ILLUMINATION BOOK CHAPTERS (UPDATED LIST OF CHAPTERS HERE).. ROMANTIC COMEDY — QUIRKY ROMP — CO-STARS MOOCHER THE DOG

‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ — Chapter Eighteen

A ‘Once in a Lifetime Dog’

He was a Once in a Lifetime dog, that one.

She checked again. No, he definitely wasn’t under that blanket.

Liz had never been so conscious of her body. She could feel every part of it as though all the bits of it were independent of each other — they just happened to have been assembled into her for the time being. All the parts were made of cold steel. She as a person existed as an entirely separate entity somewhere within that machinery. And she knew that she was capable of killing. And she would kill these bastards with no thought. They might chicken out of hacking off someone’s finger and think it was easier to cut off a paw, but they would find out that the cost to them of the one would be in no way similar to the cost of the other.

Once in a Lifetime. A phrase she’d seen before. On the card Betty had given her for Kevin’s new business. The coincidence was too great to ignore.

As she headed towards the front door, she heard its familiar screech. It was Simon. When he saw her he started to mumble something incomprehensible. She wasn’t interested enough to disentangle any meaning from it. “Not now, Simon,” she snapped as she swept past him and out of the house.

“But Liz,” he said. “I need your help.”

She stopped on the path and turned to him. “Not now was what I said. Not now was what I meant.” She turned away from him and started to run. Down the path, turn right, smack into a solid body. It was Hugh.

“Don’t get in my way,” she yelled, dodging to the side of him and racing down the road. To number two hundred. She hammered on Betty’s door. If the woman’s nets had twitched for a fraction too long Liz would have thrown herself through her window. She was lucky. She opened the door quickly. “Goodness, Liz…”

“I have no time for the social niceties. I need to know where Kevin is. Now. Where is he?”

She looked all coy and gave Liz what she no doubt considered a sly wink. “Well, my, my. You are keen aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I’m in a hurry. So, where is he? He’s taken my dog and I’m going to kill him. So tell me where he is.”

Liz heard someone breathe, “Moocher,” and she spun around. It was Simon. He’d followed her down the road. She was conscious Hugh stood there, too. She turned back to Betty. “Don’t waste my time. He’s probably torturing him already.”

“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t do such a thing…”

That was it. That was enough. Liz shouted: “Tell me where he is! Now!” She trembled violently and had some difficulty making all the bits of her bodywork together properly. Her limbs and face felt as though they wanted to shoot off in different directions and start killing people. Betty by this time was shaking visibly and tears had started to her eyes. So what! Liz’s own eyes were fixed so wide open they felt as though they’d dried out and the lids had disappeared into her head. That would be just as well because she knew she would never be able to shut them again without seeing her lovely, loving dog in pain and torment and wondering why she wasn’t there for him.

Finally, Betty Needles whispered, “Cakehole…” and sagged against her door frame.

That was enough. Liz was off, a tiny spark of hope igniting in her stomach. Cakehole was a newish caff on the Gloucester Road. Just a few houses away. She might be in time.

She had never run so fast and probably never would again. She could feel the cold wind slicing into her body, cutting her heart to ribbons. Terror was not hot. It was very definitely cold. Pictures tumbled through her mind as she threw people out of her way, conscious of Simon and Hugh keeping pace, saying nothing, helping her make her way. Because she wasn’t going round. She was going through. Nothing would stand in her way. Nothing.

Moocher, raising his face to the sun, worshipping in its light, his old bones comfortable in its warmth. Moocher, asleep with one front leg over his nose as though shy of his dreams. Moocher, alert, bright-eyed and interested in everything that moved and everything that didn’t if it bore any resemblance whatsoever to possible food. Moocher whose love for her was unconditional, life-giving, and beyond price.

Moocher.

The times he would find a basket of washing straight out of the machine, still warm and steaming and fragrant. He would sniff all around it and without warning would gracefully leap into it, do his three magic circles and settle contentedly into its damp embrace. Another basket of washing to do again. The time Simon played gypsy violin in the garden and found Moocher sitting on his feet, hypnotized by the music. She had a photo of that. The time he commented on Angela’s driving by throwing up down her neck, in her new car. The time he interrupted one of her monologues about Liz never taking anything seriously by audibly farting when Angela drew breath. They collapsed in snuffly giggles and low, pleased woofs as Angela, highly offended, stalked out muttering about wasting her time and energy on ingrates.

Moocher.

Her friend. Her lovely, loving dog. He had taught her a lot.

The way he completely ignored next door’s cat even though it invaded his house every night. Live and let live. The way he would fling himself with such enthusiasm into the chase. Everything’s interesting if you are interested. The way he would always be there for her when she was down, licking her hand but at the same time, written all over his furry face would be the message, ‘You can do it. You can deal with it.’ Everything had its positive side. Whatever it was, however awful it seemed.

Except this.

It was as though her life, as they say it does, passed before her eyes, in the time before she died. It was exactly like that. They speak truth. She couldn’t imagine a life without Moocher in it. It would be forever an empty basket, a mown lawn, a house of desolation. Not a life at all.

A car hooted its horn as it screeched to a halt. Cakehole was on the other side of the main road and she had simply run across, not realizing until now, that she was towing behind her, with invisible threads, a whole rabble of neighbors, Simon and Hugh, and others besides who must have got wind of something. Not surprising she supposed. She must have looked like a madwoman. She felt like a madwoman.

There was a ‘Closed’ sign dangling crookedly in the glass door of the caff. Cakehole was shut. Next to it was a greengrocer, their wares spread out colourfully onto the pavement. It was the kind of greengrocer that sold cut flowers and plants as well to pad out their living. Liz grabbed the nearest, biggest object to hand — a conifer — and hurled it at the window of the caff. It bounced off.

Ignoring the cries from the proprietor’s wife she snatched up a metal bucket full of long-stemmed freesias and swung it at the window, water, and bunches of flowers dropping at her feet. It hit with a satisfying ‘thunk’ but still, no glass fell. What the hell was it made of?

She was conscious of Moocher’s name being passed around in the crowd, but it was as though no one else really existed in this cold world in which she moved and acted. Frustrated, she pounded the bucket again and again at the window. She thought she might have been yelling all the time. She wasn’t sure and didn’t care.

Becoming aware that someone was shouting at her, she turned to them and concentrated as though swimming up through muddy water to clarity. She recognized a neighbor but could find no name for him. Wordlessly he pointed at Simon. She looked at her erstwhile lodger and realized he had a cordless drill with him and was approaching the door in a business-like manner with the drill suddenly buzzing and stopping, buzzing and stopping, as though he dared the door to give him trouble. To steady himself he reached out and grasped the handle — and the door obediently opened.

She’d feel sheepish later, probably.

For now, she raced through the entrance, ran between the tables, their chairs upturned on them. Nothing in there. She ran out the back, through the kitchen, and into the store beyond. There was nothing there. She tore all the boxes and tins off the shelves in case bits of Moocher had been hidden behind them. Other people opened cupboards and hauled out the contents. They wrecked the place. But there was nothing there, apart from loads of dry provisions. Hugh came in through the back apparently having gone around in the first place, but there was no sign of Moocher. No dog. Just a thoroughly despoiled caff.

She had to think. She had to work this out. It was not possible that she couldn’t. It was unthinkable that she wouldn’t be able to. She walked back through the caff and stood on the pavement staring at its frontage. She ignored the crowd, the protesting horns of cars at a standstill, and the curses of their drivers. A young girl, positively twittering with excitement came up to her and put her hand on her arm. Liz stared at the white fingers stark against her black sweatshirt and they suddenly dropped off her like a salted slug. “What’s this all ab…” the girl started, but Hugh pulled her away.

Liz stared at her, noting just one feature as the girl slowly receded away from her, question unfinished. She had long floppy blonde hair. And Liz was off. Back across the road, down the Gloucester Road, left up the little road, left and immediately right onto Malvern Road. The wind couldn’t keep up with her, nor could the streaming crowd. But they tried and were there, stamping down the new shrubs in Lydia’s front garden as Liz hammered on her neighbor’s door.

Lydia opened it and, uselessly, held up her hand to stop Liz from entering. “Get out of my way, Lydia. This has nothing to do with you.” Liz brushed by her and headed down the hallway. There, in the extended breakfast room-come-kitchen were Julie and Tony seated at the table obviously enjoying a home-cooked meal. How very cozy. Liz swept in, round the table, and grabbed a fistful of Julie’s floppy blonde hair. She screamed. Good! Liz hoped it hurt.

She turned her hand in the hair, momentarily surprised that it didn’t all pull out of Julie’s scalp with little bleeding roots on the end. Julie screamed some more. Liz pulled her from her chair which fell and hit her in the shin, but she felt no pain. She forced Julie to her knees on the floor and turned to the yelling crowd. She noticed Lydia with both fists pressed against her cheeks. Simon just stood there looking vaguely protesting, his mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. Tony looked like he was ready to spring at her. Hugh was the one she was conscious of most of all. He merely looked at her and she knew that she could do anything and he would be behind her all the way, however pompous he sounded sometimes. Tony moved towards her.

“Stay there,” she shrieked, grabbing up a gravy-smeared knife and holding it threateningly above Julie’s face. “Or the cow gets it.”

Abruptly silence fell. A falling feather would have made more noise. They’d got the message then. Don’t mess with Liz when her dog’s been kidnapped.

For good measure, to make sure Julie wasn’t missing out on her meaning, she shook her head. Julie yelped. “Ok, Julie, or whoever you are. All this crap only started when you turned up. Where’s Moocher?”

“I don’t know,” she wailed.

“You’d better think of something pretty damn quick then,” Liz said, raising the knife to make sure she could see it properly.

Vaguely she wondered what the spectacle looked like because there was a collective indrawn breath at this.

Liz shook her head again and tightened her grip even more. Julie screamed again.

“I’m losing patience,” Liz snapped. The icy cold grip of fear tightened around her guts. “You’re at the root of all this. I’m sure of it. There’s just too much coincidence going about. You knew about my dog before you even came to see the room. I remember the so-called coincidence that allowed you to share a house with that sort of dog but not any other.”

Julie’s eyes were shut now and tears coursed down her face. She looked awfully young. A sudden pang of remorse forced its way through the glacier that used to be Liz’s chest. What if she was wrong? But she could think of no other options. She couldn’t be wrong. If she was, Moocher was dead.

Feeling as though she was going to spoil the whole effect by throwing up, she deliberately brought the knife down so it threatened Julie’s eyeball. Jeez, how do people do that for a living?

Julie stopped sniffling and stiffened. “Attic,” she said in a defeated voice. Liz didn’t have to do anything. The sound of feet thudding up the stairs told her she wouldn’t stand earthly of getting up there anyway. She hung on to the cow in case she needed her again. She now knew what was meant when people said: ‘their heart stood still.’ She thought hers would never beat again until she heard the unmistakable acceleration of, surely four, paws as they raced down the stairs, the crowd standing back to let him have his head. He turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, spotted her ahead of him and thundered along the hall, launching himself into the air, the feathery bits on the back of his legs floating out behind him.

Moocher. Her lovely, loving dog, galloping along with all his feet in action.

She dropped the cow and the knife held out her arms, and collapsed on the floor under the weight of his I’m-really-a-rocket impersonation. Strange for a dog, he loved fireworks.

He probably couldn’t work out what the game had been. He probably wanted his supper. He hadn’t had his walk yet.

Liz noticed Lydia shaking Julie by the shoulder and shouting at her, but she had more important things on her mind now.

All the ice making up her body melted in one go and she bawled her eyes out much to Moocher’s surprise and consternation although he enjoyed the salt. She was alive again. The neighbours, after a rousing round of applause, handed out hankies and someone found a celebratory crate of wine. But Moocher and Liz, they left the house without looking back. They couldn’t take any more.

What a mess. The PCs no longer laughed at her. She’d become a liability to society. She’d maligned good old ‘Once in a Lifetime’ Kevin and busted up his caff. She’d caused traffic jams and threatened righteous citizens. She’d held riotous meetings in the street. This time, although she had no idea why he was there again, she was glad to see Hugh, towering above the crowds, threading his way through to her side and then turning to face them, as if to keep the others at bay while she escaped. How had he known she needed him? She would let him sort it out. She knew when she was beaten. Moocher looked back once or twice, maybe wistfully, at the impromptu party, but they went home.

Chapter Seventeen of ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ is here!

Chapter Nineteen of ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ will be here next week!

All ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ chapters to read are here.

I own the copyright and have asserted my right to be identified as the author of this book in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ is on Amazon as a Kindle book, and a paperback book. It’s also in Large Print. Susan’s newsletter sign-up

‘White Lies and Stakeouts’ follows on from ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’, although, it too, can stand alone.

Susan’s Amazon Page / Susan’s Etsy Store / Susan’s newsletter sign-up

Read more from me: © Susan Alison 2021