by Chris Simms
The noisy rush of commuters driving home meant there was little point in trying to phone Alice until he was in the park itself. He let Punch off the lead, took a seat on a battered bench then got his phone out. How to play it?
'It's me,' he announced cautiously.
'Hi.'
The single word gave nothing away. 'How's things back home?'
'All right thanks.'
Now he detected the flatness in her voice. 'Was Holly good for you today?'
'Not so bad. We both got some sleep after lunch.'
'Good. There's still more to do here, but I shouldn't be that much longer... ' He let the sentence trail off, testing the water.
She sighed. 'So I'll just do tea on my own?'
'Probably best. I'll grab something here.' He watched as Punch circled round on the grass in front of him, before squatting down and curling off a spindly turd. 'Great,' Jon groaned, realising he'd come out without any plastic bags.
'What's great?' Alice asked.
'Punch has just crapped on the grass,' he replied, patting his pockets and finding a latex glove.
'Oh.'
This is as good a time as any, he thought. 'How do you feel if
Punch—'
'I've said. We can't have the dog in our house. It's too risky.' Anger flared. 'My mum can't look after him.'
Nothing from his wife, just a faint squawking in the background.
'Ali, did you hear?'
'Holly's starting up.' Her voice sounded leaden. 'Probably needs changing.'
Nice, he thought. Making your priorities clear then. He pressed the red button, unsure if she'd hung up on him first. How could she be such a fucking cow? Surely being depressed didn't excuse that? Well, if she expected him to hurry back to help out, she was in for a long wait. He had plenty to do earning the money needed for the mountain of nappies, baby milk, clothes and other stuff she so happily took for granted.
He snapped the glove on, reached down and gingerly hooked his fingers under the warm sausage Punch had left, all the while picturing Alice wiping Holly's dirty bottom back home. The lump hit the bottom of the bin with a quiet thud and Jon's phone started ringing again. Hope reared up. Maybe she was ringing to apologise. He removed the glove and looked at the screen. Senior's name glowed there, the ex-Marine who coached at the rugby club. 'Senior, how's it going?'
'You training tonight or what, Slicer?'
Short and to the point as usual, Jon thought. 'No mate. I'm stuck in a big case.'
'Yeah, I saw your ugly mug on my telly. Did your mother never teach you how to knot a tie?'
That's rich, Jon thought with a smile, picturing the moth-eaten jumper, tracksuit trousers and slip-on shoes Senior favoured in the club bar. 'Saturday's looking out too, sorry.'
'Bloody useless you are, Slicer. What's more important? Getting out and playing a match with the boys or getting your face on the bloody telly? You'll be wearing fucking make-up next. Not that it'll do you any good, I've seen better looking arses on the monkeys down at the zoo.'
Jon heard him start to chuckle at his own joke and he couldn't help but grin. He was about to reply when he heard an anxious barking in the background. Senior's labrador, Bess. She'd been badly affected when the household's other dog, an Alsatian called Arthur, had died a couple of months ago. He glanced towards Punch as a thought suddenly occurred. 'Senior, could Bess do with some company?'
'The dog could do with bloody tranquillisers.'
'I need somewhere for Punch to stay.'
'What's wrong with your own house?'
'Problems with the missus.'
There was a pause and Jon knew the implications of his answer were sinking in. 'You'd better bring him round, then. Not that you'd remember, but training finishes about eight-thirty. Any time after that.'
Jon pulled up outside Senior's house just before ten. The lights were on downstairs and in the corner of the front garden was the usual pile of tackling bags and training bollards. It always amazed Jon how the things were never stolen – but every kid on the nearby estate knew not to aggravate the Sullivans. If Senior didn't find you, one of his two equally stocky sons would.
Jon opened the boot of his car. 'Come on boy, got a new place for you to stay. Just for a bit.'
He could see Punch had sensed the fake cheer in his voice. The dog didn't move. 'Come on, you can kip next to Bess tonight. You remember Bess? You play around with her on the touchline.'
Punch sat up and looked at the house.
'That's it. Come on.' He patted his hand against his thigh. Warily, Punch jumped down. Jon scooped up the dog bowl and biscuits, folded up the blanket and carried it all up to Senior's front door. It was opened by Judith, Senior's wife. A neatly dressed woman in her late fifties, she ruled the Sullivan household with a rod of iron. The fact that Senior, who used a non-stop stream of profanities in the rugby club, didn't dare swear in his own house was testimony to that.
'Come in, Jon,' she said, drying her hands on a flowery apron.
'He's in the telly room.'
Jon stepped inside, Punch sticking close to his heels.
'Have you eaten? There's some cheese and biscuits out.'
'No, I'm fine thanks,' said Jon, placing Punch's things on the mat.
'What about you?' she addressed Punch, whose stump of a tail finally began to wag. 'Have you had your supper?'
Jon thought guiltily about the chip shop saveloy he'd tossed to him earlier. 'That would be great, Judith. I'll bring some tins round tomorrow.'
'No need,' she replied, still looking at Punch. 'We've got crates of the stuff. Come on then, Bess is in the kitchen.'
Jon watched as she led Punch away. Bess appeared in the kitchen doorway and the two dogs touched noses, then squeezed past to sniff each other's rear end. Feeling a lot happier, Jon pushed the door open on his right.
Senior was in his armchair, slippers on in place of his shoes, stumpy legs stretched out before him.
'All right, Senior?' Jon asked, placing his mobile phone on the coffee table before slumping on to the sofa.
'Yes,' Senior replied, reaching for the remote and killing the TV's volume. His bull neck swivelled round and he looked at Jon. 'Getting the overtime in then? Hoping for that promotion?' Jon slid his fingers along the armrest. 'Hoping to get a good night's sleep.'
'What about this case? You're not seriously after some wild animal, are you?'
Jon shook his head. 'We've got someone in mind, don't worry.'
Seeing that was all the information he was going to get, Senior harumphed. 'So, Punch needs a crash pad then?'
Jon sighed. 'It would be a massive favour, believe me.' Senior glanced to the door. 'She hasn't kicked your sorry arse out too?' he said, deciding it was safe to swear.
'Not yet.'
'Any reason for all this?'
From his tone, Jon knew that Senior meant was there any rational reason, something that a male brain could understand. How to answer? Somehow he didn't think Senior would have much time for words like hormones or depression. 'She's been feeling down recently. Tired out as much as anything.'
'What, too tired to walk the dog?'
'No, the dog thing's different. She thinks that Punch could be, well, sort of a threat, you know? To Holly.'
'Come again?'
Judith stepped into the room with two cups of tea.
'Cheers,' Jon said, sitting up to take one. He cleared his throat before continuing. 'Punch was licking Holly on the head. Alice was, I mean is, afraid the dog's jealous. Basically, she's worried Punch might bite the baby.'
Judith and Senior touched glances.
'Our kids used to ride around on our boxer dog's back. Remember Bruno, Judith? Lovely breed boxers, no threat at all.' Judith crossed her arms. 'That's hardly a help to Jon and Alice is it? How are you both finding it with the baby?'
'Well, hard work. But we knew it would be. Alice is feeling pretty exhausted to be honest.'
'Is she sleeping all right? It's not e
asy being a mother.'
Jon thought about her raising her two boys. Junior and Rob. They both played for Ironsides and were enough of a handful on the pitch. 'You're right,' he answered, feeling himself opening up. 'She's not herself. A colleague with some experience of this mentioned post-natal depression.'
'Oh, you poor loves,' Judith said, a concerned expression on her face. 'You must make sure she has plenty of company, people to do things for her. Can I help out? Maybe do the shopping or clean the house?'
Jon smiled. 'That's really kind, but looking after Punch is help enough. Both our mums are around; at least Alice's will be back from holiday soon.'
'Well, you just say. I'll cook you some meals, that's always a help.' She left the room, apparently to start straightaway.
Senior waited for a second before leaning over to Jon. 'What's she depressed about?' he asked suspiciously.
Jon sipped at his tea. 'Nothing in particular. She feels anxious all the time. Now I look back, I can see how odd she's been. She was going on about Iraq the other night. Worrying about the fact civilians are being killed.'
'Jesus Christ,' Senior stated ominously.
Jon gave him a questioning glance but Senior shook his head.
'Come on Senior, what?'
The other man glanced at the door again. Keeping his voice low, he said, 'There's going to be some shit hitting the fan soon.'
'What do you mean?'
'I was at a regimental dinner the other day. There was a lot of chat about what's going on over there. Stuff that won't do your missus any good when it makes the news.'
'Go on.'
'They've been getting a bit too rough with a lot of prisoners.'
'Too rough?'
Senior hunched a shoulder. 'It goes on during any conflict. The problem is those bloody things.' He directed his gaze to Jon's mobile phone. 'They've been photographing it, and now images are leaking out.'
'From where?'
'The big prison in Baghdad. The one the Yanks took over from Saddam Hussain. Abu Ghraib. They're really laying into the prisoners they've got locked up in there. More than just scaring them with guard dogs.'
'Doing what then?'
'One photo had this hooded guy balancing on a stool. Wires hanging off him.'
'A prisoner?'
'Someone they'd pulled in. A terrorist probably. There was more. A few had died during interrogation. Wrapped up in cling film, probably suffocated.'
Jon stared at him in disbelief.
'Don't look so shocked, it's a war, Slicer. You can't pussyfoot around.'
'No, but aren't there conventions for this sort of thing?' Senior raised his eyebrows. 'Like the enemy'd stick to?
They're sawing people's heads off, remember?'
'Those gung-ho Yanks are a bloody liability.'
Senior fixed him with a cold stare. 'I gathered there are photos from Basra too. Our boys aren't blameless either. Anyway, don't tell me you've never got carried away with some little thief you've nicked.'
Jon pictured the times when he'd lost control. There'd been quite a few, but never amounting to more than a few bruises on the suspect. A broken tooth on one occasion. But then he thought of the politicians selling the reason for the invasion with smoothly delivered words. 'Yeah, but our whole approach over there is promising a change from Saddam, introduce peace, freedom, democracy. We're meant to be the good guys.'
Senior gave a dismissive wave. 'Slicer, I might be a bone-headed ex-Marine, but you don't really think I believe that's why we're over there?'
'No, but that's the official line the politicians spout. How does that square with torturing suspects?'
Again Senior shrugged. 'Give me a war where this stuff doesn't go on. The only difference with this one is the souvenir snaps they've been stupid enough to send to their mates back home. It'll reach the press soon, mark my words.'
Jon's eyes strayed to the clock display on his mobile. Ten-twenty. 'I've got to go. Holly will be wanting her bottle.'
He had reached the doorway when Senior said his name. He looked back into the room. The other man was sitting in his armchair, one finger raised to his lips. Jon returned the gesture with a nod.
Ten minutes later he unlocked his front door, eyes automatically moving to the end of the corridor in anticipation of Punch bounding delightedly towards him. All there was were a few dead leaves lying on the carpet. Their dry, lifeless forms made him feel uneasy and he found himself picking them up and tossing them out the door.
The house was quiet. He leaned into the front room. Empty. Kitchen lights were off. Hanging his jacket on the banister, he climbed the stairs. Little sucking sounds from the nursery. He looked in, just able to make Holly out in her cot, her eyes open and a dummy moving back and forth between her lips.
Just in time, he thought. He hurried down the stairs and flicked the kitchen light on. Alice's dinner stuff was all still out, plate lying on top of other dirty washing up in the sink. Opening the fridge, he saw she hadn't prepared a bottle. Shit. He touched the kettle, relieved it was only faintly warm. The water was about right for Holly's bottle. After washing his hands, he mixed up four ounces then climbed back up the stairs.
Once she was safely on his lap, he removed her dummy, instantly replacing it with the bottle's teat before she could start crying. She began sucking away and Jon was able to relax. The curtains weren't quite drawn and through the gap he was able to see a black cat sitting on their yard wall. It appeared to be sunning itself in the orange glow from the streetlamp above. After a minute the animal stood up and stretched. Then it looked into his yard before dropping silently down on to the concrete. Watching it, Jon wondered how a panther might compare. Was it five, ten, fifteen, times larger? What did a panther weigh? Six stone? Maybe more? And was that how it moved, cautious yet graceful? He craned his head to watch as the cat began to explore. It approached the patch of wall to the side of their back gate, sniffed, then turned round and sprayed the stone with urine. One day, Jon thought. Punch is missing for one day and already the bloody cats are claiming the yard as their own.
Holly's head slumped back, milk glistening on her chin. The bottle was almost empty so he returned it to the windowsill, burped her, then placed her gently back in the cot.
In the darkness of their bedroom he could see Alice's form curled beneath their duvet. Her breathing was slow and deep. She probably hadn't even woken when he unlocked the front door. Well, so much for talking things through with her tonight.
First thing in the morning, he told himself, as a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. Shedding his clothes as quickly as possible, he slipped beneath the covers and closed his eyes.
Twenty-Three
The bells in the tower were ringing furiously, but the noise they produced was high pitched and tinny. One hand resting on the rough stone of the parapet, Jon turned his eyes from the minaret that towered above him and looked out across the desert plain. Through the heat haze, far away on the horizon, a dark shadow wavered, expanding out and then contracting back in on itself. Jon squinted, trying to make out if it was approaching or retreating. Sheets of rain drifting down? Its black edges were growing more defined, and he realised with a sense of dread that it was advancing across the sands with incredible speed. What was it? One moment it seemed like the billowing sail of a ship, then it changed to something more like liquid, silently flowing forwards like an ocean bed creature. A dust storm? But there was no wind to propel it forward.
In the foreground was a train of camels. The animals were running, long legs seeming to intertwine for a moment before stretching apart again. They were crying out in distress, but the sound that came from their mouths – just audible above the infuriating bells – was the grating whinny of horses. Suddenly he had a sense of the sheer scale of the thing as blackness swept around the animals’ legs before swallowing them up completely.
Now the stone beneath his palm started to tremble and shake. He began to moan, knowing only seconds remained before
the fortress was engulfed. Finally his eyes snapped open, the bells morphing into the electronic ring of his mobile. Alice's hand was on his shoulder, roughly shaking him.
'I've got it,' he said, sitting up in the darkness.
'It's in your trousers.'
He blinked, realising his hand was scrabbling about on the bedside table. Trousers. She's right. A moment later the phone was in his hand. The screen's clock read five fifty-three. 'Jon... DI Spicer here.'
'Sir, it's Sergeant Morris, radio room at Longsight.'
A burst of adrenalin brought him fully awake. 'What's up?'
'Sorry to ring so early. We've received a call from Inspector Clegg, Mossley Brow. Ken Sutton just turned up at the station there. He's got the body of a panther in his trailer outside.'
By the time Jon got to Mossley Brow the sky was beginning to lighten. Parked in front of the station was the red McConnel tractor Jon remembered from Sutton's farm. A crowd of people was gathered round the aluminium trailer attached to the rear, several police officers amongst them.
Jon parked on the opposite side of the road and hurried towards the excited babble of voices. A person with a camera was on the station steps, directing proceedings.
'OK, please step to the side those of you at the front,' he shouted, sweeping one arm outwards as if parting a curtain. A young man with blond hair began to straighten up in the trailer, obviously struggling with something heavy. That other bloke from Sutton's farm, Jon thought, as a chorus of cheers rang out and the photographer's flash started going off.
He was about to move round to the back of the tractor when he spotted Carmel Todd chatting animatedly to a colleague. How did she get here so fast? He scanned for other familiar faces, soon spotting Ken Sutton at the edge of the crowd, his face totally expressionless.
Avoiding Carmel, Jon walked round to the front of the tractor, knowing what he was about to see. The young man had his arms hooked under the front legs of a large black cat. Its head lolled forward, a long drool of blood hanging from its partly open jaw. The man was grinning triumphantly at the camera as more flashes went off.
