Authors: Charles Caselton
Ollie again allowed Tom Jones a momentary streak through his mind before returning his attention to the horrible sight in front of him.
“Well,” he hesitated, “the odd one or two isn’t
uncommon, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“What could cause it?” Rion asked.
“It sometimes happens after a long hot spell,” Ollie shrugged his shoulders feebly, “something about oxygen levels in the water.”
“But it hasn’t been
that
hot.”
Rion was right. In a bid to make up for the season-that-never-started the weather had given England a balmy Indian summer. Whilst pleasant it was hardly fish suffocating weather.
Ollie gestured to a lone fisherman further up the path, “Let’s ask him.”
“What’s he doing fishing when you can pick them out with your hand?” Rion asked.
“Something to do with sport,” Ollie said dryly.
The man sat on a fold-out chair surrounded by the paraphernalia of his hobby. In the grass by his side were a large net, a rest for his long pole, various tupperwares full of wriggling maggots, open tins of feathered flies and a small hamper containing what they could see was a packed lunch.
A metal bucket nearby was almost full of freshly caught fish.
As usual Hum broke the ice. Despite calls to the contrary the dog made straight for the writhing maggots and gave them a good sniff.
“Sorry,” Ollie pulled Hum back by his collar.
“He’s alright,” the angler replied, “I’ve not had need of them today. The fish are practically leaping onto the hook.”
Ollie guessed the man was in his late forties. He had a pinkish complexion and the round body of someone who spent days sitting on riverbanks.
“It’s almost like a mass suicide attempt. They can’t wait to get out of the water,” the man made a rather unpleasant
gurgling sound which Ollie only realised, after a few seconds, was a form of laughter, “but then that’s not surprising is it now?”
Rion peered into the metal bucket containing the angler’s catch, “Ugh!” she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Why do they have those – ” Rion pointed to the puffy growths some of the fish had on their bodies, “ – things?”
“Why isn’t it surprising?” Auntie Gem asked the fisherman.
“Well, would you like to stay in there?” the man pointed to the canal.
Ollie looked at the dirty water, “It would be preferable to your bucket I imagine.”
“But what’s caused them all to die?”
The fisherman turned to Auntie Gem, “You know the work they’re doing on the bridge further on?”
Auntie Gem nodded.
“As I heard it the workmen didn’t tie up a bag of chemicals securely enough, some kids found it, chucked it in the water and – hey presto! – dead fish by the dozen. Those that haven’t the sense to kill themselves haven’t the wits not to!”
Ollie, Rion and Auntie Gem left the man gurgling at his luck and continued on their way.
The thin line of dead fish edging the canal had turned into a thicker stripe by the time they had got to Mitre Bridge.
To their disappointment there were no workmen to be seen.
“They’ve probably been sent home,” Ollie said.
“If they’re here when I finish I’ll give them a piece of my mind,” Auntie Gem said, but all knew the possibility of workmen still being on the job at four o’clock was so small as to be infinitesimal.
“Perhaps they’ll be back tomorrow.”
Auntie Gem’s face brightened at the thought.
Ollie and Rion watched from the canal as Auntie Gem crossed Mitre Bridge above them and headed the short way to the entrance of Peters & Peters.
Rion and Ollie made their way back along the towpath. Ollie gave a half-hearted wave and Rion shuddered as they passed the gurgling angler.
“I still don’t understand what he’s doing,” the young girl shook her head, perplexed. “I mean, if catching fish is his thing, why doesn’t he simply scoop armfuls out of the water?”
“Ours not to reason why – you know?”
Rion didn’t but grunted as if to indicate that she did.
It was when they got to Sainsburys that something happened that would change Hum’s life forever. Admittedly, the situation had been building for weeks.
As usual the hound charged excitedly along the canal walk, barking at the swans and geese that hovered in the water waiting to be fed. He ran like mad into the pigeons and that is where he, literally, came unstuck.
Pelting up the gentle slope Hum slipped on the morass of bird droppings. Ollie and Rion watched amazed, and then horrified, as Hum careened out from the cloud of pigeons. The dog’s momentum propelled him up the slope where, unable to stop, he slammed into the railings and fell into the water several feet below.
The birds couldn’t believe their luck.
They were on him in a flash. The swans were the first. They raced over, their powerful wings beating the water, their necks outstretched, their eyes narrowed in fury.
The geese weren’t far behind. Remembering the abuse
they had suffered ever since Hum had showed up they fell on him eager to exact revenge.
Even the moorhens got in on the action. Diving beneath the water they pecked at the hound from underneath.
Hum had soon disappeared beneath a flurry of wings and jabbing beaks.
He never really stood a chance.
“Do something!” Rion implored Ollie. The young girl was in tears.
Hum had vanished from view. A tail, an ear, a paw would surface occasionally before disappearing once more beneath the angry birds.
Ollie ripped off his shirt and began waving it ferociously at the swans.
“I don’t think a shirt’s going to do much mate,” a voice sniffed behind him. Ollie turned to find an old man at his shoulder. He recognised him as being the one who regularly fed the pigeons when Hum charged into them.
“You want to be careful,” the old man continued with more than a hint of a smile, “swans can break a man’s arm with their wings you know.” He peered over the edge at the frantic splashing, “Imagine what they could do with a dog and a young ‘un at that. It’s best to let him go.”
“Let him go where?” Rion wailed.
Ollie continued beating at the birds with his shirt but his onslaught wasn’t making much of an impression.
Looking round frantically he spied a freshly bought baguette sticking out of a shopping bag. To the woman’s surprise Ollie grabbed the stick of French bread leant down and began battering the swans with it.
“‘Ere, you can’t do that mate,” the old bird-feeder muttered, annoyed at thinking Hum might get away with it, “they’re a protected species.”
Ollie continued beating at the ferocious birds with the baguette while flailing his shirt in his other hand. His aggression had the desired effect. Giving a last vicious peck the leader of the geese backed off, his minions at his tail.
Before the swans could put in their parting shot Ollie struck the larger of the two on the head with the baguette. Seeing they had lost the support of their friends the swans hissed violently but moved on.
The cowardly moorhens were nowhere to be seen.
“Is he still alive?” Rion asked tearfully as the hound’s bedraggled body rolled to the surface.
“Hold my legs,” Ollie instructed Rion.
He leant over the edge, stretched for Hum but couldn’t quite reach him. As he wriggled further he felt another pair of hands on his ankles to stop him falling in.
With the added support Ollie was now able to touch Hum. He pulled him closer, got a grip with his hands and twisted back to put the dog on dry land once more.
It was then he saw the extra pair of hands belonged to Andy. His body was already od-ing on adrenaline, he hoped it could handle more.
“He’s not moving!”
Rion was right. There was no movement from the dog at all. She had to bite her fist to stop herself from screaming at the sight of Hum’s body. The poor dog was beaten and bruised. Numerous cuts bled into the water dripping from him so that soon Hum lay in a red pool growing larger.
But the thing that really got Rion was how skeletal Hum looked. With his fur flattened by the water the hound seemed a fraction of his normal size. It didn’t seem like he could fight off an under-the-weather Chihuahua let alone a gang of marauding geese.
“I have my car,” Andy gestured to the car park at the front of the hypermarket.
“He’s not breathing Ollie!”
The only thing Ollie could think to do was put his head to the dog’s chest and listen for a heartbeat. He began to massage Hum’s bony chest but it was apparent there was just one thing that could save him now.
Mouth-to-mouth.
Digging deep for the memory of the Red Cross course he did long ago Ollie clamped his fingers over the hound’s nostrils, tried not to think of where Hum’s mouth had been recently, opened the small jaw and blew in. And again. And again.
Nothing.
It was only after the seventh time that Rion shrieked, “He blinked!”
Ollie gave one more breath and pulled back. Just in time. Hum spluttered, coughed then retched up pools of murky canal water over Ollie’s trainers.
The crowd cheered.
Hum weakly wagged his tail, tried to stand but couldn’t.
Ollie wrapped the dog in his shirt and held him in his arms. He looked at Andy, “Could you take me to the vet?” Ollie stammered, feeling slightly self-conscious of his shirtless self and of Andy being so close by. “It’s not far and – ”
The drummer took control of the situation.
“Just tell me where,” he said firmly.
Rion followed as they hurried through the crowd to Andy’s car and away.
A
ngie’s body tingled. It had been another energetic session at Jake’s. As the taxi rattled out of the city of the dead she felt alive, she felt sexy and she felt her phone vibrate.
“Hello?” she purred into the receiver.
“What are you doing in the cemetery?” her husband’s voice contained a hint of mirth.
Angie quickly looked around her. How the hell did he know where she was? “Edwin!” she exclaimed, drawing on the quickthinking skills for which she was renowned. “Er – I’m just leaving actually. We’re doing a piece on funerary chic, black being the new black ‘n all.”
“Is that going to be your big project?”
“How did you know I was here?”
“You’re Lady Peters my dear and I have a lot of staff. I can probably see you from my office.”
Angie desperately hoped he couldn’t.
“I still think you should find a top model, do a nationwide search, find a new face to rival Lily and Natalia.”
Angie thought back to the previous night when they had dozed off in front of yet another tv reality show aimed at finding the next model/designer/catwalk star. That was something about Edwin that she rather liked. He was solid, yes, and dependable, definitely – but imaginative? It just
wasn’t in his brief. She quickly pooh-poohed the idea.
“How many shows are there at the moment with the exact same aim? Let’s list them: ‘Make Me a Supermodel’, ‘The UK’s Next Supermodel’, ‘From Supermarket to Supermodel’……”
Edwin cleared his throat, “Just trying to help darling.”
“….’Project Runway’, ‘Top Model 8’ ‘Model Behaviour’, ‘Britain’s Next Top Model’, ‘Find Me the Next Doll’…….”
“Join me for lunch then.”
“It’s Friday – I’ve never liked the way your chef does fish.”
“We could go to E & O.”
The thought of chilli salt squid and people watching was an appealing one but having spent a couple of hours out of the office Angie knew she had to get back.
“I just can’t today Edwin – I’m running behind already. I’ll see you at home. I should be back before nine.”
Angie clicked off her ultra-slim phone, settled into the back of the cab and wondered how long her fling with Jake could last. She also wondered whether she would keep her title should divorce ever be mentioned – the title wasn’t hereditary afterall – but, well, Heather had kept hers, hadn’t she?
In some ways it had been the perfect affair. They had known nothing of each other at the beginning and now, six months later, apart from first names and numbers of mobile phones, they knew little more.
Of course they had discovered all the fleshy, deliciously sensitive nooks and crannies of each other’s bodies, and had exchanged secrets normally kept hidden from the world, but apart from that, they knew next to nothing of each other’s lives.
Perfect!
It really had been perfect.
However the time had come to end it. The affair had lost some of its flavour, some of its sparkle. The treehouse in autumn was not as alluring as it had been in spring and whilst the notches up had done wonders for her agility, not to mention her calf muscles, Angie knew it was time to quit.
Things had also started to get a bit too close to the real world recently. Favours had been asked which was always a sign that everyday life couldn’t be far behind.
And whenever everyday life intruded on an affair the magic died.
But the last and most compelling reason for ending it was career instinct: what if the Press were to find out? What if they were to dig deeper, printing her true age and details of her Edgware childhood? All the lies she’d told, the facts she’d hidden to get where she was would become common news. Angie shuddered, realising unhappily that ‘common’ was the word they would pick up on.
The thought was too horrible to contemplate.
The tabloids would have a blast. She could imagine the headlines – ‘Magazine Editor in Torrid Tombside Trysts’? or ‘Toy-Boy Sex Secrets of Ghoulish Aristo’? or, her stomach quaked, ‘Suburban Council Estate Past of new Lady Peters’?
What would her boss do then? Luca Mortimer wasn’t known for his soft side. A speedy return to contributing editor status would be on the cards but it would be on one of his lesser titles. This time she’d be lucky if she made FOLK – the magazine of country dancing, ‘Seamstress Monthly’, or that editorial graveyard; ‘Home Recipes and More!’ Angie never knew what the ‘More!’ was – or why it needed such a prominent exclamation mark – but she had a feeling, if the story ever leaked, she would be sure to find out.
Jake had started to feel ill before Angie’s message came
through. He always kept the mobile on silent/vibrate when he was at home. Something as insistent as a ringing telephone would distract even the most devout mourners from their duties.