Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose

by Peter Lovesey

  George took the mug Hannah handed him and sat like a throned king with slaves at his feet. Hannah offered some carrot cake that they’d brought with them. George politely declined.

  “Don’t blame you,” said Keith. “Hippie food. We’ll feed it to the mice.”

  “Mice?” said George.

  Hannah laughed. “Don’t worry. The cottage hasn’t got mice, so far as I know. Keith has just bought this pair for breeding.”

  “Caged mice?”

  “I’ll show you.” Keith was on his feet and searching among the packing cases. “Here we are.” He brought out a glass tank and heldit under George’s nose. “Ollie and Freda, my latest investment. Still kipping from the journey.”

  George glanced into the tank with trepidation. The mice weren’t visible. They were hiding under a shelter of sawdust and shredded newspaper in one corner. It moved in tiny spasms as Keith tapped the glass.

  “Here, put the tank on your knees a sec,” said Keith. Immediately he plunged his hand into the sawdust and hauled a mouse out by its tail. “It’s either Ollie or Freda. Not easy to tell.”

  “Put it down, Keith,” said Hannah.

  “That’s how you handle them,” said Keith with nonchalance, but he then allowed the mouse to rest in his free hand. It crouched shivering. “I’ve never been without a pet, but fancy mice are something new.”

  “It looks a very fine specimen,” said George, who was also beginning to know a little about mice.

  “Short-haired silver-hood.”

  George felt his blood run cold. From all his conversations with Edith, short-haired silver-hoods were the only variety capable of outclassing her long-haired black and white hooded mice. And these people possessed a pair. “These . . . these are really rare, I believe.”

  “Yeah.” Keith released the mouse into the tank. “They cost me a bomb. Well, if you’re breeding, you don’t want to use rubbish.”

  “Are you interested in mice, George?” asked Hannah.

  “Well, em,” George said guardedly. “A friend of mine keeps some and she and I . . . well, we take a passing interest.”

  “So you’ll be going to the Fancy Mouse Show at Warminster, will you?” exclaimed Hannah, bringing her hands together in delight.

  “Well, possibly. It’s a long time off.”

  “Oh, do! It should be a hoot. We read about it in the local paper. Imagine, giving rosettes to mice.” She giggled. “If Keith wins one, he says he’s going to pin it up in the little room.”

  “Yeah,” said Keith. “And if Ollie and Freda get on with it, we’ll have a totally red silk bog this time next year.”

  “Cool,” said Hannah.

  “Yes, cool,” said George dismally.

  Two weekends later he was horrified to see Keith unloading ten glass cages from the Land Rover. They went straight into the shed at the bottom of their garden.

  George slept fitfully that night. He hadn’t slept so badly since the summer of 1940, only this time it wasn’t the threat of German air-raids that kept him awake; it was the prospect of umpteen short-haired silver hooded mice in the garden shed next door. September was fast approaching and with it the culmination of Edith’s breeding programme to secure her election to the National Fancy Mouse Society. He hadn’t said a word to her about the newly-arrived competition. He knew it would break her heart.

  “George, you look so downcast. I suspect that you aren’t looking after yourself properly,” she remarked in the men’s outfitters when they were buying George a new linen jacket for the occasion. “Chin up, now. Is anything the matter?”

  “Nothing, Edith,” he lied.

  “Come over on Saturday and I’ll cook you a pie.”

  George had spent many hours watching the activity in the garden shed. Sacks of feed had gone in. And an electric cable, presumably to supply heating next winter. The shed was built on the far side of Keith and Hannah’s garden, but if George weeded his verge by the dividing fence he could just see the darkened outlines of the mouse tanks inside. And often he saw Keith in there, handling his mice.

  One August morning he called out, “How’s it going, then?”

  “What’s that?” said Keith.

  “The breeding.”

  Keith laughed. “They breed like mice, mate.”

  “Could I see them?”

  “Love to show you, George, but I’m on location this week. Got to fly.”

  “You don’t appear to have any lids on the tanks that I can see . . . Not that I’ve been prying, of course.”

  “George,” said Keith smugly, “they’re mice, not salamanders. They can’t climb sheer glass walls, mate. Don’t worry, none of the little beggars will get out. If they did, your old cat would have them, and who could blame him? But I keep the shed locked, so don’t lose any sleep over it.”

  On the Thursday before the show, George had a stroke of luck. He had just been running Saturday’s ghastly scenario through his head when Hannah called.

  “Oh, Mr Blackitt,” she said. “I hardly like to ask, but you were so kind when we moved in. I wonder if you could do us a favour. Keith is doing a night shoot at the Tower of London on Friday. With it being open for visitors, that’s the only time the cameras can get in there. I’ve never been and it’s a wonderful chance. Would you mind keeping an eye on the cottage for us? It’s just one night, but you never know.”

  A spark of hope glimmered in the ashes of George’s sunken aspirations. “I’ll be only too pleased. But what about the mice? Would you like me to feed them?”

  “No, they’ll be perfectly all right. Keith will feed them before we go and we’ll be back first thing on Saturday.”

  “My dear, there’s no need to rush back.”

  “Oh, but there is. We’ve entered for the Mouse Show, just for a laugh, as Keith says. We’ll see you there, I hope.”

  Just as she turned to leave, Nimrod came in through the cat-flap. “Aren’t you beautiful?” Hannah said, stooping to stroke him. “What’s his name, Mr Blackitt?”

  “Nimrod.” Usually George explained the origin of the name. This time he chose not to.

  Hannah tickled Nimrod under his chin. The cat, purred, arched his back luxuriously and boxed her hair with his paw. “You’re quick and powerful, aren’t you, Nimrod,” she cooed softly, “but you’ll promise to keep away from my Keith’s shed, won’t you?”

  George slept better that night. By Friday evening he had worked out every detail of his masterplan. Nimrod hadn’t been fed since the morning and the catflap was wedged shut. He was prowling about the cottage like a caged lion.

  George poured himself a large scotch. “You won’t have much longer to wait, old friend,” he said. “Fresh food for you tonight. Living food, none of that prepacked slop. How about mouse mousse for supper? Short-haired silver hooded mouse mousse. Patience, old friend, patience.”

  Nimrod’s mewing was becoming positively feral in tone. He kept running to the table leg that he used as a scratching-post and clawing it agitatedly.

  The plan was deliciously simple. At about nine o’clock, when it was dark, George would go out. Under one arm would be the football he kept for his grandchildren to play with when they visited the cottage.

  With the other, he would be carrying a travelling bag containing Nimrod, by now ravenous. George would let himself into next door’s garden and go to the far side of the shed, the side nearest the Suttons’ cottage. The Suttons had the three boys under twelve, the local tearaways. He would smash the window with the football and push it through. Then he would unzip the bag containing Nimrod and help him through the broken window. Nimrod would embark on an orgy of rodent-killing.

  As soon as Keith returned to collect his prize specimens for the Fancy Mouse Show, Nimrod would make his dash for freedom, leaving the brash young punk to discover the mass murder and the football, and draw his conclusions. The next time George saw Keith and Hannah and heard the gruesome story, he would say that he thought he’d overheard some sounds in the ga
rden about nine last night and guessed it was cats. He knew the shed was kept locked, so he hadn’t gone out to check. Then he would apologize profusely for Nimrod’s blood-letting spree and Hannah would say that you couldn’t blame the cat—or George. And if Keith said that the Suttons disclaimed ownership of the football, George would give a shrug and say, “What else do you expect of modern kids?”

  After two more scotches, George looked outside to check how dark it was and fetched the plastic travelling bag from his wardrobe. Nimrod actually came running to investigate, so it was simple to sweep him up and bundle him inside. He fought savagely to escape. “Save your energy, old fellow. You’re going to need it presently,” said George, zipping up the bag. “Okay, dinner should be ready.”

  He collected the football, picked up the bag, let himself out and moved stealthily past the unlit cottage next door and into Keith and Hannah’s back garden. He rested the bag on the ground and took a precautionary look around him before pressing the football hard against the window. The glass shattered easily and he thrust the football through so hard that he heard it break another pane of glass in one of the tanks. He lifted the bag to the level of the window and unzipped it. Nimrod’s head popped out, his fang-teeth bared. George helped his old friend safely through the hole and felt the strength in the struggling shoulders. The Mighty Hunter had got the whiff of the mice.

  The energy coming from the black fur was awesome.

  George whispered, “Bon appetit!” Having released Nimrod, he picked up the bag and walked back to the house feeling twenty years younger.

  The Fancy Mouse Show next day was a revelation. George wandered up and down the rows of tanks and cages in the municipal hall marvelling at the doting owners as much as the mice competing for the titles. They groomed and stroked their tiny charges in an attempt to catch the judge’s eye. First there were the competitions to decide the best in each class. Later would come the accolade everyone coveted, for supreme champion.

  Edith clutched George’s arm. “See, George,” she said. “See how exciting it all is? I’m not an eccentric old fool, am I?”

  “I never said you were,” George answered.

  The judging of the long-haired black and white hooded class took place at noon. Edith’s pair took first place. George and Edith embraced.

  “I love you, Edith Plumley,” George declared. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

  “Just keep your fingers and toes crossed for me,” she said tremulously. “They go forward to the supreme championship, on the stage at four o’clock. George, we’re virtually certain to win. Only the late arrival of a truly rare breed would deprive my little beauties of the title.”

  “So what happens now?” said George.

  “I just told you. We wait for the judging.”

  “No, what happens to us now, Edith. What about our future?”

  A rough hand grabbed his shoulder.

  “So here you are,” said Keith.

  George felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Fear gripped him. He was certain his neighbour was about to punch him. But he did not. “George, old pal,” he said, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” said George, suspicious that this was only the prelude to violence.

  “To celebrate, man,” Keith said in the same friendly tone. “We just won first prize in our class. In fact, we’re the only entry in our class. The silver-hoods. Extremely rare, the judge said. They created quite a stir. And they’re going to win the supreme champion rosette. No problem.”

  George heard a whimper of distress from Edith. He’d almost forgotten her in his anxiety. “Edith, this is Keith, my neighbour,” he said quickly.

  He was about to add for Keith’s benefit that Edith was a friend, but Edith said in a horrified voice, “Your neighbour?” Then she covered her face and fled. There was no point in going after her. He’d never explain it to her satisfaction.

  “What’s wrong with her?” said Keith. “Wasn’t me, was it?”

  George couldn’t find words for some time. “I could do with that drink,” he whispered finally.

  After they had been standing at the bar some time while Keith heldforth about the idiocy of Fancy Mouse Shows, George managed to say, “Those prize-winning mice of yours—where do they come from?”

  “What do you mean—where do they come from?” said Keith.

  “Other mice, of course.” He laughed.

  “No, where did you keep them? The shed?”

  “Not the shed. They’re valuable mice, mate. I wouldn’t keep my silver-hoods in the shed. No, they live in luxury, on top of the piano. I just had time to get home and grab them and get them here for the judging.”

  “What about the mice in the shed?”

  “They’re nothing special. They’re feeders.”

  “Feeders?” repeated George.

  “Oh, Christ, Han didn’t want me to tell you this. People living next door can get nervous, but there’s no need. The mice are for Percy. You must have seen him on TV commercials. He pays for his keep. He stays coiled up in his tank at the bottom of our shed. It’s got a glass top, mate, so Percy won’t get out. He gets through hundreds of mice.

  Well, he would. In the wild, a fourteen-foot python would be swallowing live pigs and all sorts. They’re terrific hunters. So quick. They have these dislocating jaws that . . . What’s up, George? Hey, George, you look terrible.”

  MURDER IN STORE

  “Hey, miss.”

  “What is it now?”

  “Something’s up with Santa.”

  “That’s quite enough from you, young lady,” Pauline said sharply —unseasonably sharply for Christmas week in an Oxford Street department store. The Toy Fair was a bedlam of electric trains, robots, talking dolls and whining infants, but the counter staff— however hard-pressed—weren’t expected to threaten the kids. The day had got off to a trying start when a boy with mischief in mind had pulled a panda off a shelf and started an avalanche of soft toys. Pauline had found herself knee-deep in teddies, rabbits and hippos. Now she was trying to reassemble the display, between attending to customers and coping with little nuisances like this one, dumped in the department while their parents shopped elsewhere in the store.

  “Take a butcher’s in the grotto, miss.”

  Pauline glared at the girl, a six-year-old by the size of her, with gaps between her teeth and a dark fringe like a helmet. A green anorak, white corduroy trousers and red wellies. She’d been a regular visitor ever since the school term ended. Her quick, sticky hands were a threat to every toy within reach. But she had shining brown eyes and a way with words that could be amusing at times less stressful than this.

  “I think Santa’s stiffed it, miss.”

  “For the last time . . .”

  A man held out a green felt crocodile, and Pauline rolled her eyes upwards and exchanged a smile. She rang up the sale, locked her till and stepped around the counter to look for Mark Daventry, the head of the toy department. The child had a point. It was 10.05 and Santa’s Grotto should have opened at 10.00. A queue had started to form.

  There was no sign of Zena, the “gnome” who sold the tickets. It was shamefully unfair. Mark hadn’t been near the department this morning. No doubt he was treating Zena to coffee in the staff canteen. When blonde Zena had first appeared three weeks ago in her pointed hat, short tunic and red tights, Mark had lingered around the grotto entrance like a six-foot kid lining up for his Christmas present.

  Soon he’d persuaded her to join him for coffee-breaks: the Mark Daventry routine familiar to Pauline and sundry other ex-girlfriends in the store. However, Zena wasn’t merely the latest temp in the toy department. She wasn’t merely an attractive blonde. She happened to be the wife of Santa Claus.

  Big Ben, as he was known outside the grotto, was a ready-made Santa, a mountainous man who needed no padding under the crimson suit, and whose beard was his own, requiring only a dusting of talc. On Saturday night
s, he could be seen in a pair of silver trunks, in the wrestling-ring at Streatham. This time, Mark was flirting dangerously.

  “Coming, miss?”

  Pauline felt her fingers clutched by a small, warm hand. She allowed herself to be led to the far end of the grotto, the curtain that covered the exit.

  “Have you been sneaking round the back, you little menace?”

  The child dived through the curtain and Pauline followed. Surprisingly, the interior was unlit. The winking lights hadn’t been switched on and the mechanical figures of Santa’s helpers were immobile. There was no sign of Ben and Zena. They generally came up by the service lift that was cunningly enclosed in the grotto, behind Santa’s workshop. They used the workshop as a changing-room.

  “See what I mean, miss?”

  Pauline saw where the child was pointing, and caught her breath. In the gloom, the motionless figure of Santa Claus was slumped on the throne where he usually sat to receive the children. The head and shoulders hung ominously over one side.

  It was difficult not to scream. Only the presence of the child kept Pauline from panicking.

  “Stay here. Don’t come any closer.”

  She knew what she had to do: check whether his pulse was beating. He might have suffered a heart attack. Ben was not much over thirty, but anyone so obviously overweight was at risk. She took a deep breath and stepped forward.

  She discovered that he wasn’t actually wearing the costume. It was draped over him. Somehow, she had to find the courage to look. She reached out for the furry trim of the hood, took it between finger and thumb and lifted it. She gave a start. She was looking into a pair of eyes without a flicker of life. But it wasn’t Ben.

  It was Mark Daventry. And there was something embedded in his chest—a bolt from a crossbow. Pauline rushed the child out of the grotto and dashed to the phone. She called Mr Beckington, the store manager, but got through to Sylvia, his secretary. Even suave Sylvia, supposed to be equal to every emergency, gave a cry of horror at the news. “Mark? Oh my God! Are you sure?”