by Neil Cross
Next, he used an epoxy glue to bind the knife to the pick-axe handle and doubly secured it with duct tape. With this, he was able to hack and slash at the leg of lamb with some abandon. It was a happily remedial interval. When he was done, he stared at the ragged clod of flesh on the kitchen floor.
He cleaned off the knife blade and used a dustpan and brush to sweep up the tatters of lamb from the floor tiles. Then he made a second spear to the same design. He carried the weapons to the car, wrapped in a blanket, and put them in the boot.
Mel and Jamie got home at teatime, three hours late. Sam ran to the door to welcome his son. He kissed Jamie’s forehead and gripped him fiercely until Jamie said, ‘All right, Dad,’ and hobbled through to the front room and turned on the TV.
In the morning, Sam was brittle and withdrawn. When he refused breakfast, Mel assumed he was hungover.
Before leaving, he went upstairs and found his old beanie cap. He pulled the hat over his shaggy hair so it stuck out like the petals of an inverted flower. He removed his new watch and the old chain round his neck, and finally his wedding ring. He put them in a Ziploc plastic freezer bag, and the bag in his jacket pocket.
He looked for a long time at the pale blue band where the wedding ring had been. He flexed his fist. It looked unfamiliar, like a transplant.
He called goodbye from the hallway and hurried out before they saw him. He checked the stuff was still in the boot: salmon net, spear-gun, home-made spears.
It took some time to find the right garages. For a while he thought the written-off Capri had been moved and he would never find it. But it was there, still propped on piles of breeze-blocks.
Sam parked across the street and waited.
Craig Hooper appeared shortly after midday, his dog trotting primly alongside him. Craig Hooper wore his hair gelled in a Caesar crop, and a puffer jacket over stained blue overalls. His Nike trainers were split along the insoles.
The dog swaggered, its head held high and alert.
Sam’s saliva evaporated. He sat there while Craig Hooper lightly hooked the dog’s lead on the edge of a dented, loose chromium bumper and lifted the green garage door. The door was counterweighted by two concrete blocks. Craig Hooper emerged from the garage carrying a toolbox and a long torch. He wore a dressing above the ridge of his eyebrow.
Hate drew a swirling Mandelbrot set in Sam’s gut. He grabbed the steering wheel and watched. He imagined he knew what a wolf felt, defending its cubs on some snowy tundra.
Something inside him that was not him decided when the time had come. Sam put the bag containing his jewellery into the glove compartment. He leant across the seats and opened the passenger door, leaving it slightly ajar. Then, having left the keys in the ignition, he stepped out on to the pavement. He walked round the car and opened the boot.
He paused. Craig Hooper was paying him no attention, but the dog had lifted its boxy muzzle and was tasting the air. Perhaps it could smell the cloud-burst of hatred blasting from Sam’s skin. If so, Sam was glad. He wanted it to know what was about to be done to it.
The dog shuffled its feet. He thought it might be retreating, but it was simply repositioning itself. The muscles in its shoulders were bunched. The velvety skin was soft over massive mandibles, like a soldier ant’s. Sam could see the black, fleshy ruffles inside its lips and its hot, red mouth. The yellow teeth and the stupid, hungry eyes.
Sam looked at the array of survival equipment. The spear-gun and the salmon net looked puny. He was embarrassed by them. He grabbed the two spears and slammed the boot. The dog yelped. It adjusted its footing again, to monitor Sam’s progress.
As Sam approached, it gave out a short, warning bark. Craig Hooper reached out from under the car to tickle its belly, to comfort it.
Soon Sam had come within two or three metres of the animal. It didn’t strain at the leash. It simply faced him, silently, and made cool eye-contact.
Sam looked into limitless malice. Beneath the car, Craig Hooper remained unaware of his presence.
Sam took the spear in both hands.
The dog exploded into gnashing rage. In a moment it had bucked and flexed free of its tether. Sam was startled by the speed of it. He took an automatic step backwards. The dog ran at him. Sam lost his footing and stumbled.
He lunged the spear at an acute, unmeasured angle. It entered the dog’s pink belly, an inch or two above its swollen testicles. The sudden, unexpected weight wrenched the spear from his hands. He scrambled backwards like a crab.
The dog yelped and curled and thrashed.
While Craig Hooper freed himself from beneath the car, Sam stooped to retrieve the spear. He watched the dog find its feet. For a moment it tottered drunkenly. He saw a blue loop of intestine protruding from the gash in its belly. Alternately, it was snorting with pain and yelping with fury.
By now, Craig Hooper was standing beside the Capri. He had an oily yellow rag in his blackened left hand. Without comprehension, he watched his skittering, yelping dog.
Abruptly, the dog seemed to remember itself. It stopped yelping and lowered its head. Once again it ran at Sam.
Sam had been captivated by what he thought were its death throes. He had yet to get to his feet. He was still down on one knee.
The dog came thundering towards him on stumpy legs. This time Sam jabbed the spear deliberately, two-handed, and with force. The blade slipped into the dog just below the white diamond on its throat. This time it didn’t squeal. It snarled and gnashed and kept coming, like a landed shark.
Sam fought to retain his grip. The dog’s struggles worried him this way and that.
Craig Hooper approached. He was yelling something, but Sam didn’t know what it was. The jaws of the enraged, impaled dog snapped at the air close to his testicles. He tried to push it away. But it was too heavy and too determined.
Sam levered himself to a half-standing crouch.
The dog continued to thrash. It had a surfeit of life. It was trying to free itself from the serrated blade. Sam wondered if he should let it. Perhaps it would simply retreat to a corner to lick its mortal wounds, but he doubted it. The dog was a knot of hate.
Sam gave the spear an exploratory prod. The dog screamed. It sounded like a baby. With greater urgency, it tried to scrabble backwards. He heard its claws skittering on the concrete.
The tip of the blade scraped bone. The dog was panicking now, kicking its legs uselessly in all directions. Another furious prod tipped it on to its back, like a beetle. It gave up. It grew calm. It rolled over, showing Sam its pink and wet, ruby-red belly.
Sam leant forward and put all his weight into a final downward thrust. The knife found a space between two vertebrae and sliced through the dog’s spinal column. Its tip snapped on the concrete, causing Sam to stumble a few steps forward.
Sam stood straight.
He waited for Craig Hooper to turn on him. But no attack came.
Craig Hooper stood with collapsed shoulders, staring down at the dog. Sam saw that he was little more than a boy. He regretted the necessity of hurting him.
Craig Hooper got down on his knees. He took the dead animal, slippy and loose, into his arms. Its velvety fur was smeared black and spiked, as if with oil. The boy tugged at the spear. The dog’s body bent to follow it, as if reluctant now to be parted. Then the dog flopped back on to the concrete. Its front paws twitched slightly, as if it dreamt.
Craig Hooper rocked the dog on his lap. He stroked its head with sweeps of his palm, as he had probably done when it was a puppy.
Sam picked up the spear. He supposed, vaguely, that he would have to get rid of it somewhere.
He said, ‘Your dog hurt my son.’
Craig Hooper didn’t look up.
He said, ‘You didn’t have to hurt him. You didn’t have to fucking hurt him.’
He buried his face in the dog’s neck.
‘Get the next one trained,’ said Sam, with a contempt he no longer quite felt.
As he walked back to the car, he half-expected Craig Hooper, feral with anguish, to come running after him. But Craig Hooper just stayed there, cuddling the corpse of his dog.
Sam took off the hat and gloves and jacket and threw them in the boot with the spear. He hadn’t expected so much blood. His face and eyebrows were thick with it. His clothes smelt coppery, like a butcher’s. He sat at the wheel, trying to clean his face and neck with a scrap of old tissue.
It took him three attempts to get the engine started. As he pulled away from the kerb, the passenger door, which he’d left ajar in case he needed to get in quickly, swung open. He stopped in the middle of the road to pull it closed. Somewhere past the Dolphin Centre, he drew in to the kerb. He was very hot and the black-pudding smell inside the car had nauseated him. He opened the door and puked into the road.
Then he put on his necklace. He left the wedding ring in the plastic bag. He wondered what he should do with it.
He’d planned to use the staff shower at work, then change into the clothes he’d mashed into his sports bag. But the unanticipated gore made that impossible. Instead, he stopped off at home. He sprinted from the car, through the front door, up the stairs and into the bathroom so quickly that he was already in the shower when Mel banged on the bathroom door and demanded to know what the fuck he was doing.
The water ran pink over his feet. He threw the hair from his face.
‘Nothing.’
‘What do you mean, nothing? What are you doing here?’
‘I had an accident.’
‘What kind of accident? Why aren’t you at work?’
‘I’ll explain later.’
‘Why can’t you explain now?’
He couldn’t answer that.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said.
He could sense that Mel was pausing, undecided, at the door.
She said, ‘Sam, are you all right? Has something happened?’
‘I’m fine.’
She tested the handle. He’d locked the door.
He soaped himself hurriedly and rinsed the pink froth from his body and face. Then he jumped from the bath, wrapped a towel round his waist, wrapped the bloody clothes and shoes into a loose sausage, and opened the door. Mel was waiting there.
He hurried past her. Then he turned on the landing, as if exasperated, and said, ‘Honestly, Mel. Nothing’s wrong.’
In the bedroom, he stuffed the soiled clothing into a hold-all before dressing. He left for work with wet, tangled hair. As he passed Mel, who was still waiting on the landing, he saw her notice that he wore black leather shoes with his jeans, and no socks. He didn’t bother trying to explain himself. He would be unable to tell a lie convincingly, even if he could think of a convincing lie to tell.
The first few working hours were difficult. He endured any number of comments about his timing, and not a few about the new trainers he’d stopped off to buy on the way. He was distracted enough to accept the derision as banter. He kept dropping things and bumping into furniture.
Many times he silently dared himself to go and open the car boot, to confirm to himself that the bloody weapons and soiled clothing were actually there. Each time, he dismissed the idea as ridiculous and tried to get on with his duties. He worked through his lunch- and tea-breaks to make up some lost time. But eventually his desire for confirmation won out. He jogged to the car. There was no need to open the boot. There were bloody fingerprints all over the bodywork. That was enough.
The call came an hour later. He was summoned from the ward and into reception. He thought it must be Mel. Or maybe Anna had misplaced his mobile number. He wandered off the ward, aware that he was in a state of some anxiety and would alarm himself if he allowed himself to hurry. He wormed his hands into his pockets and strolled. He practically whistled. He nodded a second, redundant hello to Molly, and picked up the phone.
He said, ‘Hello.’
‘You’re fucking dead,’ said Dave Hooper. ‘You and your fucking son. And your fucking cunt sister. You’re fucking dead.’
Sam’s heart gave a single thump, like something dropped.
‘Who is this?’
‘You know who this is.’
‘Look,’ said Sam. ‘Your dog hurt my son. All right? The problem is taken care of. Can we let it rest now?’
There was a silence.
‘You didn’t need to do what you did,’ said Dave Hooper.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘It was evil.’
Sam glanced at Molly. He wondered if she could hear.
‘We’d’ve got him put to sleep,’ said Hooper. ‘All you had to do was say.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘I don’t think you heard me.’
‘No, I heard you.’
‘You’re dead,’ said Dave Hooper. ‘End of story.’
He hung up.
Sam stared into the buzzing receiver. He looked at Molly. She stared back. Sam smiled with one side of his mouth and handed back the phone.
‘Some people,’ he said, and rolled his eyes. His hands were cold.
He could see she wanted more and smiled sadly, for not providing it. The matter, he suggested, was out of his hands. He returned to the ward, to all the mad people.
As soon as the opportunity arose, he took his coat from the rickety stand in the staffroom and hurried out. It was after 10 p.m. and the car park was lamplit and edged with darkness. Dave Hooper could be squatting, waiting, behind any of the Minis, Escorts, dented Puntos and rusty Polos. He paused, imagining the gentle, predatory slap of Dave Hooper’s trainers on the tarmac. He wondered what kind of weapon Dave Hooper would use. A knife, possibly. Or a gun. He didn’t doubt that Hooper was the kind of man who could easily get hold of one.
He hurried to the courtesy car. He grabbed the wheel and made himself calm down before turning the key in the ignition. He drove slowly through the car park, testing the brakes several times before turning on to the road.
He could feel the migraine gathering like bad weather at the base of his skull. The slight palsy in his right hand, the corned-beef complexion that greeted him in the rearview mirror. At home, Mel asked what was wrong. When he opened his mouth to speak, the migraine burst and he folded like a clothes-horse. Mel led him by the hand to the living room. Without needing to be asked, Jamie limped speedily to the kitchen and brought back the things that sometimes helped: Ibuprofen with codeine, a pint of room-temperature water, a can of cold Coca-Cola, a bag of granulated sugar with a tea-stained spoon stuck in it like a shovel. Sam thanked Jamie with a grunt but took only the Ibuprofen and the water.
Jamie helped him upstairs. He rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders like a blind man. He fell on to the cool bed with great but temporary relief. Jamie closed the door softly behind him.
Sam lay perfectly still, sweating. The darkness and the stillness and the quiet controlled the migraine, until it began to recede to a distant, ominous drumbeat. His rigid musculature relaxed into the mattress. But every thought of Dave Hooper, every replay of what had happened that morning, was accompanied by a thump of pain. Bursts of colour glittered across his inner lid.
Later, Mel came in and sat on the edge of the bed. She stroked his hair. Her hand was cool. He thought for a sleepy moment it was Justine.
She said, ‘What sparked this off?’
He pressed down on his right eye with the heel of his hand. Sometimes that afforded enough relief to let him speak.
But Mel didn’t wait for an answer. She mashed her lips together and said, ‘I suppose you’ve heard that he’s been spreading rumours?’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? Dave Hooper.’
‘What sort of rumours?’
‘About us.’
‘What about us?’
‘About the nature of our relationship.’
Fireworks fizzed and whirled behind Sam’s eyelids like a flock of luminous starlings. He sat up. The room plunged and dipped away from him.
He removed the hand from his eye and stared at her.
‘What’s he been saying?’
‘You know,’ she said. ‘About you and me.’
‘What about you and me?’
‘Jesus, Sam. Do I have to spell it out?’
Gorge surged in his guts. He knew that soon he must vomit. He squeezed his bad eye shut again and tilted his head, to see her better.
‘Who told you this?’
‘Guess.’
He was in no condition.
‘Janet,’ said Mel.
‘And how did it get to Janet?’
‘It’s a rumour. Rumours get to everybody. Especially really good ones.’
‘And do people believe this?’
‘Of course they don’t.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
Mel sagged.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘Janet asked me if there was any truth in it.’
Bilious confetti spread across his field of vision.
‘Janet what?’
‘She didn’t believe it,’ said Mel. ‘But, you know. You hear something often enough and you start to wonder. She’s only human.’
‘She’s a fucking shit-stirrer,’ he said through his teeth. Then he said, ‘Christ,’ and lay back down. The ceiling seemed to expand and contract, as if breathing.
He said, ‘I don’t believe this.’
Mel said, ‘I have to move out.’
‘You can’t do that. People will think it’s true.’
More gently, she said, ‘But what about Jamie?’
‘What about him?’
‘What if it gets to Social Services?’
He sat up again. He retched into his fist.
‘What if it does?’
‘You could lose him.’
