Fluke (23 page)

The little blue-and-white Panda car lurched to a halt and doors flew open as though it had suddenly sprouted butterfly wings. Two dark figures leapt from it, one carrying a long pole with a loop attached to it. I knew what that was for and decided not to give them a chance to use it. I fled into the night; but not too far into it.

Later when the police had given up thrashing around in the dark in search of me, I crept back. I'd heard voices coming from the house, car doors slam, an engine start, then tyres crunching their way back down the lane. No doubt they'd be back tomorrow to give the area a thorough going over in the daylight, but for tonight I knew I'd be safe. I'd wait for the man to come out of the house and then I'd do my best to follow him - or maybe get him there and then. No, that would be foolish - it would only frighten Carol and Polly again, and Carol would probably call the police back. Besides, the man was a little too strong for me. That would be the best bet: follow him somehow - maybe I could even track his car's scent (even cars have their own distinct smell) - then attack him, the element of surprise on my side. It was a harebrained scheme, but then I was a pretty hare-brained dog. So I settled down to wait. And I waited.

And waited.

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The shock of it hit me a few hours later: he wasn't coming out that night. His car was still in the drive so I knew he hadn't already left, and there would have been no reason for him to have gone with the police.

He was staying the night!

How could you, Carol? All right, I'd obviously been cold in my grave at least a couple of years, but how could you with him?

The man who had murdered me? How could you with anyone after all we'd shared? Had it meant so little that you'd forget so soon?

My howl filled the night and seconds later curtains moved in the bedroom window. My bedroom window!

How could such evil exist? He's killed me, then taken my wife! He'd pay - oh, I'd make him pay!

I ran from the house then, unable to bear the pain of looking at it, imagining what was going on inside. I crashed around in the dark, frightening night creatures, disturbing those who were sleeping, and finally fell limp and weeping into a hollow covered with brambles. There I stayed till dawn.

Nineteen

Have patience now, my story's nearly done.

Do you still disbelieve all I've told you? I don't blame you - I'm not sure I believe it myself. Maybe I'm a dog who's just had hallucinations. How is it you understand me, though? You do understand me, don't you?

How's the pain? You'll forget it later; memories of pain are always insubstantial unless you actually feel the pain again. How's the fear? Are you less afraid now, or more afraid? Anyway, let me go on: you're not going anywhere, and I've got all the time in the world. Where was I? Oh yes ...

Dawn found me, full of self-pity again, confused and disappointed. But, as I keep telling you, dogs are born optimists; I decided to be constructive about my plight. First I would find out a little more about myself - like exactly when I died - and then the circumstances of my death. The first would be easy, for I had a good idea of where I would find myself. You see, now I was in familiar surroundings, memories had started to soak through. Well, perhaps not memories, but - how can I put it? - recognitions were soaking through. I was on home ground. I knew where I was. Hopefully, memories of events would soon follow.

The second part - the circumstances of my death - was more difficult, and because I felt familiar places would begin to open memory valves, a visit to my plastics factory might help.

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First, though: When did I die?

The graveyard was easy to find, since I knew the location of the dominating church (although the inside wasn't too familiar to me). What was hard to locate, was my own grave. Reading had become difficult by now and many of these gravestones were poorly marked anyway. I found mine after two hours of squinting and concentrating, and was pleased to see it was still neat and tidy in appearance. I suppose to you it would seem a macabre kind of search, but I promise you, being dead is the most natural thing in the world, and it disturbed me not in the least to be mooching around for my own epitaph.

A small white cross marked my resting-place, and neatly inscribed on it were these words: 'NIGEL

CLAIREMOUNT' - I'm not kidding - 'NETTLE. BELOVED HUSBAND OF CAROL, BELOVED

FATHER OF GILLIAN. BORN 1943 - DIED 1975.' I'd died at the age of thirty-two, so it seemed unlikely it was from natural causes. Below this, two more words were carved out in the stone, and these made my eyes mist up. These simply said: 'NEVER FORGOTTEN.'

Oh yes? I thought bitterly.

The plastics factory was easy to locate too. In fact, as I trotted through the town, I began to remember the shops, the little restaurants, and the pubs. How I would have loved to have gone in and ordered a pint! I realised it was now Sunday, for the High Street was quiet and in the distance I could hear church bells start their guilt-provoking ringing. It was still early morning, but the thought that the pubs would not be open for a few hours yet did not lessen their attraction; I remembered I had always enjoyed my Sunday lunchtime drink.

The sight of the one-floor factory itself, almost a mile beyond the town, stirred up old feelings, a mixture of pride, excitement and anxiety. It was small, but modern and compact, and I could see a fairly substantial extension had recently been added. A long sign, itself made of plastic and which I knew lit up at night, stretching along the face of the building, read: 'NETTLE & NEWMAN - ADVANCED

PLASTICS LTD.'

Nettle & Newman, I pondered. Newman? Who was Newman . . . ? Yes, you've guessed it. My killer had been my partner.

It all began to take shape, all began to fall into place; and the thing that hurt most of all was that he wasn't content just to take my business - he'd taken my wife too. I remembered him clearly now, his face

- his person - clearly formed in my mind. We had started the business together, built it up from nothing, shared our failures, rejoiced together in our successes. He had the shrewder business brain (although he could be rash), but I had the greater knowledge - an almost instinctive knowledge - of plastics. It seems crazy now, a silly thing to be proud of, but proud I had been of that knowledge. Plastics! You can't even eat them! We had been good partners for a time, almost like brothers, respecting each other's particular flair. It was often I, though, as smart as my partner had been, who had a hunch on business matters and, as I remember, could be very stubborn if I considered a certain direction was the right or wrong one to take. I believe it was this stubbornness which began to lead to our disagreements.

The facts of the disputes hadn't swung into focus yet, but the image of heated arguments in the latter days of our partnership clung heavily to my mind. It had seemed our disagreement would lead to the breaking up of the company at one time, but then what had happened?

Obviously I'd been murdered.

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Newman. Reginald Newman. Uncle Reg! That's what Carol had said to Polly when she'd asked about keeping me - 'Wait till Uncle Reg gets home'. Something like that! The creep had really crept in! Had I been aware of his intentions before I'd died? Was that why I was different? Was I like one of those unfortunate ghosts I'd seen, tied to their past existence because of some grievance, some undone thing holding them? Had I been allowed (or had my own natural stubbornness caused it?) to keep old memories in order to set things right?

I stood erect, vengeful, defiant of the odds. I would protect my own. (There's nothing worse than an idiot ennobled by revenge.)

The factory was closed for the day, but I sniffed around the outside wondering about the new extension built on to the back of the building. Business must have been good since my death.

After a while I got bored. Strange to think that an interest which had been a large part of my life should seem so uninteresting, so trivial, but I'm afraid after my initial stirring of emotions it all seemed very dull. I went off and chased some rabbits in a nearby field.

I returned to my home later on in the day and was surprised to find it empty. The car was gone from the drive and no noises came from the house. It seemed an empty shell now, just like the factory; they had both lost their meaning. Without their occupants, without my direct involvement, they were just bricks and mortar. I don't remember being conscious of this sudden impersonal attitude in me at the time, and it's only now, in times of almost complete lucidity, that I'm aware of the changes which have taken place in my personality over the years.

Starvation became my biggest concern - at least, the prevention of it - so I trotted back to the main road through the village and the ever-open grocery store. A lightning raid on the 'all-flavours' secured me a small lunch although a hasty departure from Marsh Green.

I took to the open fields when a blue-and-white patrol car slowed down and a plod stuck his head out of the window and called enticingly to me. After my attack on dear Reggie the night before, I knew the local police would be keeping a sharp lookout for me; you're not allowed to attack a member of the public unless you've been trained to do so.

A romp with a flock of longwools (sheep to you) passed a joyful hour for me until a ferocious collie appeared on the scene and chased me off. The derision from the sheep at my hasty retreat irritated me, but I saw there was no reasoning with their canine guardian: he was too subservient to man.

A cool drink in a busy little stream, a nibble at a clump of shaggy inkcaps — edible mushrooms - and a doze in the long grass filled out the rest of the afternoon.

I awoke refreshed and single-minded. I returned to the factory and began my vigil.

He showed up early next morning, much earlier than any of our - I mean his - employees. I was tucking into a young rabbit I'd found sleepy-eyed in the nearby field (sorry, but canine instinct was taking over more and more - I was quite proud of my kill, actually), when the sound of his car interrupted me. I crouched low, even though I was well hidden in the hedge dividing field from factory, and growled in a menacing, dog-like way. The sun was already strong and his feet disturbed fine sandy dust from the asphalt as he stepped from the car.

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The muscles in my shoulder bunched as I readied myself to attack. I wasn't sure what I could do against a man, but hate left little room for logic. Just as I was about to launch myself forward, another car drew in from the main road and parked itself alongside Newman's. A chubby grey-suited man waved at Newman as he emerged from the car. The face was familiar, but it was only when an image of the chubby man in a white smock flashed into my mind that I remembered him to be the technical manager. A good man, a little unimaginative, but conscientious and hard-working enough to make up for it.

'Scorcher again today, Mr Newman,' he said, smiling at the foe.

'No doubt of it. Same as yesterday, I reckon,' Newman replied, pulling a briefcase from the passenger seat of his car.

'You look as if you caught some of it,' the manager replied. 'In the garden, were you, yesterday?'

'Nope. Decided to get away from it all and take Carol and Gillian down to the coast.'

'I bet they appreciated that.'

Newman gave a short laugh. 'Yes, I've spent too many weekends going over paperwork lately. No fun for the wife.'

The manager nodded as he waited for Newman to open the office entrance to the factory. 'How is she now?' I heard him say.

'Oh . . . much better. Still misses him, of course, even after all this time, but then we all do. Let's go over this week's schedule while it's still quiet . . . ' Their voices took on a hollow sound as they entered the building and the door closing cut them off completely.

Wife? She's married him? I was bewildered. And hurt even more. He'd really got everything!

My fury seethed and boiled throughout the day, but I stayed well hidden as the factory buzzed into activity and became a living thing. A coldness finally took over me as I waited in the shade of the hedge: I would bide my time, wait for the right moment.

Newman emerged again around midday, jacket over his arm, tie undone. There were too many factory workers around, sitting in the shade with their backs against the building, munching sandwiches, others lounging shirtless under the full blast of the sun; I stayed hidden. He climbed into his car, wound down a window, and drove off into the main road.

I gritted my teeth with frustration. I could wait, though.

The murderer returned about an hour later, but again, there was nothing I could do — still too much activity.

I slept and evening came. The workers - many of whom I now recognised - left the building, relieved to escape its exhausting heat. The office staff, consisting of two girls and an administrator, followed shortly after, and the chubby technical manager an hour after that. Newman worked on.

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A light went on when dusk began to set in and I knew it came from our - his - office. I crept from my hiding-place and padded over to the building, gazing up at the window. I stood on my hind legs and rested my front legs against the brickwork, but even though I craned my neck till the tendons stood out I could not see into the office. The fluorescent light in the ceiling was visible, but nothing else.

I dropped to all fours and did a quick tour of the building looking for any openings. There were none.

As I completed the circuit, I saw the lone car standing where he had parked it face on to the building.

And as I approached, I noticed the window on the driver's side had been left open. It had been a hot day.

The thing to do was obvious: the means to do it a little more difficult. It took four painful attempts to get the front portion of my body through that opening, and then a lot of back leg scrabbling and elbow heaving to get my tender belly over the sill.

I finally piled over on to the driver's seat and lay there panting, waiting for the pain from my scraped underside to recede. Then I slid through the gap between the front seats into the back and hid there in the dark cavity on the floor, my body trembling all over.