“Oh?” I said. “How?”
Graham clutched Bertie a little more tightly, although whether that was for Bertie’s protection or his own was hard to say. “They tore the Aztecs’ throats out.”
I gulped nervously. But if Graham and I were alarmed at the sight of the slobbering animal dragging its owner towards us on a length of chain, the woman and her children were terrified. The toddler was so scared he stopped screaming. The baby stopped bawling. They both fell into a frozen silence while their mother went a ghastly shade of green, swaying slightly as if she might faint. She then rallied enough to swing the pushchair round so that both children were behind her, and she raised her hands, clenching them into fists as if preparing to defend her offspring to the death.
The young man on the end of the chain – close-cropped hair, black hoodie emblazoned with skull motifs – knew full well the effect his dog was having. A thoughtful owner might have changed direction, or at least given the kids as wide a berth as possible. But this guy wasn’t the thoughtful type. “Come on, Tyson,” he growled and walked past us, keeping so close that I could feel the dog’s hot breath on my bare legs. It paused to stare at Bertie and I could almost see a doggy thought bubble pop out of its head – “What the hell is that?” I thought we were done for, but luckily the creature shook its head in disbelief, spattering me with flecks of drool from the knee down, and then carried on with its walk. I didn’t complain about the spittle. The owner wasn’t the kind of person you made complaints to, not if you wanted to live.
But that young mother clearly had a death wish.
The hellish hound had gone about five metres when it suddenly squatted and deposited a foul-smelling pile in the middle of the path. When it had finished, dog and owner carried on walking. There was no attempt to scoop the poop.
The mother was incandescent. “Hey, you! Come back here and clear that up!” she yelled at the dog owner’s back. “That’s disgusting! It’s a health hazard! You can be prosecuted for that!”
Her voice was so loud it carried clean across the park. Everyone looked at her. Everyone, that is, but the young man. He didn’t turn. Didn’t react at all. Just carried on walking.
“If you don’t do something, I’ll pick it up myself and shove it through your letter box,” the mother screamed, purple with rage. “I can find out where you live. You lot are all the same. Dog owners! You think you own the park. You won’t get away with it!”
I shivered. It was a hot day, but the atmosphere had become positively Arctic.
small packages
Graham and I didn’t stop to see what happened next. Bertie started to wriggle, but Graham didn’t dare set him down anywhere near the kids in case they started screaming again. We walked quickly in the opposite direction and only released Bertie when we were out of sight. But we soon realized that the path would carry us round in a big circle and we were likely to meet the horrible hoodie and his hellhound again. So we nipped out of the side gate near the shrubbery and cut down a back alley to the vet’s to collect Bertie’s eye-drops.
“That was all a bit weird, wasn’t it?” I said. The vet’s reception area was quite crowded, and as we stood in line waiting for our turn, I felt a bit shaky.
“It was rather odd,” agreed Graham quietly. “I suppose the children must suffer from some sort of phobia. They certainly appeared to have an irrational aversion to dogs. As did their mother.”
“Bertie’s not exactly threatening, is he? Mind you, I didn’t like the look of that mastiff thing.”
“Nor did I. And his owner is definitely someone to avoid.”
I was so distracted that the receptionist had to ask me twice to confirm Mrs Biggs’s address before she’d give me Bertie’s medication. Once I’d handed over the cash, we headed home.
We had to walk Bertie twice daily, regular as clockwork, without fail. Graham hung around at my house in between our park trips: it was just too hot to go anywhere or do anything else. I lounged about in the garden reading trashy thrillers and sipping chilled smoothies while Graham sat hunched over Mum’s computer trying to figure out the precise connection between the current heatwave and long-term climate change.
Everything proceeded more or less smoothly for about a week. True, Bertie still wasn’t keen on the actual journey to and from the park. Every time Graham and I turned up he regarded us with Deep Suspicion. Graham ended up borrowing his neighbour’s skateboard and converting it into a kind of doggy go-kart so we could pull Bertie along instead of breaking our backs carrying him everywhere.
Everything was fine, if a little dull. Then, on Saturday morning, things suddenly got nasty.
The walk itself was fairly uneventful. Bertie greeted all of his mates politely. Admittedly he’d then stolen Sam – the obsessive collie’s – ball and made off with it under a bush. It had taken us nearly twenty minutes to persuade Bertie to come back out. Then we met Jessie, the golden retriever. She was accompanied by a fresh-faced, outdoorsy woman rather than the shaggy-haired surfer dude we’d met before. Jessie bounced around Bertie in great galumphing circles but he ignored her. Bertie had an important job to do: he was on a mission to rid the world of daisies. In an attempt to distract him, Jessie rolled over onto her back. It didn’t work. Her owner – the surfer guy’s wife, presumably – knelt down to scratch the dog’s stomach consolingly. “Won’t he play?” she laughed. “Poor Jessie!”
Just then the auburn-haired Super Speedy Sprinting Woman came pounding across the grass with her red setter. She was on a collision course with us, so I grabbed Bertie and we prepared to take evasive action.
However, when the runner saw Jessie she slowed down and plucked the headphones out of her ears. I thought that maybe she was going to stop and talk, but when she saw the retriever was being walked by someone different, she carried on running.
Interesting, I thought. She’d stopped for a long chat with Surfer Dude only the day before, and yet she’d completely ignored his wife…
I glanced at Mrs Surfer Dude but she hadn’t even noticed the sprinting woman. All of her attention was fixed on the back gate and her eyes had narrowed thoughtfully. Graham and I followed her gaze and saw that Mumsiewumsie had entered the park with Malcolm and Stanley.
Bertie didn’t rate Jessie as a doggy friend, but he was mates with the shih tzu. Graham and I had learned enough about Bertie’s habits by then to know that there would be no shifting him until he’d had a chance to sniff both dogs’ bottoms. Jessie, it seemed, wanted a piece of the action too. She was wagging her tail so hard we were getting bruised knees.
Mumsiewumsie greeted me and Graham with, “How’s Bertie’s mum?”
Assuming she was referring to Mrs Biggs rather than Bertie’s biological mother, I said, “She’s fine. Bearing up, you know.”
“Yes, I heard she’d had an accident,” Mrs Surfer Dude said, joining the conversation. “Awful. And in this heat, too! That plaster must be driving her mad. How long do they think she’ll be laid-up?”
“Not sure,” I said. To be honest, I hadn’t really listened to the medical details.
But Graham had. “At least six weeks,” he informed us. “Maybe longer, depending on how well the bone knits together.”
Mumsiewumsie had pulled her treat box from her handbag. Scenting food, all four dogs sat down.
“Not you, Jessie!” Mrs Surfer Dude clapped the golden retriever onto a lead. “I need to watch her weight,” she explained.
Bertie took his treat politely but Malcolm and Stanley snatched theirs as usual, despite another firm telling-off. “You’re very bad boys, and them as don’t behave won’t be getting their Sunday lunch, will they? It’s roast beef tomorrow. And you know how much you like my Yorkshire puddings, don’t you, boys?” Both dogs looked blank. You’d have thought they couldn’t understand a word she was saying.
“They love a roast,” Mumsiewumsie told us confidentially. “No potatoes, mind. I won’t give them those.”
“Too fattening?” I asked
, observing the dogs’ complete lack of waistlines.
“No,” she replied. “Gives them terrible wind.”
Mrs Surfer Dude had been chewing her lip while Mumsiewumsie was talking. She looked as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words. “That’s a terrible diet!” she finally blurted out. “Really, it’s so unhealthy. You’ll make them ill.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Mumsiewumsie frostily.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that…”
Mumsiewumsie drew herself up to her full height. She only came up to Mrs Surfer Dude’s chin, but with immense dignity she said, “I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my private business. They’re my boys and I’ll feed them whatever I like.”
Mumsiewumsie had the figure of an egg on legs, so she didn’t exactly stride away in an epic fit of fury – it was more of a waddle and a huff – but it had the same effect.
Jessie’s owner sighed and said to me and Graham, “Poor dogs. They’re heading for heart attacks at this rate. Oh well. You win some, you lose some. See you around.” And then she left too.
Bertie walked us for the forty-five minutes required by Mrs Biggs and then we headed home. Everything was fine until we led the Pekinese back through his front door.
The second Bertie’s claws clicked on the tiled corridor I knew something was seriously wrong. The television was switched off, for starters. The silence was deafening.
I looked at Graham. “Sounds ominous,” I said nervously. I’d begun to think Mrs Biggs must have had another fall – maybe she’d been carted off to hospital again, or worse, maybe she was lying dead in the front room. But before my imagination could go into overdrive I heard Mum’s voice calling from the kitchen, “Poppy, is that you?”
“Yes,” I answered, confused. What was Mum doing here? And why did she sound so cross?
Graham and I followed Bertie down the corridor into the lounge, where Mrs Biggs fixed us with a Wounded Look. Mum was wearing a Stern Expression.
“What?” I said defensively. “What have we done?”
“It’s more a matter of what you haven’t,” said Mum. “Look what came through Mrs Biggs’s door while you were out.”
When you’ve walked a dog twice a day for a whole week it doesn’t take much to recognize a bag of poo – and there was one sitting on top of a Jiffy bag right in the middle of Mrs Biggs’s coffee table.
“I don’t get it…” I began.
“I told you what you needed to do,” said Mrs Biggs. “It’s not difficult.”
I started to get angry. No one likes to be falsely accused of doing something. Or not doing it. “I’ve scooped!” I protested.
Graham backed me up. “I assure you, Poppy has been most conscientious. Having witnessed her performing the task on several occasions, I can personally vouch for it.”
“And you put it where you’re supposed to – in the doggy bin?”
“Of course!” I said indignantly.
“How odd,” said Mum. “Why would someone post something like that through the door? What a nasty thing to do…”
I couldn’t agree more.
“Throw it away,” she went on. “It’s obviously just someone playing a silly joke. A malicious prank, that’s all.”
Gingerly picking the bag up by its handles, I dropped it back into the Jiffy bag and shoved it in the dustbin. I was unnerved by the whole thing, and judging from the look on Graham’s face, he felt the same. Not that we had a chance to discuss the matter, as Mum was dragging me off to town for a spot of Back to School shopping, which – as you can imagine – I was thrilled about.
It wasn’t until we took Bertie out for his walk that evening that Graham and I had a chance to talk.
“Do you think it could have been that mum? The one with the screaming kids? I mean, she threatened that man – you know, the guy with the hoodie.”
“Yes, she did. But he didn’t clear up after his dog – unlike us. So why on earth would she send a package like that to Mrs Biggs?”
“I don’t know. But she didn’t like Bertie sitting down in that puddle. Maybe it was because of that. Even so, it’s all a bit odd…”
When we got to the park we found a disconsolate pack of dog owners gathered on the grass. Mumsiewumsie and Mrs Surfer Dude’s argument had clearly been forgotten, because whoever was responsible for Mrs Biggs’s mysterious package had been hard at work. Everyone had found similar parcels on their doormats. While the dogs played, their owners conversed in low, worried tones.
Mumsiewumsie was almost beside herself. “It were downright nasty, it were. Right there on the mat. Nearly stepped in it.”
“It’s outrageous. Something ought to be done,” fretted Byron’s bow-tie-wearing owner.
“I called the police,” Mumsiewumsie told him. “I told my boys, I’m just not having it.”
When Horrible Hoodie and his hellhound came along the path, the owners bunched together like angry sheep and began muttering about how some people shouldn’t be allowed to keep dogs; some owners gave everyone else a bad name. Hoodie wasn’t bothered – in fact, a nasty leer spread across his face. He looked like a Man Who Knew Something.
“I called the police too,” Mrs Surfer Dude said in a low voice. “Grant thought I was overreacting, but … well, it’s just not nice, is it? It makes you feel so uneasy! And how did they know where we all live?”
Mumsiewumsie didn’t answer. No one did. They all seemed lost for words and I could see why.
The dog crowd were clearly a pretty chatty bunch, but it was only their pets they talked about. I knew most of the dogs’ names by now – their owners were always shouting them out, so it wasn’t hard to remember. I also knew who each animal was friendly with, who they attacked on sight and what games they liked to play. On the other hand, I knew virtually nothing about their owners. I didn’t know their names, and I most certainly didn’t know any of their addresses. A worrying thought hit me. Could someone have been following owners home from the park? Had they done that to me and Graham?
Before I had a chance to say anything, Super Speedy Sprinting Woman bounded through the gate. The sight of such a large group of people gathered on the grass made her pause. She hesitated, running on the spot, as if wondering whether to come over. Her eyes flicked across the dogs. Located Jessie, the golden retriever. She glanced at the owners and saw Mrs Surfer Dude. That decided her: she ran on. But Ball Obsessed Collie Woman waved to her and beckoned. She had no choice.
Pulling the headphones from her ears as she approached the group, she said reluctantly, “What’s the problem?”
“It’s Alexandra, isn’t it?” Collie Woman smiled placatingly. “I saw your name in the paper after you won that half-marathon.”
“What’s up?”
“It’s just that … well … we all seem to have had a bit of a nasty surprise this morning. I wondered if you—”
“Yes, I got one too,” she interrupted. “Some nutter. Best to ignore it.”
And that was the extent of her conversation. Stuffing her headphones back in her ears, she and the inexhaustible red setter took off.
“You don’t think it’s Kath, do you?” Mrs Surfer Dude suddenly asked Collie Woman. “I couldn’t bear it. Not after the business with Spike.”
“No!” said Collie Woman, looking worried. “Surely not…”
“It couldn’t be. That would be awful!” cried Mumsiewumsie.
“Spike?” I asked. “Who’s Spike?”
Everyone fell silent. Mrs Surfer Dude’s eyes were wide with anxiety. Mumsiewumsie picked up Malcolm in one arm and Stanley in the other, as if to protect them from some unseen danger. The ball-obsessed collie was brought to heel. Hamlet and Gertrude were clipped onto leads. One by one, the dog owners melted away, darting furtive, anxious glances over their shoulders as they left the park.
dermot o’flannery
The following morning an article appeared in the local paper. Mrs Surfer Dude must h
ave called the news desk as well as the police, because there was a photo of her and her husband with Jessie on the front page, holding a bag of poo and looking disgusted. It was only then that I learnt their real names: Gabbie and Grant Robinson. He worked for an outdoor pursuits centre; she was employed by the RSPCA.
It must have been a very slack news day, because the next thing we knew the local TV station had sent a crew to cover the story. When we took Bertie for his morning walk we saw a car and a van parked on the tarmac near the park gates. A crowd had gathered to watch the excitement.
The presence of cameras might not in itself have been riveting, but the fact that the reporter was Dermot O’Flannery was enough to grab my attention.
“Look!” I said to Graham. “It’s him.”
“Who?” asked Graham.
“Dermot something. His wife got bashed by a burglar, do you remember? It was about six months ago, I think.”
“Yes, it was.” Graham frowned, trying to recall the details. “He went to pieces afterwards, didn’t he?”
“Yes – threw himself into her grave at the funeral. And then he burst into tears on live TV while he was reading the headlines. It was dead embarrassing.” I was vague on the precise details of the murder case, but I remembered that incident clearly enough – it had been a pitiful sight and afterwards he’d lost his job as the station’s anchorman.
But it looked like he was beginning to scrape the shattered fragments of his life back together. He was clearly having to start at the very bottom of the career ladder again, though – doing an item on dog poo was hardly the cutting edge of investigative journalism.
Nevertheless, Dermot O’Flannery seemed extremely nervous. He looked pale and kept swallowing anxiously, as if he was about to interview an assembly of world leaders.
By the time Graham and I arrived at the park, a whole pack of interviewees had assembled. Byron’s bow-tied owner was beating about in the bushes, although there was no sign of his beagle. Mumsiewumsie was sitting on a bench near by with Malcolm and Stanley, feeding them treats. Collie Woman was throwing a ball for Sam. The small Spanish woman with the large Great Dane was talking to the short, fat owner of the long, thin dachshund. One of the TV crew had jotted down their names and addresses and they were all ready and willing to tell Dermot their story, but he didn’t seem very keen to begin.