A WALK WITH THE DOGS

A bit gory...

It was a miserable night. Not raining as such, but grey with the promise of nastiness to come.

And I was sitting in my corner of The Gravedigger’s Arms and watched my fellow drinkers as they poured forth their nonsense, the sort of nonsense beloved over the ages by people in pubs and usually directed at an unpopular individual. And as they talked they all seemed to be obsessed in one way or another with their bodies.

Sid Mantle banged his chest, which drew my attention. “Look at this!” he declared, “a body to pray for!”

There was a general snigger, and Tom Eversop added, “And a stomach to match!” he grinned, rubbing his own gross belly..

“I’d give my right leg for a taste of that,” grunted Bob Pringle, pointing to the back of the tap room, beyond my vision though he never let it be known what he really wanted to taste. Something lost in the mumbling chatter that didn’t quite reach my corner, I supposed. Whenever they had their ad hoc little meetings it was hard for me to follow the conversations (which were always rubbish) from where custom dictated I sit.

“And me my left one!” giggled Barbara, his wife.

It must have been something precious then, for her to give one of her pretty legs for it!

“I’m trying to get my head round what he said,” proffered Benjy Barnup.

“I haven’t got the heart to tell him he’s mad, though,” declared Dave Perry

“I’d arm mesen if I was to see ‘im on the street, though ,” grunted the ancient Tony Eversop, “Arm mesen good and proper!”

“And I’d be your right arm woman!” cackled Gloria, his granddaughter who enjoyed being one of the gang of geriatrics even though she was still only in her forties.

“It’s the Kindley lad,” proffered Kenneth Warrior, “he’s behind most of what goes on round here as shouldn’t! I’d get even with him even if he makes me lose my head thinking!”

Then I knew what they were talking about.

They were discussing me! My name’s Kindley, though I’m no longer a lad but have no kids to claim that junior title. Stuck here, in my corner of the tap room, and them all pretending I wasn’t there!

It was always like this. There had been a time when I’d sort of been one of them, then there wasn’t. I’d said something, goodness knows what because I don’t, and they had shoved me slyly and quietly into my own corner and out of favour with the group. In a way it upset me to be out of things.

I was both unsteady and a little angry still when I left the pub to walk the long way home so that by the time I reached my bed I’d be sober enough to climb the stairs without falling. It’s a lovely walk through the forest on a path rarely used by us mortals, though over the years I’ve seen the odd rabbit hopping along it.

As ever I walked with my head somewhere else and anything might have happened and I wouldn’t have known a darned thing about it. I liked it like that. It made the walk interesting in the sort of way nothing else can. And this time it took an awfully long time.

Jack, my loving mongrel and his puppy son Max, were there to greet me, maybe look at me oddly telling me I shouldn’t be out this late and can’t have been up to any good, and I had to agree with them even though that wonderful walk was an empty book in my head. I might even have flown to the moon and back! That’s how ignorant I was.

Next morning the sun shone, which is always a good sign, and I had a quick but very careful shower and went down to see to the dogs.

“Time for walkies, old chaps?” I told them. And Jack looked at me warily but Max barked in agreement.

So we went out, the way I’d returned home the night before. The path was dry with baked mud under foot and the verdant vegetation that lined it was growing tall and healthy and beautifully fragrant the way wild things often are. The dogs didn’t need to be on a lead because they were good souls and would come back if I called when they ran off exploring the things that fascinated their canine noses, so they trotted off, after their own scents.

Then they were out of sight, but I know they’d come back, so I paused and breathed deeply of the morning air There was silence all around, even from the dogs, which was rare.

“Jack! Max!” I called, needing to know they hadn’t wandered too far because there were some crotchety types with gardens that bordered on this path a bit further along.

There was no sign of them, which was odd.

“Jack! Max!” I inserted a little annoyance into the tone of my voice so they’d know I needed to see them, and Jack did return, cautiously, and pausing when he was still almost out of sight on a bend in the path.

“Woof! Woof!” he barked, and I knew from the tone of his voice that something was awry.

“I’m coming, old son!” I replied and I hurried towards him. When I was close he turned, barked again, and ran to where the weedy verge to my path had been crushed. Max was there, guarding something his tail erect and quivering.

When I got there I looked, and I was aghast.

It was as if a three dimensional jigsaw of flesh was there, carefully place like it would be when the puzzle had been completed.

And it was all the parts that made up a human body!

Sid Mantle’s jacket was a familiar sight, covering the bulk of his body, though someone had carefully sliced into his flesh and, I’ve no idea how removed some of organs and, by the look of it, replaced them with those belonging to someone else.

Then I recognised Benjy Barnup’s head, skewed but roughly resting where Sid’s head ought to have been, and it looked pale and shocked to be separate from its owner.

Eventually I identified legs as separately belonging to Bob and Barbara Pringle, identified by the remnants of clothing still covering them. Barbara had been wearing purple pants and in contrast Bob in his customary pink shorts. Then I identified Tony Eversop’s arm and the other arm belonging to his granddaughter Gloria.

They were all there, sickeningly gory componants of a three dimensional jigsaw puzzle that someone had carefully put together quite correctly.

“Max! Jack! Come on!” I insisted, and they recognised the imperative tone in my voice as something they’d do well to obey.

But when we arrived home there was a police car parked outside the house and a uniformed officer with his nose in my wheeled bin.

He looked up and scowled at me.

“What’s this, sir?” he asked as he pulled a pile of clothing that had been inside my bin out into the air with a gloved hand so that I could see just how it was dripping with blood.

“And this?” he added, and he was holding my best kitchen knife, but it, too, was red with blood.

“We’ll take the dogs, sir, and you can come with us,” insisted a plain clothes officer who had been lurking down the side path that leads to the back garden.

I hoped he hadn’t noticed the freshly dug mounds that might have told him a story I didn’t want him to know. After all, folk shouldn’t talk about me behind my back, should they?

© Peter Rogerson, 11.09.24

xxx