A PARTICULAR SHERBET LEMON

Not everything's what it seems to be...

Mr Sherlock Watson (he’d been teased about that name ever since he’d been old enough to tell people what he was called) was stuck. He had a dog, his oly friend, called Woofwoof, and he needed to find a new route when he took him out for his walk. Both man and dog were heartily tired of their usual pathways.

As Headmaster of Saint Judas academy situated a couple of miles north of Brumpton and as far as he knew a long way from any living man for the lads in his care chance to happen upon should they escape. His school tried to educate the wayward sons of the almost rich and famous and he preferred to keep temptation out of their way even though he did remind them who was boss from tume to time by waftying a cruel looking cane in front of their eyes.

He was aware of the need for separation from the hoi polloi because occasionally a scallywag would make his escape, and a couple of miles in any direction was usually enough space for him to be traced and recaptured, or die somewhere his bones would never be found. Some boys over the years, he knew, had gone missing and he was grateful that their parents so far had shrugged it off as just one of those things.

Then he discovered the bungalow where it hadn’t been before.

He was out walking his gorgeous Labrador, an intelligent dog who enjoyed his daily stroll through the wilds with Sherlock, when boredom led him to take a strange new turn, something that pleased Woofwoof as well as himself, and it was down that pathway thaat headmaster and dog came upon the bungalow, and he was shocked because, to his eyes, it must have been a good hundred years old and yet he’d never seen it before.

He decided to take a closer look, hoping and praying that it would be unoccupied, maybe a remnant left from a past before a manor house was converted into Saint Judas boys’ school and it and the land sold off and boys brought in.

“Don’t you know this is private land?” came a voice from behind a hedge.

“Pardon? Private land? Nonsense!” he replied, wishing he had the forbidden-by-law cane with him, the one that he wielded onto the cringing fingers of juvenile sinners, careful that he only chastised those boys who he was certain would never tell their parents.

“This is my land and you’re poking your silly little nose into it, and I won’t have it!” came the retort, and an angel from Heaven, or so he thought, emerged from behind a holly bush. If that voice had anything to do with that angel then he decided he had got everything wrong when it came to voices and angels.

“Go on, see him off Anthea!” continued the voice, and the woman’s lips didn’t move at all, “we won’t have his sort here! Those snotty kids from the snooty school will be around next and you’ll have to feed them your nectar while I dig their graves!” added the voice and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when he noted that the creaking old voice had nothing to do with the angel, even though she was scowling, though he was sure it couldn’t be at him because adorable creatures like she doubtless was never scowled at him. They always liked him too much.

“I am merely taking my vicious hound Woofwoof for a walk and I chanced to come this way,” he said, adopting his best headmasterly voice, the one that usually made the younger boys cringe, expecting an unearned beating because they were breathing.

“Private land! I said this was private land and your sweet little dog doesn’t frighten me,” croaked the voice, and this time he could see its source as a bent-backed old man who must have been a hundred at least emerged from behind the same prickly bush.

Sherlock had to do some rapid thinking. He’d made sure that Saint Judas was in the middle of land belonging exclusively to the governing body of the school and that it didn’t include any bungalows, old or new, and certainly not places where geriatric old men and sweet angels might live.

“I rather suspect it is you, old man, who is trespassing!” he barked when he found a mental image of the school building’s deeds and consulted it, frowning at the effort. He had a good memory, photographic he often boasted, but mental images of property deeds are not simple things to recall in any detail. But he did know that the land two miles in every direction was included as part of the school’s property and he’d only been out with Woofwoof, strolling at a leisurely pace for around ten minutes. So he decided to put his position clear. “I am the Headmaster of Saint Judas boys school and you are occupying our gardens!”

“Headmaster, eh?” croaked the old man, trying to straighten his own back, and failing, “then you must be responsible for these!” And he pointed to the patch of land behind him.

Curious as to what he meant, and confident that he was in no way trespassing on anyone’s land than that belonging to the school, Sherlock took a few steps towards the decrepit creature so that he could see what he was referring to. And when he did see he gasped in alarm.

Behind the feeble being was a well tended law, and scattered over it were what looked suspiciously like grave-stones.

“A cemetery?” he asked, “a place where you bury your dead?”

Then the angel spoke. Her voice was as sweet as her shapely body, perfect legs, cascades of curling mahogany hair, and perfect eyes suggested it would be.

“Not our dead, but yours, foolish man,” she said with a smile that spoke of all things wonderful, “if your stupid boys come this way and eat our sweetmeats, then how are we to be blamed if they curl up and die before our very eyes?!

Sherlock was captivated by the woman and nodded. Of course the stupid boys should be warned against trespassing on the gardens belonging to such a perfect creature. And if anything happened to them, then so be it. It wasn’t his fault.

By then he was so close to the angel that he could smell the sweetness of her floral perfume. He was captivated by it and had it not for Woofwoof growing, a savage contrast to the perfection of the woman, he might have been totally drawn into her spell.

“Shush!” he ordered the dog. But something about the old man and the young angel had spooked Woofwoof, and he barked, displaying two rows of sharp and threatening canines.

“Your dog seems to have more sense than you,” croaked the old man, who had taken a careful two or three steps out of rage of what he clearly perceived as a threat. “But won’t you partake of a little sweetie? So tasty, so very delicious, and Anthea made them?”

“That’s decent of you,” he said, deciding that being pleasant to the old man was his best option.

“Then here, take one…” smiled the angel holding a small paper bag towards him.

He reached into it and pulled out a sweet.

“Hmm. Sherbet lemon,” he said, “my favourite. That’s mighty decent of you.”

And he popped the sweet into his mouth, But Woofwoof was there to help him. The dog barked so viciously and in a sudden oupouring of energy pulled on his lead with such violence that Sherlock was jerked off his feet and fell onto the ground.

His teeth crunched into the sweet and a bitter centre emptied itself into his mouth. Woofwoof barked more ferociously than ever as he released his hand on the lead, and when he was free the dog leapt onto the woman and her bag of sweets. But it wasn’t a sugary treat he was after.

Woofwoof’s teeth sunk into the fleshy neck of the woman and she shrieked as an artery was severed and blood spurted out, spraying over her geriatric companion.

“Anthea!” he gasped, and as Sherlock’s eyes closed and before all lights flickered and went out he saw as the pretty young woman’s blood hissed and steamed wherever it touched the old man’s skin. It was a picture he knew he’d treasure for the rest of his life.

And that was the very last thing that Sherlock Watson ever heard as the bitter juices of a very peculiar sherbet lemon sweet found its tortuous way through his body, and stilled his heart.

Woofwoof was quite happy though. He’d found some really tasty meat to spend as long as it took to really enjoy chewing on, and he was in no mood to leave it behind. And when it was gone then there was always his nasty old master...

© Peter Rogerson 26.09.22

...