke the spell which had paralysed Holly and she looked over her shoulder. ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’
He scooped her clear of the thrashing animals. ‘You’re OK.’ Running back towards the laurels, Holly’s red boots banged against his knees. Her arms grasped his neck tightly and she started sobbing in his ear.
The sound of fighting continued behind him as Alice appeared at the screen’s end, one hand on her stomach, face full of fear. Eyes widening, she took in Jon and her daughter coming towards her. ‘What…?’ She looked beyond them and all colour vanished from her cheeks.
By the time Jon had covered the last of the ground, the snarling had been replaced by a series of yelps. ‘Take her!’ He extricated himself from his daughter’s grip and thrust her towards Alice, now aware the noise had dropped to a desperate whining mixed with a deeper, throaty growl. The sound a dog made when its jaws had locked on another.
Alice clutched Holly to her chest and Jon turned. The beast had Punch pinned to the grass, mighty jaws clamped over his Boxer’s throat as it shook its huge head back and forth. Jon saw Punch’s hind paws weakly brushing at the creature’s underside, more of a spasm than a kick. He was about to start running back when a whistle sounded.
The dog immediately released its grip. Its bloodied muzzle came up and, with an agility that seemed impossible for something of its size, it bounded effortlessly away towards the car park.
Jon’s eyes went back to Punch. Oh Jesus. His dog was lying on its side, head bent back, most of one ear missing. The coat around its head, neck and shoulders was torn open in several places, little curls of steam rising from the wounds.
One of the golfers appeared at the other end of the bushes, a mobile phone in his hand. ‘My wife’s a vet! She works close to here!’
The creature was now near the top of the incline. Parked with its rear bumper against the kerb was a dirty white van, back doors wide open. Inside the gloomy interior Jon could make out the silhouette of a man. He was kneeling down, slapping the metal side of the van in encouragement. From a distance of fifteen feet or so, the animal leapt up, sailing through the air to land inside the vehicle, paws thudding on what must have been a carpeted floor.
The man leaned forward, flicked a little salute in Jon’s direction and started swinging both doors shut. ‘Go!’
Jon registered the slightly squeaky pitch of his voice. I’ve heard that somewhere before.
Engine revving, fumes began to belch from the vehicle’s exhaust. Jon ran to Punch and fell on his knees. His dog was still breathing but had now started to shiver violently. Shock, Jon thought. From the first-aid courses he’d done, he knew that – given enough blood loss – any mammal will go into shock. Soon after, the major organs would start shutting down. He whipped his coat off and tucked it round the animal. Blood was pumping out of a deep tear in Punch’s throat. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed against the wound. ‘Punch, it’s OK. You hear me? It’s OK. I’m here.’
He could see no reaction and bent forward to look directly into Punch’s big brown eye. Memories of getting the animal as a puppy from the rescue centre returned. The awkward way it had bounded about, paws too big for its legs, sheer joy propelling it round the house.
‘Punch,’ he whispered, voice hoarse. ‘Punch. Come on, boy, please.’ He touched his forehead against the top of the animal’s head. ‘Come on, Punch.’
The van’s engine roared louder and Jon glanced up. A rag had been draped over the rear registration plate and he could only watch as the vehicle lurched across the car park, aiming for the narrow lane that led back to Mauldeth Road. ‘Bastards,’ he hissed. A thought occurred. Glancing over his shoulder, he calculated distances. A minute or so for them to drive back along the lane. If they turn right, there are temporary traffic lights on the first two side streets. That meant continuing along Mauldeth Road.
The golfer called out. ‘She’s on her way, mate!’
‘How far away is she?’ he shouted back.
‘Literally two minutes’ drive. The practice is on the corner of St Andrew’s Road.’
Jon knew it. She really would be here in no time. He glanced over his shoulder once again. If I cut across to Errwood Road on the other side of the golf course, I might just intercept the van at the roundabout where it meets Mauldeth Road.
Alice appeared at his side, arm round Holly. He looked anxiously at his daughter. So small, so fragile, so close to being mauled by that... She looked at Punch and immediately burst into tears. The sound made something in his chest twist tighter.
I can’t go, he thought. I can’t leave them. But the image of the roundabout wouldn’t budge from his head. What is it, he thought, a five-minute sprint? The vet won’t be much longer. The sound of the van’s engine still ringing in his ears, he looked down at Punch. If it hadn’t been for you, Holly would be lying here now. My little girl. His jaw unclenched. ‘Alice, keep this pressed against the wound.’
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, crouching down.
As soon as her hand was in the right place, he jumped to his feet. ‘Going after them.’
He raced towards the green, breath pluming the air like smoke from a steam train. After crashing through the laurels, he took a diagonal towards the faint shadow of trees on the golf course’s far side. A bunker came into view and he leapt across the expanse of sand, landing on the other side and stumbling slightly before regaining his stride.
The other side of the golf course was bordered by clusters of houses. Seconds later, he got to the trees, darting between their dark and shiny trunks. A five-foot-high garden fence blocked his way. He placed his hands on the top and jumped up, the toes of his walking boots banging loudly against the wood as his arms slowly straightened. He swung his legs over and dropped down onto a neat lawn. A large, detached house. A middle-aged woman was staring open-mouthed through her kitchen window. He ran to the side, but his way was barred by a heavy metal gate.
‘Trevor!’ The woman from inside. ‘There’s a man in our garden!’
He peered over the neighbour’s fence. The passage running down the side of their house led directly out on to a close. He vaulted over, narrowly missing a large terracotta pot.
Out on the close, parked cars all over the place. He tried to jink between two, hip banging against a wing mirror. An alarm started to shriek as rushed towards Errwood Road. The roundabout was less than a hundred metres ahead. The number of vehicles queuing at it gave him hope. I might just have got here first. Please, he prayed. Please let them have turned this way out of the golf course. Leg muscles now burning, he kept his eyes on the left-hand side of the roundabout, the direction from which the van would be approaching.
Forty metres away. He could see the front of the queue waiting to join from Mauldeth Road. Six vehicles back, a white van. Yes! The pain in his legs instantly vanished. Got you, you bastards. He was floating, balls of his feet barely connecting with the ground. He became aware of the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms. The sensation he always felt on the rugby pitch before smashing a member of the other team. Seeing only the driver’s side window, he closed in on the vehicle.
The driver, drumming his fingers impatiently on the top of the steering wheel, glanced to his side. His eyes widened. Jon was now close enough to see the movement of the man’s lips as he mouthed a single word. Fuck.
Immediately, the engine revved and the driver’s hands started pulling at the wheel. The vehicle veered round the car in front, horn blaring as it moved quickly along the gap between the two lanes of traffic and out on to the roundabout itself.
Ten metres away. Jon watched as the van – rather than trying to negotiate the roundabout’s curve – cut straight onto the circular patch of grass at its centre. Cars started slowing in confusion. He dodged into the path of a Volvo, one hand slamming on its bonnet as he jumped round its front end. Then he was on the grass, too. The van’s tyres were spinning uselessly as he came up alongside the driver�
��s door and reached for the handle. Locked. Shit.
Glaring through the glass, he could see the driver hunched over the wheel, cursing with frustration. From inside the van came the booming sound of the creature’s barks. Keeping his grip on the door handle, Jon lifted his free hand and punched the window. Fire-like pain lanced his wrist. He swung at the glass again and felt something in his hand give.
Then the van’s tyres bit and he was yanked forward. He desperately tried to keep hold of the door handle. The metal was too smooth and it started sliding from his grasp. Stumbling alongside the vehicle, he landed a last, futile slap on its side. A red smear of a palm-print was left on the damp metal. Punch’s blood, he thought, toppling forward.
The corner of the van’s rear bumper narrowly missed his head, and in the split second before the vehicle went beyond his grasp, he saw the dirty rag covering its registration plate. He lunged at the scrap of material, feeling cloth tear in his fingers as his face ploughed into the grass.
The van bumped onto tarmac once again, the dog inside going ballistic as the vehicle accelerated towards the main road which led out of the city.
Jon raised himself onto his elbows. The rag was flapping about, leaving the registration plate exposed. A series of numbers with a single letter in the middle. Irish. The vehicle was from Ireland. He closed his eyes. This was revenge, he realised. Revenge for what I did in Clifden.
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Author’s note
Acknowledgements
The ideas behind the story
Sleeping Dogs – Chapter 1
