Proud and majestic the old oak tree stood, splaying its canopy of leafy-green branches protectively over its brothers and sisters: a hundred year old guardian of silent giants. It had endured drought, flood, wars and fire and nothing, nothing, was going to kill that tree. It would be there for eternity.
Preston Developments, however, had other ideas. It wanted the land on which the oak grew for luxury apartments and shopping centres. So one by one the oak's companions were cut to the ground by squat humans that looked like ants clad in bright orange jumpsuits. As the trees fell to the roar of chainsaws the helpless oak grew angrier and angrier. It felt its knots tighten and the rings of its trunk contract. Nothing was going to kill him. He would be there for eternity.
When all but the old oak was left standing the skies above the field of stumps darkened and a thunderous clap shook the earth. But that didn't deter the army of orange ants. They yanked the cords to their saws, starting them up with a roar and a puff of smoke. But as they got to within a foot of the gnarled tree each one of the petrol-powered motors cut out. Not one so much as touched the old oak's bark. Nothing was going to kill that tree. It would be there for eternity.
"If mechanical devices won't work then brute force will," roared the suited ant who watched on with glee.
So the worker ants dropped their saws and picked up axes. They held them aloft, blades glinting in the light, and as they swung them down to deliver deathly blows the old oak fluttered its branches and braced itself. When the axes fell they bounced off the oak's trunk. They didn't even scratch its bark. Nothing was going to kill that tree. It would be there for eternity.
The suited ant tapped its foot in frustration. "Set fire to it!" he roared.
The old oak, squeezed and strained with all its might, forcing resin out from all its cracks and crevices. And when the naked flame touched the oak's brawny stem all that ignited was the gloopy, yellow sap. At first the orange ants began to dance with joy that they had slain the mighty oak, but as the flames died and the tree still lived they were dumbfounded. Nothing was going to kill that tree. It would be there for eternity.
As the ants left, scratching their heads, the old oak claimed a victory. But it was short-lived as the next day the worker ants returned in loaded lorries.
"Herbicide should do the trick," announced the suited ant.
Each ant donned a glassy helmet and strapped a yellow canister with hose to their back. As they approached the oak they pointed their hoses toward its trunk and foliage. The oak began to flap its branches, creating a gust of wind that not only blew the fine mist from the canisters away but blew the ants away as well. Nothing was going to kill that tree. It would be there for eternity.
"This is war," declared the suited ant. "I'll have this stubborn tree down if it's the last thing I do."
But with every attempt to strike it down the oak held its ground and refused to die. The ants tried paving round the roots, but the oak merely shook its twisted foundations and crumbled the slabs as though they were biscuits. They tried exposing the tree to deadly disease spores but the spores simply hung around the tree like an aura. They even tried casting spells but nothing would work. Nothing was going to kill that tree. It would be there for eternity.
Preston Developments eventually conceded defeat, abandoned its plan and left the field and the old oak that grew in it. That tree would be there for eternity. Except three years later it wasn't. In the end the only thing that brought down that tree was a tiny, microscopic insect the tree didn't know was there. It quietly, surreptitiously and discreetly chomped its way through the old oak's soft wood. But before the tree grew its last ring an acorn fell from one of its branches and budded in the ground beside it, getting ready to take its place.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Houdini (Part 1)
Most people hate the gritty feeling of sand between their toes, but not Jessica Adams. She loved it. To the annoyance of her mother, she would go for days without washing her feet just so she could make the feeling last a little longer; to her it felt like freedom.
Since her brother died 3 years ago her mother’s over protectiveness had become smothering. Jessica had to give a detailed itinerary of her whereabouts every day. The mobile phone that had been bought for her was barraged with calls and the slightest grazed knee would send her mother into a whirlwind of panic. Jessica switched her mobile off when her friends began to tease her about the calls. She was 12 now; she was more than capable of looking after herself.
Every morning the hour between 5 and 6 was her chance to escape, if only briefly.
It was 5.08am and the sun had just started to rise up, over the sea as she scaled the coarse, green dunes. With her tattered deckchair clamped under one arm, she made her way down towards the shore. The soft sand beneath her bare feet became harder, darker, and clammier as she neared the breaking waves.
At that time the beach was always deserted, just the way she liked it: no one to crowd her space or her thoughts. This was her time. She headed for her usual spot and opened the deckchair beside a wooden post that had once been part of a jetty. Now redundant and alone it was well weathered, black, covered in limpets and draped with deep green seaweed. She sat in peaceful silence looking out to the horizon, listening to the waves rolling and crashing onto the shore. She found the deafening din surprisingly calming; a chance to clear her mind and let her imagination run wild. She closed her eyes and let her head rest back against the chair. What would she be today she thought. Yesterday she was on an oilrig that struck the richest find of oil in the whole world, the day before she was a fisherwoman who caught a legendary octopus in the English Channel, the day before that she was an acclaimed medical professor that had found a cure for the common cold. A wry smile drew on her face as she muttered to herself.
“Yes, perfect, Captain of a pirate ship”
She frowned in concentration as she tried to imagine being aboard a wooden Galleon that creaked with age under foot and reeked of a cocktail of gunpowder, smoke, leather, fish and salty wood. She drifted into a light slumber and suddenly she was there; Aboard La Brisa Del Mar - The Sea Breeze. One of the finest Spanish Galleons of the 18th century; a proud ship that had now been taken over by a band of renegade pirates led by the mercenary, Captain Eleanor Sternglass. Eleanor, upon reaching her 20th year, had already captured and ransacked 17 galleons and was in possession of more gold, silver, jewels, silks and porcelains than any one country could afford. Her name had become notorious across the continents as legends about her told that she could board and pillage any vessel quieter than a whisper and quicker than a gazelle. She was a formidable foe whose supremacy was challenged only by the nefarious Captain Blackfoot.
Few had crossed Blackfoot’s path but all the pirates in the world new of him. He was renowned mostly for the fact that a black stump had replaced his foot after an angry tuna fish had chewed it off. Full of his own self-importance, he thought of himself as the most feared pirate of all, and to show he was no weaker or less callous from his unfortunate encounter, he made sure his onboard reporter documented and publicised every act of callousness. Mercy, to him, was a word for the weak: never given to his foes or even to his crew. His ship, The Destructor, was the one vessel that had eluded Sternglass and she was on a mission to conquer it. It was twice the size of The Sea Breeze and had twice as many guns. By commanding such a ship she would reign as the Queen of the Sea.
The Sea Breeze was made up of 100 comrades who had joined her from other conquered ships. A smart career move, as it turned out for them, for she was particularly fair to those on her side. She looked after her crew considerately, lavishing them with treasures and feasts they would never have seen the likes of if they had returned to their homelands. Onboard they lived victoriously.
One night there had been a storm so violent that by daybreak the crew were still busily restoring order; sweeping the decks, repairing the sails and removing debris. A small scruffy blonde lad entered the Captain’s cabin and stared nervously through the window behind her as she sat at her desk thumbing through an old, tattered book entitled ‘The Diary of Noel Sternglass’, her late brother.
“The Powder Room is dry and secure Captain”
“Thank you, er…” Sternglass replied, feeling slightly embarrassed that she didn’t know his name.
“Leon, Captain”
“Yes, Leon, you’re the new cabin boy, yes,” she said as she stood up and walked towards the window. She clasped her hands behind her back and peered out over the seemingly endless ocean.
“It is a vast ocean on which we sail Leon, with much to acquire and much to lose. This ship would be of little effect if its firepower were dampened. It’d make us vulnerable to attack and we carry much on board that would make us a prime target for other pirates, particularly Blackfoot. He’d give his other foot to get his hands on The Ocean.” She said earnestly.
Leon’s eyes widened. “The Ocean?”
“Yes, Blackfoot has been after it since he learned my brother had passed to me” the captain continued.
“Though what puzzles me…” she added curiously “…is why Blackfoot is so desperate to get it his hands on it. It’s only a stone… its not a jewel or a crystal…its not flawless or even polished, it doesn’t seem to have any material value yet he would rather follow me across the seas in pursuit of it than further his conquests”.
Sternglass looked up at an ashen-faced Leon.
“Are you okay? You look as white as a sheet”
“I…I just need some fresh air, Captain”
“Yes well you’ll get plenty of that round here…and you’d better get your sea legs on as we’re about to set sail”
“Can I ask where we’re heading Captain?”
“Who knows…I’m guided by fate…we’ll go wherever we’re meant to go…and we’ll meet whoever we’re meant to meet.”
“But what about Blackfoot?” Leon blurted.
“If we meet him then that is the way it should be. He will get what he wants provided he offers me The Destructor” the determined tone in her voice showed she meant it.
“You may go about your duties,” she concluded and turned her attention back to the diary. “…And tell the Quartermaster to call me on deck when we’ve left the harbour”
Since her brother died 3 years ago her mother’s over protectiveness had become smothering. Jessica had to give a detailed itinerary of her whereabouts every day. The mobile phone that had been bought for her was barraged with calls and the slightest grazed knee would send her mother into a whirlwind of panic. Jessica switched her mobile off when her friends began to tease her about the calls. She was 12 now; she was more than capable of looking after herself.
Every morning the hour between 5 and 6 was her chance to escape, if only briefly.
It was 5.08am and the sun had just started to rise up, over the sea as she scaled the coarse, green dunes. With her tattered deckchair clamped under one arm, she made her way down towards the shore. The soft sand beneath her bare feet became harder, darker, and clammier as she neared the breaking waves.
At that time the beach was always deserted, just the way she liked it: no one to crowd her space or her thoughts. This was her time. She headed for her usual spot and opened the deckchair beside a wooden post that had once been part of a jetty. Now redundant and alone it was well weathered, black, covered in limpets and draped with deep green seaweed. She sat in peaceful silence looking out to the horizon, listening to the waves rolling and crashing onto the shore. She found the deafening din surprisingly calming; a chance to clear her mind and let her imagination run wild. She closed her eyes and let her head rest back against the chair. What would she be today she thought. Yesterday she was on an oilrig that struck the richest find of oil in the whole world, the day before she was a fisherwoman who caught a legendary octopus in the English Channel, the day before that she was an acclaimed medical professor that had found a cure for the common cold. A wry smile drew on her face as she muttered to herself.
“Yes, perfect, Captain of a pirate ship”
She frowned in concentration as she tried to imagine being aboard a wooden Galleon that creaked with age under foot and reeked of a cocktail of gunpowder, smoke, leather, fish and salty wood. She drifted into a light slumber and suddenly she was there; Aboard La Brisa Del Mar - The Sea Breeze. One of the finest Spanish Galleons of the 18th century; a proud ship that had now been taken over by a band of renegade pirates led by the mercenary, Captain Eleanor Sternglass. Eleanor, upon reaching her 20th year, had already captured and ransacked 17 galleons and was in possession of more gold, silver, jewels, silks and porcelains than any one country could afford. Her name had become notorious across the continents as legends about her told that she could board and pillage any vessel quieter than a whisper and quicker than a gazelle. She was a formidable foe whose supremacy was challenged only by the nefarious Captain Blackfoot.
Few had crossed Blackfoot’s path but all the pirates in the world new of him. He was renowned mostly for the fact that a black stump had replaced his foot after an angry tuna fish had chewed it off. Full of his own self-importance, he thought of himself as the most feared pirate of all, and to show he was no weaker or less callous from his unfortunate encounter, he made sure his onboard reporter documented and publicised every act of callousness. Mercy, to him, was a word for the weak: never given to his foes or even to his crew. His ship, The Destructor, was the one vessel that had eluded Sternglass and she was on a mission to conquer it. It was twice the size of The Sea Breeze and had twice as many guns. By commanding such a ship she would reign as the Queen of the Sea.
The Sea Breeze was made up of 100 comrades who had joined her from other conquered ships. A smart career move, as it turned out for them, for she was particularly fair to those on her side. She looked after her crew considerately, lavishing them with treasures and feasts they would never have seen the likes of if they had returned to their homelands. Onboard they lived victoriously.
One night there had been a storm so violent that by daybreak the crew were still busily restoring order; sweeping the decks, repairing the sails and removing debris. A small scruffy blonde lad entered the Captain’s cabin and stared nervously through the window behind her as she sat at her desk thumbing through an old, tattered book entitled ‘The Diary of Noel Sternglass’, her late brother.
“The Powder Room is dry and secure Captain”
“Thank you, er…” Sternglass replied, feeling slightly embarrassed that she didn’t know his name.
“Leon, Captain”
“Yes, Leon, you’re the new cabin boy, yes,” she said as she stood up and walked towards the window. She clasped her hands behind her back and peered out over the seemingly endless ocean.
“It is a vast ocean on which we sail Leon, with much to acquire and much to lose. This ship would be of little effect if its firepower were dampened. It’d make us vulnerable to attack and we carry much on board that would make us a prime target for other pirates, particularly Blackfoot. He’d give his other foot to get his hands on The Ocean.” She said earnestly.
Leon’s eyes widened. “The Ocean?”
“Yes, Blackfoot has been after it since he learned my brother had passed to me” the captain continued.
“Though what puzzles me…” she added curiously “…is why Blackfoot is so desperate to get it his hands on it. It’s only a stone… its not a jewel or a crystal…its not flawless or even polished, it doesn’t seem to have any material value yet he would rather follow me across the seas in pursuit of it than further his conquests”.
Sternglass looked up at an ashen-faced Leon.
“Are you okay? You look as white as a sheet”
“I…I just need some fresh air, Captain”
“Yes well you’ll get plenty of that round here…and you’d better get your sea legs on as we’re about to set sail”
“Can I ask where we’re heading Captain?”
“Who knows…I’m guided by fate…we’ll go wherever we’re meant to go…and we’ll meet whoever we’re meant to meet.”
“But what about Blackfoot?” Leon blurted.
“If we meet him then that is the way it should be. He will get what he wants provided he offers me The Destructor” the determined tone in her voice showed she meant it.
“You may go about your duties,” she concluded and turned her attention back to the diary. “…And tell the Quartermaster to call me on deck when we’ve left the harbour”
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Dan's worst weekend!
Dan had been jealous of his sister Lucy ever since she was born. He was jealous of the fact that he had to share everything with her; his bedroom, his bath, his dinner table and especially his mum. She was his and had been his for four years and he didn't want that to change. He wanted her to disappear but the only way he could do that was to ignore her. So he did. Whenever she wanted to play he would take his toys away from her, whenever she cried he ignored her, and whenever his mum was talking to her he would distract his mum by pretending to hurt himself. never played with her.
The only time he did pay attention to Lucy was when he bickered with her over everything who got to sit behind mum in the car or who had the most juice in their cup or who had the biggest dollops of ice cream.
Not once did Dan feel like he was being mean to Lucy. He felt because he was the eldest it was right that he showed it. And as Dan got older his torments grew more sinister. He would pick fights with Lucy for no reason; he would scratch himself and blame it on Lucy; he would take money from his mother's purse and blame Lucy; he would draw on the walls with crayon and give the crayons to Lucy just as his mother walked in the door and he would steal things from shops and blame it on Lucy.
No matter what his mother said or did nothing would get through to Dan.
Then one day he planned the ultimate torment. His best friend, Jack Wheeler, told Dan that Jack's mum was going to have a yard sale and sell everything they no longer wanted. When Dan heard this his mind whirred into action. Early on Saturday morning, before Lucy or his mum and dad were awake, Dan grabbed two pink toy boxes full of Lucy's toys from the bedroom and quietly carried them downstairs. He opened up the garage and dug out his father's flat trolley, placed the boxes on top and wheeled them over to Jack's house.
Mrs Wheeler was delighted when Dan turned up with more things for her to sell and agreed that she would put any money she earned from the sale of his toys aside and give it to him on Sunday. Dan left with a smug smile on his face.
The following day, whilst Dan was wheeling his muddy trucks across his mum's carpet there was a knock at the door. It was Mrs Wheeler.
"Hi Karen,"she said to Dan's mum. "I just thought I'd bring over the money I earned for Daniel for the sale of his and Lucy's toys at my yard sale. They were so popular with my customers I sold them all in an hour!"
Dan's mum took the brown envelope from Mrs Wheeler's outstretched hand with a bemused smile.
"Thanks Maggie," she said. "But what toys did Dan give you."
"Oh, erm, well, he came over yesterday morning with two pink plastic boxes full of a variety of stuff. Actually, if I'd thought about it I could have brought the boxes over too. I'll go back and get them."
"No, there's no rush, Maggie. I'll collect them later," she said before hurriedly closing the door and turning to face Dan.
Dan looked up at his mother. Strangely, she didn't look particularly mad. She was thumbing through the contents of the envelope and smiling to herself.
"Is that my money?" Dan asked, abandoning his trucks.
"You took your sister's boxes, didn't you, Daniel?"
She used his full name. She only ever called him Daniel when she was annoyed with him.
"Yes," Dan mumbled as he twiddled his fingers.
"Do you know what was in those boxes?"
"Lucy's toys," he replied, sheepishly.
Dan's mum shook her head.
"No, Daniel. They were your toys!"
Dan flicked his eyes up at his mum. Now he was the one confused.
"What? But they were in Lucy's boxes."
"I know they were. While you were at football practice on Friday Lucy had emptied all her toys from those boxes into her wardrobe, went into the garden and filled the boxes up with your Action Soldiers, Transformatons and Monster Trucs that were in the sandpit. She wanted to clean them but I wouldn't let her. I thought she would cut herself. I was going to empty the boxes yesterday and wash them before putting them back in your room but completely forgot about it."
"They were my favourite toys!" Dan blasted. "She stole them!"
"And you sold them, for a lot less than they were worth from the look of what's in this envelope," she said. "You're not feeling quite so happy with yourself now are you," she added before striding into the kitchen, still clutching the envelope.
Dan stood alone in the lounge, completely dumbfounded. He couldn't believe what had happened. His guts twisted up inside as he thought of how stupid he had been and how he had lost things that were precious to him. But worse than that was the fact that Lucy hadn't really stole his toys, she was only trying to be nice to him by cleaning them. Tears began to well in his eyes. For all the torment he inflicted on her he had now inflicted it on himself. He didn't like it. But more importantly he never did it again.
The only time he did pay attention to Lucy was when he bickered with her over everything who got to sit behind mum in the car or who had the most juice in their cup or who had the biggest dollops of ice cream.
Not once did Dan feel like he was being mean to Lucy. He felt because he was the eldest it was right that he showed it. And as Dan got older his torments grew more sinister. He would pick fights with Lucy for no reason; he would scratch himself and blame it on Lucy; he would take money from his mother's purse and blame Lucy; he would draw on the walls with crayon and give the crayons to Lucy just as his mother walked in the door and he would steal things from shops and blame it on Lucy.
No matter what his mother said or did nothing would get through to Dan.
Then one day he planned the ultimate torment. His best friend, Jack Wheeler, told Dan that Jack's mum was going to have a yard sale and sell everything they no longer wanted. When Dan heard this his mind whirred into action. Early on Saturday morning, before Lucy or his mum and dad were awake, Dan grabbed two pink toy boxes full of Lucy's toys from the bedroom and quietly carried them downstairs. He opened up the garage and dug out his father's flat trolley, placed the boxes on top and wheeled them over to Jack's house.
Mrs Wheeler was delighted when Dan turned up with more things for her to sell and agreed that she would put any money she earned from the sale of his toys aside and give it to him on Sunday. Dan left with a smug smile on his face.
The following day, whilst Dan was wheeling his muddy trucks across his mum's carpet there was a knock at the door. It was Mrs Wheeler.
"Hi Karen,"she said to Dan's mum. "I just thought I'd bring over the money I earned for Daniel for the sale of his and Lucy's toys at my yard sale. They were so popular with my customers I sold them all in an hour!"
Dan's mum took the brown envelope from Mrs Wheeler's outstretched hand with a bemused smile.
"Thanks Maggie," she said. "But what toys did Dan give you."
"Oh, erm, well, he came over yesterday morning with two pink plastic boxes full of a variety of stuff. Actually, if I'd thought about it I could have brought the boxes over too. I'll go back and get them."
"No, there's no rush, Maggie. I'll collect them later," she said before hurriedly closing the door and turning to face Dan.
Dan looked up at his mother. Strangely, she didn't look particularly mad. She was thumbing through the contents of the envelope and smiling to herself.
"Is that my money?" Dan asked, abandoning his trucks.
"You took your sister's boxes, didn't you, Daniel?"
She used his full name. She only ever called him Daniel when she was annoyed with him.
"Yes," Dan mumbled as he twiddled his fingers.
"Do you know what was in those boxes?"
"Lucy's toys," he replied, sheepishly.
Dan's mum shook her head.
"No, Daniel. They were your toys!"
Dan flicked his eyes up at his mum. Now he was the one confused.
"What? But they were in Lucy's boxes."
"I know they were. While you were at football practice on Friday Lucy had emptied all her toys from those boxes into her wardrobe, went into the garden and filled the boxes up with your Action Soldiers, Transformatons and Monster Trucs that were in the sandpit. She wanted to clean them but I wouldn't let her. I thought she would cut herself. I was going to empty the boxes yesterday and wash them before putting them back in your room but completely forgot about it."
"They were my favourite toys!" Dan blasted. "She stole them!"
"And you sold them, for a lot less than they were worth from the look of what's in this envelope," she said. "You're not feeling quite so happy with yourself now are you," she added before striding into the kitchen, still clutching the envelope.
Dan stood alone in the lounge, completely dumbfounded. He couldn't believe what had happened. His guts twisted up inside as he thought of how stupid he had been and how he had lost things that were precious to him. But worse than that was the fact that Lucy hadn't really stole his toys, she was only trying to be nice to him by cleaning them. Tears began to well in his eyes. For all the torment he inflicted on her he had now inflicted it on himself. He didn't like it. But more importantly he never did it again.
Friday, September 4, 2009
The yellow house
As the skies darkened, the birds retreated to the comfort of their nests, and the streets in the harbour town of St Andrews emptied, the speculation began...
"Yellow...Yellow...are you awake?"
Yellow's curtains fluttered through his broken windows.
"Wha? Humpf," he moaned as he stretched his brittle joists and yawned through his lopsided, rotting front doors that hung by the last thread of their rusty screws.
"Look, there's a sign by your rose bed," said Found, eagerly.
Yellow stretched to peer over the sign that was staked into the thorny mass of parched roses. A fresh crack cut through his dry roughcast. Like fork lightening it chiselled its way from Yellow's buckled guttering to his weed-ridden paving.
"Ahhh...can't...read...it...too...far...away," he strained and slumped back. A puff of asbestos dust expelled from his foundations like warm breath in cold air.
"Oi. Leonard. Wakey, wakey,” bellowed Found. “Look's like Yellow's got a buyer, finally."
"Oh, Found, I do wish you wouldn't address one as though one was one of your roughshod friends," said Leonard haughtily as he swept open his red velour, linen-lined curtains. "I'm a quality residence, for quality residents. It doesn't do to have you roaring as though you're Arsenal football stadium."
"Listen, Prissy Pipes, you're not on The Links you know. You've not quite reached the Million pound price tag yet."
"It's only a matter of time," snuffed Leonard. "Anyway, whom did you say has a buyer?"
"Yellow has," piped Found. "He's got the sign!"
"Where? Oh you mean that tiddly, white thing? Oh that's nothing. I had a billboard when I was sold," said Leonard. "So, what does it say?"
"Err...This Property is the Pits...I think. The letters are a bit small," said Found.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha," snorted Leonard. "Never was a truer word said. Ha. The pits. I like it. Marvellous."
Yellow sighed. His bricks walls slumped so far into his foundations he lost four feet in height. "I'm never going to have an owner. Never going to feel the lick of fresh magnolia, the skim of moist plaster, the warmth of deep pile carpets, the..."
"...stench of fresh vomit," piped up Stu as a sudden boom, followed by a tinny rattle and a wail that sounded like a cat being strangled burst through every drafty hole in his crumbling facade. "Think yourself lucky you don't have six twenty-somethings puking down your copper plumbing, stubbing joints out on your linoleum and playing that godforsaken doosh, doosh, doosh music til your windows rattle and your floorboards hum. I tell you. There are far worse things in life than being lonely."
"Yes, like rising interest rates causing a slump in the housing market creating negative equity and turning a buoyant seller's market into a buyer's free-for-all. Oh it doesn't bear thinking about," kvetched Leonard. "No vetting, no getting the highest offer from Merchant Bankers from Surrey. They'd take the first offer they got from people from Manchester or Liverpool or...Dundee."
"I'd be happy with that," said Yellow. "Perfectly happy."
"So would I," concurred Stu.
"Well, dream away the pair of you. But pretty soon Yellow will end up as a branch of 'Burger King' or something equally disagreeable and tawdry."
"He might not be," said Found. "He could be something really cool...like a halfway house for criminals…or a brothel."
"Or an old folks home," speculated Stu. "Though I think I'd be happier with the students. At least they're not incontinent...most of the time."
"What about an amusement arcade? Perhaps that's what he's going to be."
"Oh yes like we need something to attract pimply teenagers who drop their cans of Pepsi on the pavement and stick their gum on the walls. Fabulous way to tempt tourists with money. 'Yes, come to St Andrews. We have seven golf courses, a six hundred year old university, so much history we make the Great Pyramid look like the Millennium Dome, but don't sit down anywhere unless you have a bag of ice and a chisel.'"
"Leonard, if you get anymore cynical you're going to need an exorcism," said Stu.
"I've said my piece," said Leonard. "Personally I reckon Yellow's about to get the wrecking ball."
"What!" wailed Yellow. "Oh it gets worse!"
"On what basis do you make that assumption?" quizzed Stu.
"Well, the sign did say he's the Pits. What more confirmation do you need?"
"Erm, well, I think I made a slight error in my interpretation," said Found cautiously.
Yellow raised his lintels with hope.
"What do you mean?" asked Stu. "You mean he's not the pits!"
"Well, I hardly think that's the case," interjected Leonard. "I mean look at him he's hardly Buckingham Palace or even Crystal Palace for that matter. Broken windows, graffiti on the walls, birds nesting and doing god only knows what in his plasterwork."
"No," corrected Found. "I mean I read the sign wrong. That's not what it says."
"Well, what does it say? Seeing as you're the only one who can read it."
Found began to laugh so heartily his concrete foundations bounced out from their brick surround and the loose earth around him shook as though it was in a giant sieve.
"Oh fantastic. Oh, Yell’ you're going to love this. In your face Leonard, in your face."
"What?" chimed Leonard, Stu and Yellow. "What does it say?"
"It says 'This is the property of the Pitts'," cried Found.
Stu was so stunned he barely noticed the drunken students dangling from his drainpipes and Leonard became so taught with jealousy his roof popped like a champagne cork causing a tidal wave of befuddled flat owners in Barbour jackets and Hunter Wellingtons to spill out into the Parky tiled driveway.
It seemed all but Yellow knew exactly what it meant. His slate roof wrinkled into a frown and he stared at Found through the only intact window in his entire mansion.
"You've been bought by Brad and Angelina!” cheered Found.
Yellow’s architraves curled into smiles. He had no idea who they were or where they were from. All he was happy about was the fact that he was about to be loved, again.
"Yellow...Yellow...are you awake?"
Yellow's curtains fluttered through his broken windows.
"Wha? Humpf," he moaned as he stretched his brittle joists and yawned through his lopsided, rotting front doors that hung by the last thread of their rusty screws.
"Look, there's a sign by your rose bed," said Found, eagerly.
Yellow stretched to peer over the sign that was staked into the thorny mass of parched roses. A fresh crack cut through his dry roughcast. Like fork lightening it chiselled its way from Yellow's buckled guttering to his weed-ridden paving.
"Ahhh...can't...read...it...too...far...away," he strained and slumped back. A puff of asbestos dust expelled from his foundations like warm breath in cold air.
"Oi. Leonard. Wakey, wakey,” bellowed Found. “Look's like Yellow's got a buyer, finally."
"Oh, Found, I do wish you wouldn't address one as though one was one of your roughshod friends," said Leonard haughtily as he swept open his red velour, linen-lined curtains. "I'm a quality residence, for quality residents. It doesn't do to have you roaring as though you're Arsenal football stadium."
"Listen, Prissy Pipes, you're not on The Links you know. You've not quite reached the Million pound price tag yet."
"It's only a matter of time," snuffed Leonard. "Anyway, whom did you say has a buyer?"
"Yellow has," piped Found. "He's got the sign!"
"Where? Oh you mean that tiddly, white thing? Oh that's nothing. I had a billboard when I was sold," said Leonard. "So, what does it say?"
"Err...This Property is the Pits...I think. The letters are a bit small," said Found.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha," snorted Leonard. "Never was a truer word said. Ha. The pits. I like it. Marvellous."
Yellow sighed. His bricks walls slumped so far into his foundations he lost four feet in height. "I'm never going to have an owner. Never going to feel the lick of fresh magnolia, the skim of moist plaster, the warmth of deep pile carpets, the..."
"...stench of fresh vomit," piped up Stu as a sudden boom, followed by a tinny rattle and a wail that sounded like a cat being strangled burst through every drafty hole in his crumbling facade. "Think yourself lucky you don't have six twenty-somethings puking down your copper plumbing, stubbing joints out on your linoleum and playing that godforsaken doosh, doosh, doosh music til your windows rattle and your floorboards hum. I tell you. There are far worse things in life than being lonely."
"Yes, like rising interest rates causing a slump in the housing market creating negative equity and turning a buoyant seller's market into a buyer's free-for-all. Oh it doesn't bear thinking about," kvetched Leonard. "No vetting, no getting the highest offer from Merchant Bankers from Surrey. They'd take the first offer they got from people from Manchester or Liverpool or...Dundee."
"I'd be happy with that," said Yellow. "Perfectly happy."
"So would I," concurred Stu.
"Well, dream away the pair of you. But pretty soon Yellow will end up as a branch of 'Burger King' or something equally disagreeable and tawdry."
"He might not be," said Found. "He could be something really cool...like a halfway house for criminals…or a brothel."
"Or an old folks home," speculated Stu. "Though I think I'd be happier with the students. At least they're not incontinent...most of the time."
"What about an amusement arcade? Perhaps that's what he's going to be."
"Oh yes like we need something to attract pimply teenagers who drop their cans of Pepsi on the pavement and stick their gum on the walls. Fabulous way to tempt tourists with money. 'Yes, come to St Andrews. We have seven golf courses, a six hundred year old university, so much history we make the Great Pyramid look like the Millennium Dome, but don't sit down anywhere unless you have a bag of ice and a chisel.'"
"Leonard, if you get anymore cynical you're going to need an exorcism," said Stu.
"I've said my piece," said Leonard. "Personally I reckon Yellow's about to get the wrecking ball."
"What!" wailed Yellow. "Oh it gets worse!"
"On what basis do you make that assumption?" quizzed Stu.
"Well, the sign did say he's the Pits. What more confirmation do you need?"
"Erm, well, I think I made a slight error in my interpretation," said Found cautiously.
Yellow raised his lintels with hope.
"What do you mean?" asked Stu. "You mean he's not the pits!"
"Well, I hardly think that's the case," interjected Leonard. "I mean look at him he's hardly Buckingham Palace or even Crystal Palace for that matter. Broken windows, graffiti on the walls, birds nesting and doing god only knows what in his plasterwork."
"No," corrected Found. "I mean I read the sign wrong. That's not what it says."
"Well, what does it say? Seeing as you're the only one who can read it."
Found began to laugh so heartily his concrete foundations bounced out from their brick surround and the loose earth around him shook as though it was in a giant sieve.
"Oh fantastic. Oh, Yell’ you're going to love this. In your face Leonard, in your face."
"What?" chimed Leonard, Stu and Yellow. "What does it say?"
"It says 'This is the property of the Pitts'," cried Found.
Stu was so stunned he barely noticed the drunken students dangling from his drainpipes and Leonard became so taught with jealousy his roof popped like a champagne cork causing a tidal wave of befuddled flat owners in Barbour jackets and Hunter Wellingtons to spill out into the Parky tiled driveway.
It seemed all but Yellow knew exactly what it meant. His slate roof wrinkled into a frown and he stared at Found through the only intact window in his entire mansion.
"You've been bought by Brad and Angelina!” cheered Found.
Yellow’s architraves curled into smiles. He had no idea who they were or where they were from. All he was happy about was the fact that he was about to be loved, again.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Sammie's slayers
Bixby Scareham was voted the least haunted town in England 2009, according to Ghost Monthly magazine. Up until year ago it, like every other town in England, was plagued with mischievous spooks responsible for all the unexplainable things in the world. They made toast always land jam side down, they made sure there were always teaspoons in the washing up bowl when you emptied it and they stole your socks so you ended up with a draw full of odd ones . Of course nobody knew that ghosts did all this. It was only when it was proved they exist that suddenly everyone started seeing them. They were all over the place. Every town in England is teeming with ghosts, except Bixby of course. That was all down to one boy, Sammie Strepplehorn. He was a local hero, even though he was only twelve years old. Everyone praised him wherever he went. He got free sweets from Mrs Pickle's candy store, the best seat in the cinema, the ice rink all to himself on Saturday afternoon, and a flavour of ice cream named after him called Scrumptious Sammie.
Sammie wasn't always a ghost hunter. He became one by accident. Two years ago he was in a car accident that left him blind in his right eye. The doctors said there was nothing they could to repair the damage. Sammie's father was crushed by the news, even more so than Sammie, who tried not to let it bother him. His bravery wasn't enough for his dad who set about inventing a false eye for Sammie. A year later Sammie had a new eye but it didn't work in the way he expected. It was actually much cooler. He couldn't see colours and shapes, what he saw was energy, floating through the air like puffs of clouds. Some of the puffs were dense whilst others were thin and wispy. At first Sammie had no idea what it was until he saw one with a hand that kept pressing buttons on his TV remote, changing the channels. The sight made him leap off his bed so high he hit his head on the ceiling light.
Once Sammie got used to seeing ghosts he decided to try and catch one, like they did in a movie he saw with his dad before his accident, but he needed some sort of trapping device. One weekend, when his dad was out Sammie raided his dad's workshop and constructed the Ghost Vac. It was a modified HandyVac that Sammie fitted with a thin nozzle on one end and a fitting at the other on which to screw a jamjar. And that 's how Sammie stored his ghosts, in jam jars on a shelf in his bedroom. He labelled each one with the date and time and location of each ghost caught and even gave them little pet names, like Samson, who he caught putting spiders in his dad's attic and Rufus, who he caught trying to block the bathroom sink with hair from Sammie's dog, Muttster. Soon word spread of Sammie's talent and his services were in demand across Bixby. He was so busy he needed a spare room to store all his jam jars. Sammie had cleaned up the town of all undesirable spooks, even catching a particularly difficult and troublesome ghost he called Horace. Horace haunted Bixby Castle. At night Horace rearranged the bricks of the castle so it looked completely different the next day. Once he even moved the entire castle one mile down the road. Sammie was particularly proud of that catch.
One day, however, when Sammie was at school, Muttster got into his jar room and with his broom-like tail he swept one of them off the bookcase. It smashed on the floor, setting loose the wispy vapour trapped inside. It twisted round Sammie's jar room before escaping through a gap beneath the door. The label on the jar read "Horace, Bixby Castle, 03/09/08, 12:43"
Horace was free. He whizzed round Sammie's house moving the furniture as he went. He put the beds in the lounge, the sofa in the kitchen, the dining chairs in the bath and next door's cat into Muttster's kennel, all the while giggling with glee at his fortune. But he wasn't completely content. He wanted revenge for being caught, so he sniffed out Sammie's energy trail and followed it. When it led him to Bixby Secondary School and he saw all the children running around the school yard, and the large red stone building he realised there was more fun to be had there than just seeking out Sammie.
As he flew through the corridors, halls and classrooms he began to plot, all the while careful not to cross paths with Sammie. He knew what would be in store for him if he wasn't on his guard.
The first sign Sammie got that something wasn't quite right with that day was when the combination to his locker didn't work. When he looked up and down the corridor he wasn't the only one having that problem. Everyone was looking at each other, baffled by why suddenly they couldn't open their lockers. And the strangeness continued throughout the day. At first the teachers thought a prankster was responsible for their blackboards being greased up so they couldn't write on them or for stretching cling film across all the toilets. But when the tricks became unbelievable, like the school orchestra's instruments losing their sound and all the bald teachers suddenly growing a thick head of hair whilst the ones with hair went bald, that's when Sammie switched from schoolboy to Ghost Hunter extraordinaire. When he went home that afternoon and saw the smashed bottle he realised who was responsible.
Day by day Sammie struggled to catch Horace. His energy cloud would dissolve instantly the moment Sammie got anywhere near him and reappear either at the other end of the room or in a completely different room. But the longer it took to catch him the more sinister Horace's mischief became. On Monday he turned all the taps on in the gymnasium one night and flooded the equipment room and the hall. On Tuesday he piled all the furniture from the classrooms into the assembly hall into a form of a giant wobbly wooden pyramid. On Wednesday he rearranged the rooms of the school so the science rooms were on the ground floor and the metalwork rooms were on the top floor. On Thursday he turned the school inside out so the yard was inside the building and all the classrooms were outside. By Friday, when he turned on all the gas Bunsen burners he got parents and the School Governor so worried the Governor had no choice but to close the school until further notice.
Sammie's reputation was starting to take a nose dive with every passing day that Horace was loose, to the point where people were wondering whether Sammie had any special power at all. That was the final straw. Sammie wasn't about to let one rascally ghost destroy his title of Ultimate Ghostttrapper!
On Saturday Sammie set to work in his dad's workshop. He bought as many HandyVacs from charity shops as he could lay his hands on, and emptied every jar in his parents' kitchen (whether they were full or not!). By Sunday evening Sammie had constructed twenty-five GhostVacs and had enlisted the help of twenty-five kids at his school who were more than eager to become amateur trappers.
On Monday morning Sammie and his friends marched into the school armed and ready. Given Sammie was the only one with a ghost-seeing eye it was he who directed the search. Room by room Sammie's army skulked through the classrooms and corridors on the prowl for Horace and eventually found him munching on crisps and sweets in the school canteen. Horace was too busy gorging and wallowing in smug self-satisfaction at the carnage he had left to notice he was being hunted. With a nod of Sammie's head Sammie directed his team to arm their devices. Horace heard the sound of the motors and spun round. His energy cloud shimmered and distorted as he moved.
"Now!" Sammie yelled and thrust the nozzle of his GhostVac towards Horace.
His army stabbed at the air with devices as though they were sparring with swords.
The collective power of the GhostVacs was too much for Horace. Even dispersing his energy didn't work. There were too many to avoid and so molecule by molecule Horace was sucked into twenty-five different jam jars.
When Sammie confirmed that Horace was trapped his army erupted with triumphant cheers. They punched the air with clenched fists and yelled "We got 'im, we got 'im".
The rest of the townsfolk were even more delighted with Sammie and his army. They collectively agreed that the 3rd of September be known as Sammie day and that any money donated to the town council be put towards the purchase of a monument.
Now, if you visit Bixby Scareham and happen to pass by the secondary school you'll see a giant bronze GhostVac monument outside the entrance to the school, in honour of Sammie and his Slayers.
Sammie, however, has his own monument: a glass cabinet in his spare room displaying the twenty -five jars containing the remnants of Horace. The cabinet remains locked and well out of reach of Muttster.
Sammie wasn't always a ghost hunter. He became one by accident. Two years ago he was in a car accident that left him blind in his right eye. The doctors said there was nothing they could to repair the damage. Sammie's father was crushed by the news, even more so than Sammie, who tried not to let it bother him. His bravery wasn't enough for his dad who set about inventing a false eye for Sammie. A year later Sammie had a new eye but it didn't work in the way he expected. It was actually much cooler. He couldn't see colours and shapes, what he saw was energy, floating through the air like puffs of clouds. Some of the puffs were dense whilst others were thin and wispy. At first Sammie had no idea what it was until he saw one with a hand that kept pressing buttons on his TV remote, changing the channels. The sight made him leap off his bed so high he hit his head on the ceiling light.
Once Sammie got used to seeing ghosts he decided to try and catch one, like they did in a movie he saw with his dad before his accident, but he needed some sort of trapping device. One weekend, when his dad was out Sammie raided his dad's workshop and constructed the Ghost Vac. It was a modified HandyVac that Sammie fitted with a thin nozzle on one end and a fitting at the other on which to screw a jamjar. And that 's how Sammie stored his ghosts, in jam jars on a shelf in his bedroom. He labelled each one with the date and time and location of each ghost caught and even gave them little pet names, like Samson, who he caught putting spiders in his dad's attic and Rufus, who he caught trying to block the bathroom sink with hair from Sammie's dog, Muttster. Soon word spread of Sammie's talent and his services were in demand across Bixby. He was so busy he needed a spare room to store all his jam jars. Sammie had cleaned up the town of all undesirable spooks, even catching a particularly difficult and troublesome ghost he called Horace. Horace haunted Bixby Castle. At night Horace rearranged the bricks of the castle so it looked completely different the next day. Once he even moved the entire castle one mile down the road. Sammie was particularly proud of that catch.
One day, however, when Sammie was at school, Muttster got into his jar room and with his broom-like tail he swept one of them off the bookcase. It smashed on the floor, setting loose the wispy vapour trapped inside. It twisted round Sammie's jar room before escaping through a gap beneath the door. The label on the jar read "Horace, Bixby Castle, 03/09/08, 12:43"
Horace was free. He whizzed round Sammie's house moving the furniture as he went. He put the beds in the lounge, the sofa in the kitchen, the dining chairs in the bath and next door's cat into Muttster's kennel, all the while giggling with glee at his fortune. But he wasn't completely content. He wanted revenge for being caught, so he sniffed out Sammie's energy trail and followed it. When it led him to Bixby Secondary School and he saw all the children running around the school yard, and the large red stone building he realised there was more fun to be had there than just seeking out Sammie.
As he flew through the corridors, halls and classrooms he began to plot, all the while careful not to cross paths with Sammie. He knew what would be in store for him if he wasn't on his guard.
The first sign Sammie got that something wasn't quite right with that day was when the combination to his locker didn't work. When he looked up and down the corridor he wasn't the only one having that problem. Everyone was looking at each other, baffled by why suddenly they couldn't open their lockers. And the strangeness continued throughout the day. At first the teachers thought a prankster was responsible for their blackboards being greased up so they couldn't write on them or for stretching cling film across all the toilets. But when the tricks became unbelievable, like the school orchestra's instruments losing their sound and all the bald teachers suddenly growing a thick head of hair whilst the ones with hair went bald, that's when Sammie switched from schoolboy to Ghost Hunter extraordinaire. When he went home that afternoon and saw the smashed bottle he realised who was responsible.
Day by day Sammie struggled to catch Horace. His energy cloud would dissolve instantly the moment Sammie got anywhere near him and reappear either at the other end of the room or in a completely different room. But the longer it took to catch him the more sinister Horace's mischief became. On Monday he turned all the taps on in the gymnasium one night and flooded the equipment room and the hall. On Tuesday he piled all the furniture from the classrooms into the assembly hall into a form of a giant wobbly wooden pyramid. On Wednesday he rearranged the rooms of the school so the science rooms were on the ground floor and the metalwork rooms were on the top floor. On Thursday he turned the school inside out so the yard was inside the building and all the classrooms were outside. By Friday, when he turned on all the gas Bunsen burners he got parents and the School Governor so worried the Governor had no choice but to close the school until further notice.
Sammie's reputation was starting to take a nose dive with every passing day that Horace was loose, to the point where people were wondering whether Sammie had any special power at all. That was the final straw. Sammie wasn't about to let one rascally ghost destroy his title of Ultimate Ghostttrapper!
On Saturday Sammie set to work in his dad's workshop. He bought as many HandyVacs from charity shops as he could lay his hands on, and emptied every jar in his parents' kitchen (whether they were full or not!). By Sunday evening Sammie had constructed twenty-five GhostVacs and had enlisted the help of twenty-five kids at his school who were more than eager to become amateur trappers.
On Monday morning Sammie and his friends marched into the school armed and ready. Given Sammie was the only one with a ghost-seeing eye it was he who directed the search. Room by room Sammie's army skulked through the classrooms and corridors on the prowl for Horace and eventually found him munching on crisps and sweets in the school canteen. Horace was too busy gorging and wallowing in smug self-satisfaction at the carnage he had left to notice he was being hunted. With a nod of Sammie's head Sammie directed his team to arm their devices. Horace heard the sound of the motors and spun round. His energy cloud shimmered and distorted as he moved.
"Now!" Sammie yelled and thrust the nozzle of his GhostVac towards Horace.
His army stabbed at the air with devices as though they were sparring with swords.
The collective power of the GhostVacs was too much for Horace. Even dispersing his energy didn't work. There were too many to avoid and so molecule by molecule Horace was sucked into twenty-five different jam jars.
When Sammie confirmed that Horace was trapped his army erupted with triumphant cheers. They punched the air with clenched fists and yelled "We got 'im, we got 'im".
The rest of the townsfolk were even more delighted with Sammie and his army. They collectively agreed that the 3rd of September be known as Sammie day and that any money donated to the town council be put towards the purchase of a monument.
Now, if you visit Bixby Scareham and happen to pass by the secondary school you'll see a giant bronze GhostVac monument outside the entrance to the school, in honour of Sammie and his Slayers.
Sammie, however, has his own monument: a glass cabinet in his spare room displaying the twenty -five jars containing the remnants of Horace. The cabinet remains locked and well out of reach of Muttster.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Seven days
MONDAY
Afternoon
So, I really don't know how to begin today's entry. I suppose if I said that I found a Tesco bag full of money under a tree, by the tennis courts nobody would believe me. I wouldn't believe me either. But there it was, in broad daylight. Naturally the first thing I did when I saw the bag was look to see if the owner was around but the place was deserted, except for me passing through on my way home from school. So who did it belong to, and where did it come from?
I peered into the bag (I'm too damn inquisitive for my own good) and my stomach flipped. Wads of ten pound notes were stuffed inside it. There must have been ten grand in that bag. I'd be lying now if I didn't imagine all the things I could buy with that-a ton of clothes and shoes, that dress I saw in Darcy's for the Christmas ball, a ten speed mountain bike, I might even have been able to pay off my parent's mortgage, or part of it anyway. But I didn't touch a penny of it. No. I took it to the police station. Handed it in. I figured that I'd be rewarded for being honest; not with money, but perhaps luck. I figured that by doing a good deed Johnny Evans might ask me to the ball. Is that twisted logic? Who knows, but a girl can hope, right?
Anyway, I took it to the police and what did they say? They took my name and address and stuff and asked me all sorts of questions about when and where exactly I found it, and then said that unless someone claimed it in seven days, provided it wasn't stolen money, it was mine. MINE. Finders keepers.
TUESDAY
Morning
I was itching to tell people about my discovery but I didn't. The more I thought about it the more I realised that I'm actually on a seven day adventure, a story that as yet has no ending, so rather than tell people half a tale I decided to wait for the outcome before the reveal. All I had to do was occupy my mind until Sunday. That didn't take too long as all I kept thinking was, where did that money come from?
Afternoon
Mrs Carter showed us a video about drug cartels in Modern Studies today, which got me thinking. What if that money was drug money? I mean drugs aren't just in South America, they're all over the place, a seedy underworld that most of us don't notice exists, but it does. Some countries are more relaxed about supposedly non-addictive drugs, like Holland for example, but most want to get rid of them. I don't blame them. That boy in the year above, Mathew Roberts, was an advert on reasons you shouldn't take drugs. He used to be a real sporto. Into Rugby big time. I think he even coached first years at one point. Then he got into a bad crowd and within a year he was high on heroine. He lost a ton of weight; his skin was literally hanging off his bones. He became really spotty, short-tempered, even a little psychotic. Everyone was afraid of him. He'd start fights for no reason. The last I heard he got expelled and spent some time in prison for theft. What a complete waste.
Evening
So did that money belong to a drug buyer? If it was a buyer surely they wouldn't leave a bag full of money in broad daylight. If they were that desperate to feed their habit they'd hold onto that money. No, it couldn't be a buyer.
What about a seller? It's possible. Perhaps the police were onto him or her, perhaps they dropped the bag in a hurry so they wouldn't be caught with it. If that was the case, they'd probably be really mad when they returned and discovered it wasn't there anymore. But then if they were going to drop the bag surely they'd find somewhere a little safer to stash it than just leaving it beside a tree near tennis courts that are usually busy. No. I don't think it was drug money.
WEDNESDAY
Morning
Kasey's getting suspicious about me. She keeps prodding me, wanting to know what's up with me. "Holly, you've been acting weird the last two days. Are you gonna tell me or do I have to tell your mum on you?" she asked. Of course I told her nothing was wrong but she didn't believe me. She says I keep wandering off all the time, even though I'm right there with her. I had no idea what she meant at first, but she does struggle to say what she's thinking. It was only when the bell went at the end of lunch and I realised I hadn't even eaten my sandwich that I got what she meant. My mind was adrift on a sea of curiosity.
Afternoon
My new theory as to the owner of this money is a hitman. Wanna know why? I overheard a conversation today between the Cameron twins. They're sixth years and renowned for being the biggest jerks in the school. They're parents are super rich. I mean so rich they could probably buy my town if they wanted to. I have no idea why they're not at a public school. To be honest I wish they were as they always strut down the halls as though everyone else is like a bug that they can squish. Anyway back to my point. The twins were arguing in the lockers. I'm nosy-I think I've mentioned that-so I couldn't stop myself from earwigging. One of the brothers, Mitch, had taken their dad's car without asking and ended up scratching it all along the side. Something about overtaking road works and hitting some road signs. I don't remember the circumstances, that's not what's important. What is important is what Mitch did to stop his parents finding out. He offered to give his brother money so he would keep quiet. In other words he offered hush money. New theory.
Evening
It's 11.30pm and I'm wide awake. I've been thinking about this whole hush money thing all day. It's been seriously bugging me. I have no leads, nothing I can evaluate, nothing I can breakdown. Could it have been to cover up a shady business deal or to keep someone out of, or in, prison? How would I know?
That's when it dawned on me. The answer was in my theory. HUSH. In other words, quiet, off the radar, undetectable. If it was hush money there was no way I'd ever find out. And if it was hush money nothing screams louder than an open bag full of money in middle of the day. Not hush money.
THURSDAY
Morning
Is there a connection between recessions and an increase in robberies? I have no idea. But after hearing a news report about the recent ten million pound bank robbery, the biggest in town ever, it occurred to me that the money might have been dropped by one of the robbers. When I found out which bank was robbed I checked where it was on the street map and it was literally two streets away from where I found the money. It was so close it made me shiver. Did they drop it by accident? And if so did they see me pick it up? Did they follow me to the police station? Are they following me now?
Afternoon
I really ought to stop letting my imagination run away with me. Pretty much all of today I've been sweating over being jumped by burly guys desperate to get their booty back. From what I read that robbery was pretty violent. Five men turned up with sawn off shot guns. I thought that was a type of gun until dad told me that they actually saw the tip off shot guns to give them a wider spread of shot and make them easier to conceal. Hearing that put me off my dinner. Mum now thinks I've caught something-she not that far from the truth, but it ain't a bug, that much I do know.
Evening
I would personally like to thank Sir Tim Berners-Lee for inventing the internet. What a marvel of useful and useless information! The teachers keep telling us that we should always be cautious when using it for research as a lot of the information out there is rubbish. That may be true but on this occasion it has put my mind and body to rest. Phew! I can sleep tonight. I found out that the money the robbers stole couldn't possibly be what I found by that tree. Banks tellers put a fake wad of cash in bags when demanded to by robbers. The fake wad explodes and covers the notes in the bag with a dye which means they can't be used. My notes were clean. Quite how those thieves expected to get at the cash I don't know and to be honest I don't care. All I know is the money couldn't have belonged to them.
FRIDAY
Morning
There are many things about the 60s that are pretty cool: the mini skirt was invented, a man walked on the moon, the first computer was created. There were also some uncool things; the Berlin wall was built, President John F Kennedy was shot and there was a major baby boom in Britain which means there are loads of oldies around. The 60s was also the era of the famous London gangsters, Ronnie and Reggie Kray. We were talking about them in History class today. They had a reputation for being really violent and supposedly made a lot of money, controlling businesses, pubs and gambling dens the owners of which paid the brothers protection money. I'm sure there are probably a lot of gangsters still in London but for reasons I don't know they're not famous. Perhaps there are more serious problems in the world to talk about. But I'm now wondering if the money by the tree belonged to a gangster. Was it protection money?
Afternoon
Unlike yesterday I didn't get so worked up about my latest theory, with good reason. I come from a small town. It has a population of 16000 people when it's not over run with tourists and screaming kids. It has two shopping streets filled with family run businesses; a tailor who'll fix anything for £5,a chemist that only stocks aspirin, a grocer who smells of cabbage and is at least a hundred years old and a butcher who cut off one of his hands in an unfortunate accident with a pig and a meat cleaver. It's a small town. Ronnie and Reggie Kray controlled fourteen square miles of London. That's three and a half times the size of my town, including all the houses. If a gangster had half a brain about them they'd quickly realise that St Michaels is slim pickings; a lot of work for very little money and certainly not thousands of pounds worth. So that pretty much sums up that it's not gangster money.
SATURDAY
Morning
Today's a pretty sad day. I heard that the head teacher from St David's Boys School fifty miles away was shot by one of its pupils. What would possess someone to do that? Was it hatred? Spite? Did she fail him in a test? How did he get hold of a gun? Did he have some sort of mental illness? I can't get my head around this one. Two lives completely destroyed in a fraction of a second. Then there's the ripple effect; both their families have to come to terms with it and their relatives and their relatives and so on. It's such a senseless waste. What angers me more though is that I heard a group of kids laughing in the supermarket, suggesting that the boy was paid to do it. That there was a whole gang of kids that wanted to wipe her out. That doesn't bear thinking about. Assassinated for money.
Afternoon
With those kids' voices ringing in my head I couldn't help myself. I grabbed the papers from the last seven days from the rack in the lounge and laid them out on the dining table. One by one I went through them looking for candidates for assassination. The idea of a teacher being shot for money was too gruesome to even consider so I wiped that clean out of my head, or as much as I could. It didn't take long for me to find some candidates; a politician who had just passed a very unpopular tax; a man convicted of the unnecessary suffering he inflicted on his ten horses who all died of starvation in cramped stables; a housing developer who managed to get permission from the local council to bulldoze a five hundred year old forest to make way for luxury flats and a shopping centre and a recently freed rapist and paedophile. It made me realise that there is hardly ever any good news in newspapers. It's all bad.
Evening
Mum is now considering whether I have some sort of temporary mental illness. When she saw me flicking back and forth through the papers, making notes in the margins, circling passages, highlighting sentences, tearing out articles she froze. She's actually on the internet right now researching OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I think she needs more help than I do. Then when I asked her if the people on my list were still living she ran out of the kitchen and grabbed the phone. "I'm calling Dr Swanson. You need an appointment." She never did answer my question but as far as I can tell all the candidates I listed are alive. So what else could this money be?
SUNDAY
Morning
When I woke up and couldn't think of any other ideas as to where that money had come from I thought I'd exhausted all the possibilities until I looked over what I'd read and realised that every one of the options I'd investigated were in some way immoral. Why did I automatically think that? What is it about large sums of money that instantly gets people suspicious? Is it because there is so little money around nowadays? Is it because we expect or demand to have too much of it? Is money ever 'good'?
Afternoon
Yes, is the answer to my previous question, or at least that's my opinion. They say 'money makes the world go around' and I can't argue with that. Without it we'd all be living on the streets. So having sufficient money is a good thing; sufficient money to pay your bills, keep a roof over your head, feed yourself and your family. Money can also be good if it helps others; whether it's to help buy equipment for hospitals, to look after abused animals, to provide food and water for third world countries, to research diseases we don't have a cure for. There is good in money.
Evening
All this makes me wonder whether there was never anything sinister about the money at all. What if it was a moral test? What if whoever left it wanted to see what would happen when it was found. Would that person be honest or dishonest? And what would happen to them as a result. Were they watching? I couldn't help but steal a glance outside between the curtains of my bedroom window, just to check. Nobody there, or at least nobody I could see.
MONDAY
Morning
It's Christmas day in three days time. I have a pile of presents that need to be wrapped. All bought and paid for with money I earned working at Simpsons Shoe Store. More Saturdays than I can care to count have I spent working with sweaty, smelly feet, kids that have tantrums about trying on shoes, old people that try on every pair of shoes in the shop before settling on the first pair they tried and a Manageress that makes us wear Day-Glo pink blouses as part of our uniform. But at least my money was earned honestly.
I have another pile in my bedroom too. A pile of money; money found a week ago in a plastic bag beneath the boughs of a Spruce tree. Nobody claimed it. Nobody even reported anything lost.
I'm staring at it now, still wondering where it came from. Perhaps I'll never know. One thing I do know though is I can't keep it. Good or bad, it's not mine to keep.
There's only one thing for it, I guess.
I think I'll wrap up my presents with it.
Afternoon
So, I really don't know how to begin today's entry. I suppose if I said that I found a Tesco bag full of money under a tree, by the tennis courts nobody would believe me. I wouldn't believe me either. But there it was, in broad daylight. Naturally the first thing I did when I saw the bag was look to see if the owner was around but the place was deserted, except for me passing through on my way home from school. So who did it belong to, and where did it come from?
I peered into the bag (I'm too damn inquisitive for my own good) and my stomach flipped. Wads of ten pound notes were stuffed inside it. There must have been ten grand in that bag. I'd be lying now if I didn't imagine all the things I could buy with that-a ton of clothes and shoes, that dress I saw in Darcy's for the Christmas ball, a ten speed mountain bike, I might even have been able to pay off my parent's mortgage, or part of it anyway. But I didn't touch a penny of it. No. I took it to the police station. Handed it in. I figured that I'd be rewarded for being honest; not with money, but perhaps luck. I figured that by doing a good deed Johnny Evans might ask me to the ball. Is that twisted logic? Who knows, but a girl can hope, right?
Anyway, I took it to the police and what did they say? They took my name and address and stuff and asked me all sorts of questions about when and where exactly I found it, and then said that unless someone claimed it in seven days, provided it wasn't stolen money, it was mine. MINE. Finders keepers.
TUESDAY
Morning
I was itching to tell people about my discovery but I didn't. The more I thought about it the more I realised that I'm actually on a seven day adventure, a story that as yet has no ending, so rather than tell people half a tale I decided to wait for the outcome before the reveal. All I had to do was occupy my mind until Sunday. That didn't take too long as all I kept thinking was, where did that money come from?
Afternoon
Mrs Carter showed us a video about drug cartels in Modern Studies today, which got me thinking. What if that money was drug money? I mean drugs aren't just in South America, they're all over the place, a seedy underworld that most of us don't notice exists, but it does. Some countries are more relaxed about supposedly non-addictive drugs, like Holland for example, but most want to get rid of them. I don't blame them. That boy in the year above, Mathew Roberts, was an advert on reasons you shouldn't take drugs. He used to be a real sporto. Into Rugby big time. I think he even coached first years at one point. Then he got into a bad crowd and within a year he was high on heroine. He lost a ton of weight; his skin was literally hanging off his bones. He became really spotty, short-tempered, even a little psychotic. Everyone was afraid of him. He'd start fights for no reason. The last I heard he got expelled and spent some time in prison for theft. What a complete waste.
Evening
So did that money belong to a drug buyer? If it was a buyer surely they wouldn't leave a bag full of money in broad daylight. If they were that desperate to feed their habit they'd hold onto that money. No, it couldn't be a buyer.
What about a seller? It's possible. Perhaps the police were onto him or her, perhaps they dropped the bag in a hurry so they wouldn't be caught with it. If that was the case, they'd probably be really mad when they returned and discovered it wasn't there anymore. But then if they were going to drop the bag surely they'd find somewhere a little safer to stash it than just leaving it beside a tree near tennis courts that are usually busy. No. I don't think it was drug money.
WEDNESDAY
Morning
Kasey's getting suspicious about me. She keeps prodding me, wanting to know what's up with me. "Holly, you've been acting weird the last two days. Are you gonna tell me or do I have to tell your mum on you?" she asked. Of course I told her nothing was wrong but she didn't believe me. She says I keep wandering off all the time, even though I'm right there with her. I had no idea what she meant at first, but she does struggle to say what she's thinking. It was only when the bell went at the end of lunch and I realised I hadn't even eaten my sandwich that I got what she meant. My mind was adrift on a sea of curiosity.
Afternoon
My new theory as to the owner of this money is a hitman. Wanna know why? I overheard a conversation today between the Cameron twins. They're sixth years and renowned for being the biggest jerks in the school. They're parents are super rich. I mean so rich they could probably buy my town if they wanted to. I have no idea why they're not at a public school. To be honest I wish they were as they always strut down the halls as though everyone else is like a bug that they can squish. Anyway back to my point. The twins were arguing in the lockers. I'm nosy-I think I've mentioned that-so I couldn't stop myself from earwigging. One of the brothers, Mitch, had taken their dad's car without asking and ended up scratching it all along the side. Something about overtaking road works and hitting some road signs. I don't remember the circumstances, that's not what's important. What is important is what Mitch did to stop his parents finding out. He offered to give his brother money so he would keep quiet. In other words he offered hush money. New theory.
Evening
It's 11.30pm and I'm wide awake. I've been thinking about this whole hush money thing all day. It's been seriously bugging me. I have no leads, nothing I can evaluate, nothing I can breakdown. Could it have been to cover up a shady business deal or to keep someone out of, or in, prison? How would I know?
That's when it dawned on me. The answer was in my theory. HUSH. In other words, quiet, off the radar, undetectable. If it was hush money there was no way I'd ever find out. And if it was hush money nothing screams louder than an open bag full of money in middle of the day. Not hush money.
THURSDAY
Morning
Is there a connection between recessions and an increase in robberies? I have no idea. But after hearing a news report about the recent ten million pound bank robbery, the biggest in town ever, it occurred to me that the money might have been dropped by one of the robbers. When I found out which bank was robbed I checked where it was on the street map and it was literally two streets away from where I found the money. It was so close it made me shiver. Did they drop it by accident? And if so did they see me pick it up? Did they follow me to the police station? Are they following me now?
Afternoon
I really ought to stop letting my imagination run away with me. Pretty much all of today I've been sweating over being jumped by burly guys desperate to get their booty back. From what I read that robbery was pretty violent. Five men turned up with sawn off shot guns. I thought that was a type of gun until dad told me that they actually saw the tip off shot guns to give them a wider spread of shot and make them easier to conceal. Hearing that put me off my dinner. Mum now thinks I've caught something-she not that far from the truth, but it ain't a bug, that much I do know.
Evening
I would personally like to thank Sir Tim Berners-Lee for inventing the internet. What a marvel of useful and useless information! The teachers keep telling us that we should always be cautious when using it for research as a lot of the information out there is rubbish. That may be true but on this occasion it has put my mind and body to rest. Phew! I can sleep tonight. I found out that the money the robbers stole couldn't possibly be what I found by that tree. Banks tellers put a fake wad of cash in bags when demanded to by robbers. The fake wad explodes and covers the notes in the bag with a dye which means they can't be used. My notes were clean. Quite how those thieves expected to get at the cash I don't know and to be honest I don't care. All I know is the money couldn't have belonged to them.
FRIDAY
Morning
There are many things about the 60s that are pretty cool: the mini skirt was invented, a man walked on the moon, the first computer was created. There were also some uncool things; the Berlin wall was built, President John F Kennedy was shot and there was a major baby boom in Britain which means there are loads of oldies around. The 60s was also the era of the famous London gangsters, Ronnie and Reggie Kray. We were talking about them in History class today. They had a reputation for being really violent and supposedly made a lot of money, controlling businesses, pubs and gambling dens the owners of which paid the brothers protection money. I'm sure there are probably a lot of gangsters still in London but for reasons I don't know they're not famous. Perhaps there are more serious problems in the world to talk about. But I'm now wondering if the money by the tree belonged to a gangster. Was it protection money?
Afternoon
Unlike yesterday I didn't get so worked up about my latest theory, with good reason. I come from a small town. It has a population of 16000 people when it's not over run with tourists and screaming kids. It has two shopping streets filled with family run businesses; a tailor who'll fix anything for £5,a chemist that only stocks aspirin, a grocer who smells of cabbage and is at least a hundred years old and a butcher who cut off one of his hands in an unfortunate accident with a pig and a meat cleaver. It's a small town. Ronnie and Reggie Kray controlled fourteen square miles of London. That's three and a half times the size of my town, including all the houses. If a gangster had half a brain about them they'd quickly realise that St Michaels is slim pickings; a lot of work for very little money and certainly not thousands of pounds worth. So that pretty much sums up that it's not gangster money.
SATURDAY
Morning
Today's a pretty sad day. I heard that the head teacher from St David's Boys School fifty miles away was shot by one of its pupils. What would possess someone to do that? Was it hatred? Spite? Did she fail him in a test? How did he get hold of a gun? Did he have some sort of mental illness? I can't get my head around this one. Two lives completely destroyed in a fraction of a second. Then there's the ripple effect; both their families have to come to terms with it and their relatives and their relatives and so on. It's such a senseless waste. What angers me more though is that I heard a group of kids laughing in the supermarket, suggesting that the boy was paid to do it. That there was a whole gang of kids that wanted to wipe her out. That doesn't bear thinking about. Assassinated for money.
Afternoon
With those kids' voices ringing in my head I couldn't help myself. I grabbed the papers from the last seven days from the rack in the lounge and laid them out on the dining table. One by one I went through them looking for candidates for assassination. The idea of a teacher being shot for money was too gruesome to even consider so I wiped that clean out of my head, or as much as I could. It didn't take long for me to find some candidates; a politician who had just passed a very unpopular tax; a man convicted of the unnecessary suffering he inflicted on his ten horses who all died of starvation in cramped stables; a housing developer who managed to get permission from the local council to bulldoze a five hundred year old forest to make way for luxury flats and a shopping centre and a recently freed rapist and paedophile. It made me realise that there is hardly ever any good news in newspapers. It's all bad.
Evening
Mum is now considering whether I have some sort of temporary mental illness. When she saw me flicking back and forth through the papers, making notes in the margins, circling passages, highlighting sentences, tearing out articles she froze. She's actually on the internet right now researching OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I think she needs more help than I do. Then when I asked her if the people on my list were still living she ran out of the kitchen and grabbed the phone. "I'm calling Dr Swanson. You need an appointment." She never did answer my question but as far as I can tell all the candidates I listed are alive. So what else could this money be?
SUNDAY
Morning
When I woke up and couldn't think of any other ideas as to where that money had come from I thought I'd exhausted all the possibilities until I looked over what I'd read and realised that every one of the options I'd investigated were in some way immoral. Why did I automatically think that? What is it about large sums of money that instantly gets people suspicious? Is it because there is so little money around nowadays? Is it because we expect or demand to have too much of it? Is money ever 'good'?
Afternoon
Yes, is the answer to my previous question, or at least that's my opinion. They say 'money makes the world go around' and I can't argue with that. Without it we'd all be living on the streets. So having sufficient money is a good thing; sufficient money to pay your bills, keep a roof over your head, feed yourself and your family. Money can also be good if it helps others; whether it's to help buy equipment for hospitals, to look after abused animals, to provide food and water for third world countries, to research diseases we don't have a cure for. There is good in money.
Evening
All this makes me wonder whether there was never anything sinister about the money at all. What if it was a moral test? What if whoever left it wanted to see what would happen when it was found. Would that person be honest or dishonest? And what would happen to them as a result. Were they watching? I couldn't help but steal a glance outside between the curtains of my bedroom window, just to check. Nobody there, or at least nobody I could see.
MONDAY
Morning
It's Christmas day in three days time. I have a pile of presents that need to be wrapped. All bought and paid for with money I earned working at Simpsons Shoe Store. More Saturdays than I can care to count have I spent working with sweaty, smelly feet, kids that have tantrums about trying on shoes, old people that try on every pair of shoes in the shop before settling on the first pair they tried and a Manageress that makes us wear Day-Glo pink blouses as part of our uniform. But at least my money was earned honestly.
I have another pile in my bedroom too. A pile of money; money found a week ago in a plastic bag beneath the boughs of a Spruce tree. Nobody claimed it. Nobody even reported anything lost.
I'm staring at it now, still wondering where it came from. Perhaps I'll never know. One thing I do know though is I can't keep it. Good or bad, it's not mine to keep.
There's only one thing for it, I guess.
I think I'll wrap up my presents with it.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Lucky lady
Lucky Lady
The first time Tommy saw her was at the dog track. He was instantly drawn to her, like a bee to honey. She wasn't like any of the other greyhounds racing in the 1.20pm Wilson Memorial Stakes. Whilst they pranced and tugged at their leashes, eager to get the race underway, expectant of the excitement soon to come, she sluggishly dragged her paws through the sand towards the starting gates with her muzzled head drooping. She was striking to look at with dappled fur of gold, black and brown and in her prime she was probably the dog everyone backed, but now she simply looked like a tiger who'd lost its fight; broken and lost. Tommy couldn't help but think he was looking into a mirror.
"Do you want to put a bet on?" Tommy's dad asked. "Nothing big of course. A pound limit. Wouldn't want her to think I was encouraging you to gamble would I?"
"Dad," Tommy sighed.
"Sorry son. I need to stop doing that. It's water under the bridge now between your mother and I. Time to move on."
Tommy glanced up at his dad who was absentmindedly flicking through the track guide. It was clear to Tommy that his father didn't believe what he was saying.
"You put a bet on, dad," Tommy said. "I'll wait here for you."
"Okay, son. But you need to pick a runner for me."
Tommy glanced back at the dogs. "What's the name of number five?"
"Lucky Lady."
"That's the one!" Tommy said resolutely. "Bet on her."
As his dad wandered over to a man yelling, waving his hands in the air and making strange signals with his fingers Tommy turned his attention back to the starting gate. The last dog, number 1, Mr Trickster, was being herded into its pen. When the gate clicked shut a stuffed rabbit was released along a metal track. A moment later the gates were raised and the dogs were let loose. In a blur of colour they streaked round the track in pursuit of the rabbit, jostling along the fence line. Tommy kept his eyes on Lucky Lady. She listlessly cantered round the track, struggling to keep up with the more agile greyhounds.
"Looks like we put a bet on a pup, son," his dad said as Lucky Lady finally crossed the line, last.
Winning or losing didn't matter to Tommy. He just wanted to show he cared.
"How do you get a greyhound, dad?" Tommy asked.
"Fancy becoming a trainer, do you?"
"No, not really. I just really like that Lucky Lady. How do I get her?"
"You want a dog?"
"Not a dog. That dog," Tommy replied, pointing to Lucky Lady.
She was standing by the fence watching the other dogs shred the white fluff of the rabbit. Her chest was heaving, and between breaths she spluttered a throaty cough.
"You can't have that dog, son. The trainer owns her."
"We could buy her."
His dad chuckled.
"I'm serious. Can we at least ask the trainer? You keep telling me every weekend, when you have some wild and wacky thing planned that, 'you'll never know if you like it until you try'. Well, we'll never know if we can get her unless we try," Tommy said earnestly.
His dad gave a defeated sigh and smiled.
Tommy felt a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach, like someone was prodding it with a thin stick. He knew he was playing on the tug of love between his parents, but he'd been a pawn in the game of family chess for so long he felt it was time to turn the tables in his favour.
"Come on then. Let's give it a try," said his father.
Tommy punched the air and mouthed the word ‘yes’. If excitement was a disease he was sure he was infecting every single one of the spectators. It was impossible to contain. He was bubbling inside, bubbling with wonder as to whether she would sleep on his bed or on the floor; whether she'd enjoy walks in the park or the woods; whether she preferred squeaky toys or soft toys. No. He shook the thoughts from his mind. He didn't want to tempt fate. 'One thing at a time' he said to himself.
With his eye fixed on Lucky Lady as she was lead from the track he twisted through the throng of spectators and officials, close behind his dad until they came to the paddock filled with large 4x4 cars, vans, pickup trucks with mesh cages and hundreds of dogs. He scanned the area for her unmistakable colouring and spotted her. She was lying on the grass beside a battered, white van. Her leash was like a noose round her neck, preventing her from resting her flopped head on the ground. Beside her were the trainer’s other greyhounds; ears pricked, eyes bright. They were wolfing down bowlfuls of meaty chunks whilst Lucky's bowl was filled with bland, dry biscuits. It looked like she hadn't even touched them. How could anyone race her? She was clearly not fit for it. Why didn't anyone stop it? Where were the track officials? The owner? The vet? The RSPCA? Tommy spat at how little mercy, care, love and compassion was shown to her. He felt anger boil and bubble inside him. He wanted to take her away from it all, take her home to a warm fire, a good meal and a giant, squishy cushion to sleep on.
"Afraid you can't get past here. Only trainers or officials beyond this point," stated a burly security guard dressed in a dark blue uniform. He raised his arm to block Tommy and his dad from entering the paddock.
"We were hoping to have a word with one of the trainers. My son is dying to see one of his dogs you see. He loves animals," his dad said in a nauseatingly phony attempt to reason with the guard. Reasoning and being reasonable was something his dad hadn't done in a long time. But Tommy appreciated the effort.
It seemed to work as the guard's steely eyed stare softened and his drawn mouth curled upwards.
"Oh, go on then," the guard said, opening the gate. "But don't be long."
As Tommy and his dad approached the van, a thin man with a flat cap appeared from the other side of the vehicle and regarded them with a suspicious glare. He was chewing on a blade of straw that he switched from one side of his mouth to the other.
"Can I 'elp ya?" he asked flatly.
"Hi there. I’m Stephen Dawson," Tommy's dad said, holding out his hand to greet the man with a cordial shake.
The man stared at his dad's hand and then back up at his face.
"Erm, I was just wondering if I could ask about one of your greyhounds?" his dad stuttered, withdrawing his hand. His dad’s confidence withered in spite of the fact that he towered over the flat-capped man.
"What about 'em?" he said and spat out the blade of straw.
Tommy turned his attention to Lucky Lady. She jerked her head up as Tommy approached her. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees, trying to make himself appear smaller, less threatening. She had affected him the moment he saw her but being close to her now flooded him with joy and when his eyes met hers it was like a bolt of lightning hitting him square in the chest. Her jet black eyes were so piercing they looked straight into him, into his heart, into his soul. All the weight he was carrying from the year of putting up with his parents fighting suddenly lifted from his shoulders. He felt so light he thought he might float away. He seemed to have a similar effect on her as she instantly perked up. Her ears pricked, her eyes widened, she even mustered what Tommy considered a smile-others might say she was panting but Tommy understood her perfectly.
"Hey there girl," he said, trying to hold a soft, gentle tone in the wake of the happiness threatening to explode from within him. "It's okay."
He reached out a hand and softly stroked the crown of Lucky Lady's head. She responded by nuzzling into his palm, egging him to continue.
"You like that, girl, don'tcha. Don't worry. My dad is going to buy you and then you can come home with me and you can be my girl. How d'ya fancy that?"
Lucky Lady whimpered and then let out a gentle bark.
"Hey there," called out the capped man. "Keep away from the dogs they're not domesticated."
Tommy stood up as his father approached him.
"Come on son. Let's go home," he said placing a hand on Tommy's shoulder, ushering him away.
"What about Lady? What about my girl?" Tommy pleaded.
"Not today, Tommy. We'll stop by the pound and see what they've got," his father said and began walking toward the guard by the gate. His eyes were lowered, avoiding Tommy’s.
Tommy fought to keep the lump rising in his throat down. He turned to Lucky Lady who gave him a slight nod, as though she appreciated his efforts. Then he was lost in the crowds.
"What happened dad? What did he say?" Tommy asked as he clicked his seatbelt on.
"He wouldn't sell her, son."
"But why? She didn't win. Why is he making her race when she doesn't want to?"
"You don't know that son. Dogs don't have feelings, not like humans."
"They do too," Tommy spat. "She told me. Not in words but she told me with her eyes. I saw it. She's tired, dad."
"There's nothing I can do, Tommy. The trainer uses her as a companion racer to his other dogs. He says they perform better when she's in the race with them."
"So he's using her."
"Tommy, she's a dog."
"That's not the point. She has rights."
"Well unless he's guilty of animal abuse there's very little you can do."
"What do you mean?" Tommy asked, sensing there might yet be hope.
"I mean unless you can prove the trainer is not providing her with adequate care then she'll remain under his ownership."
Tommy's mind whirred into activity. He knew what he had to do. It was his and Lucky Lady's only hope.
Whilst his dad was in the shower that evening Tommy grabbed the telephone and the yellow pages and made a call to the RSPCA. He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he had to do it. He had to do it for Lucky Lady.
"Hello," he whispered down the receiver. "I'd like to report a dog trainer for abuse."
"Abuse you say?" replied the operator. "What kind of abuse?"
"Well, he...erm, he's making a dog race when she doesn't want to."
"And how do you know she doesn't want to race?"
"You'd know it if you saw her. Oh please you have to help me. She's really tired. He's making her race so his other dogs will win for him. It's not fair on her. She's old. She deserves better."
"Okay, okay," soothed the operator. "All I can do is notify an Animal Protection Officer and he'll investigate the circumstances. What's the name of the trainer?"
Tommy didn't know. He thumped the palm of his hand against his forehead. How could he not have found out the name of the trainer? How did he expect the RSPCA to do anything without that vital piece of information?
"I can't remember his name. But the dog's called Lucky Lady. She raced today," Tommy said suddenly remembering the programme his father had. With the receiver still in his hand he shuffled through the papers on the telephone table-lots of unopened mail and scribbled notes from phone calls-and found the programme. "Wait, I have it," Tommy said, scanning the Wilson Memorial Stake runners."Plimpton, Roger Plimpton."
"Okay. Can I take your name and telephone number so we can contact you with the outcome?"
Tommy eagerly gave her all she needed and was so pleased with himself it was only when he put down the receiver that he realised his dad would have to take that call. He was bound to be in big trouble for that but his dad's worst punishment couldn't compare to the agony of waiting a week for the outcome.
That week turned out to be the longest Tommy had ever endured. Every minute felt like an hour, and every hour felt like a week. When Saturday came he was so excited to see his dad he'd draped himself over the sofa and stared out of the living room window from the moment the sun rose over the rooftops. When his dad's silver Volkswagen pulled into the driveway Tommy grabbed his bag and shot out of the house like a bullet from a gun, forgetting to say bye to his mother.
"So I got a strange phone call on Thursday," was the first thing his dad said as Tommy buckled himself in. "From the RSPCA."
Tommy sheepishly fiddled with his bag in the foot well. His mind was burning to know what they said but guilt made him too afraid to look at his father.
"I thought you might know something about that," his dad said.
"I might. What did they say?"
"Well, they investigated the allegation of abuse," his dad said emphasising the word 'abuse' to make it clear that he wasn't in approval of Tommy's actions.
"And?"
"And there was no grounds for complaint as far as they could see. Her care and living conditions were considered adequate and within the law."
"What!" Tommy spat. "How can that be? Did they investigate thoroughly? Did they inspect the kennels? Did they even take a look at her?"
"Tommy that's enough," his dad said and slammed the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "It's bad enough that you used my phone without asking me and putting me in a difficult position by having to take that call, but to falsely report abuse against someone."
Tommy felt his heart sink into his feet.
"I know you meant well but what you did was wrong. Surely you can see that."
Tommy kicked his bag and stared out of the window. He was angry. Angry that Lucky Lady was still where she was and angry at himself for disappointing his father.
"I'm sorry, dad."
His dad's hand lightly ruffled Tommy's hair. "There's no real harm done. Let's forget about it, eh? So where do you want to go today?"
There was only one thing Tommy wanted to do.
Tommy snatched the programme from his father's hand and ran a trembling finger down the list of races. If he couldn't have her he at least wanted to know that she was okay.
And there she was, scheduled for the 2.50pm Ten Guinea Champions.
"Dad, she's here, she's here," Tommy said, waving the programme in his father's face before grabbing his arm and dragging down to the track fence.
The race wasn't due for another three hours but Tommy didn't care. He'd have waited all night if he had to. By the time Lucky Lady's race was due Tommy was so anxious he could hardly breathe. He leaned over the fence as far as he could and craned his neck round the throng of spectators. As the commentator called the runners names, one by one they came into view, like furry bullets about to be loaded into a gun.
Trailing at the back was the familiar sorrowful look of number five. Her leash was being thoughtlessly tugged by the man leading her. He was pulling so hard her collar was around her throat. Tommy wanted to cry out, to tell them to stop hurting her but over the cacophony of gamblers no-one would have heard him. All he could do was snarl and fight the sickening feeling inside him that was rising like a tide.
He rested his chin on the track fence and waited. The race seemed to take ages to start. Everything was in slow motion. The dog leaders ambled off the track as though they had nothing else to do, the baying of the greyhounds was lethargic and muffled and the idle chatter of the spectators sounded like it was under water. After the fake rabbit set off and the gates inched up the dogs bounded out with their forelegs extended, their muzzled snouts low and their eyes focussed on the ball of fluff fixed to the moving track on the fence. The last one out was number five.
Tommy felt it even before she left the starting gate; a flutter of panic in the pit of his stomach. As she rounded the first turn her gait suddenly became unsteady. She seemed to waver from side to side as though disorientated. The dogs in front of her were so far ahead there was a cloud of dust between them. By the time she was on the back straight her head was slumped almost trailing on the ground. She stumbled once, twice, three times. Tommy heartbeat and his breathing quickened. His white-knuckled fingers were clenched, and his nails were dug into the soft wood of the fence..
"Something's wrong, dad. Look at her. We have to do something," Tommy cried.
His dad looked down at him but the helpless frown on his face meant Tommy’s last hope now seemed to be lost.
As the greyhounds rounded the last corner, on the home stretch, Tommy struggled to keep his sight on Lucky Lady. She was so far behind he couldn't see her through the mist of dust and galloping dogs. When the first greyhound streaked past the finish line and the sand began to settle, Tommy saw her. She was staggering and tripping in the foot holes left by the greyhounds before her. Her tail was dragging through the ground and her back legs kept giving way beneath her. She was struggling, fighting to remain upright. Trying to do what she was trained to do; finish the race. Tommy was breathing so rapidly he was struggling for air. His chest felt like he had a hundred pound weight resting on it. He watched with despair as she collapsed ten feet from the finish.
"No!" Tommy screamed.
He leapt over the fence and scrambled towards her, kicking up sand with his heels as he went.
"Tommy come back," yelled his dad.
Tommy heard him but nothing was going to stop him.
By the time he reached her two vets were already at her side. One removed her muzzle and put an oxygen mask round her snout whilst the other performed what Tommy assumed was some sort of heart massage.
"What's wrong with her?" he pleaded.
"Stand back, Tommy," his dad said, gripping Tommy’s shoulders. "Let the vets do their job."
Tommy stared down at her, helplessly. She tried to lift her head up but when she couldn't she lifted a paw instead. Tommy kneeled down beside her and took it in his hand. He stroked her soft fur and whispered. "It's going to be okay. I'm here for you. They can't ignore this. You're going to be free now."
She spluttered a cough through her mask then whimpered. Her chest heaved up, down, up, then deflated like a balloon. Her deep black, almond eyes looked up at him. They were no longer tinged with sorrow or hopelessness, they now sparkled with happiness and relief. Tommy was sure of it. It was as though in her way she was telling him she was okay. Her eyes then softly closed andTommy felt her paw go limp in his hand.
"Lucky," Tommy whimpered.
He looked up at the vets, each one in turn. They both shook their heads at him.
"No. You have to do something. You can't leave her. You have to help her."
"Sorry, but she's gone," one said coldly and started to pack up his equipment, removing her mask.
"No, you have to carry on," Tommy cried as hot tears poured from his eyes and stung his cheeks. He leant over Lucky Lady and started to pump her chest. He had no idea what he was doing but if no-one was going to help her he was going to do it.
"Tommy, stop," his dad said, gently planting his hands on Tommy shoulders.
Tommy shook them off. "No. She needs help."
"Tommy, she's gone."
At that moment Lucky's trainer strolled over to Lucky's side. He glanced down at her.
"Damn it," he snapped.
Tommy glowered up at him. The rage within him was like a volcano about to explode. He wanted to beat that man. He wanted to pound him with his fists, kick his shins, punch his flat-capped head until bled. He did this to her; worked her into the ground.
"Do you want us to take her?" one of the vets asked the trainer.
"May as well. I've got no use for her now," he said coldly.
"No," Tommy exclaimed, sweeping the cuff of his jumper across his cheeks. "I'll take her."
"Tommy, don't be ridiculous," said his dad.
"I want to. P-please dad," Tommy snuffled. “We can bury her in the garden.”
"She's all yours, now," the trainer said blithely before striding back to the paddock.
The vets shrugged their shoulders.
"We'll take her," his dad said.
Tommy sat in the back of his dad's car with Lucky Lady's head resting on his lap. He stroked her gently. With his tears now dried, he mustered a smile and whispered down to her, "You'll be with me now, always!"
The first time Tommy saw her was at the dog track. He was instantly drawn to her, like a bee to honey. She wasn't like any of the other greyhounds racing in the 1.20pm Wilson Memorial Stakes. Whilst they pranced and tugged at their leashes, eager to get the race underway, expectant of the excitement soon to come, she sluggishly dragged her paws through the sand towards the starting gates with her muzzled head drooping. She was striking to look at with dappled fur of gold, black and brown and in her prime she was probably the dog everyone backed, but now she simply looked like a tiger who'd lost its fight; broken and lost. Tommy couldn't help but think he was looking into a mirror.
"Do you want to put a bet on?" Tommy's dad asked. "Nothing big of course. A pound limit. Wouldn't want her to think I was encouraging you to gamble would I?"
"Dad," Tommy sighed.
"Sorry son. I need to stop doing that. It's water under the bridge now between your mother and I. Time to move on."
Tommy glanced up at his dad who was absentmindedly flicking through the track guide. It was clear to Tommy that his father didn't believe what he was saying.
"You put a bet on, dad," Tommy said. "I'll wait here for you."
"Okay, son. But you need to pick a runner for me."
Tommy glanced back at the dogs. "What's the name of number five?"
"Lucky Lady."
"That's the one!" Tommy said resolutely. "Bet on her."
As his dad wandered over to a man yelling, waving his hands in the air and making strange signals with his fingers Tommy turned his attention back to the starting gate. The last dog, number 1, Mr Trickster, was being herded into its pen. When the gate clicked shut a stuffed rabbit was released along a metal track. A moment later the gates were raised and the dogs were let loose. In a blur of colour they streaked round the track in pursuit of the rabbit, jostling along the fence line. Tommy kept his eyes on Lucky Lady. She listlessly cantered round the track, struggling to keep up with the more agile greyhounds.
"Looks like we put a bet on a pup, son," his dad said as Lucky Lady finally crossed the line, last.
Winning or losing didn't matter to Tommy. He just wanted to show he cared.
"How do you get a greyhound, dad?" Tommy asked.
"Fancy becoming a trainer, do you?"
"No, not really. I just really like that Lucky Lady. How do I get her?"
"You want a dog?"
"Not a dog. That dog," Tommy replied, pointing to Lucky Lady.
She was standing by the fence watching the other dogs shred the white fluff of the rabbit. Her chest was heaving, and between breaths she spluttered a throaty cough.
"You can't have that dog, son. The trainer owns her."
"We could buy her."
His dad chuckled.
"I'm serious. Can we at least ask the trainer? You keep telling me every weekend, when you have some wild and wacky thing planned that, 'you'll never know if you like it until you try'. Well, we'll never know if we can get her unless we try," Tommy said earnestly.
His dad gave a defeated sigh and smiled.
Tommy felt a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach, like someone was prodding it with a thin stick. He knew he was playing on the tug of love between his parents, but he'd been a pawn in the game of family chess for so long he felt it was time to turn the tables in his favour.
"Come on then. Let's give it a try," said his father.
Tommy punched the air and mouthed the word ‘yes’. If excitement was a disease he was sure he was infecting every single one of the spectators. It was impossible to contain. He was bubbling inside, bubbling with wonder as to whether she would sleep on his bed or on the floor; whether she'd enjoy walks in the park or the woods; whether she preferred squeaky toys or soft toys. No. He shook the thoughts from his mind. He didn't want to tempt fate. 'One thing at a time' he said to himself.
With his eye fixed on Lucky Lady as she was lead from the track he twisted through the throng of spectators and officials, close behind his dad until they came to the paddock filled with large 4x4 cars, vans, pickup trucks with mesh cages and hundreds of dogs. He scanned the area for her unmistakable colouring and spotted her. She was lying on the grass beside a battered, white van. Her leash was like a noose round her neck, preventing her from resting her flopped head on the ground. Beside her were the trainer’s other greyhounds; ears pricked, eyes bright. They were wolfing down bowlfuls of meaty chunks whilst Lucky's bowl was filled with bland, dry biscuits. It looked like she hadn't even touched them. How could anyone race her? She was clearly not fit for it. Why didn't anyone stop it? Where were the track officials? The owner? The vet? The RSPCA? Tommy spat at how little mercy, care, love and compassion was shown to her. He felt anger boil and bubble inside him. He wanted to take her away from it all, take her home to a warm fire, a good meal and a giant, squishy cushion to sleep on.
"Afraid you can't get past here. Only trainers or officials beyond this point," stated a burly security guard dressed in a dark blue uniform. He raised his arm to block Tommy and his dad from entering the paddock.
"We were hoping to have a word with one of the trainers. My son is dying to see one of his dogs you see. He loves animals," his dad said in a nauseatingly phony attempt to reason with the guard. Reasoning and being reasonable was something his dad hadn't done in a long time. But Tommy appreciated the effort.
It seemed to work as the guard's steely eyed stare softened and his drawn mouth curled upwards.
"Oh, go on then," the guard said, opening the gate. "But don't be long."
As Tommy and his dad approached the van, a thin man with a flat cap appeared from the other side of the vehicle and regarded them with a suspicious glare. He was chewing on a blade of straw that he switched from one side of his mouth to the other.
"Can I 'elp ya?" he asked flatly.
"Hi there. I’m Stephen Dawson," Tommy's dad said, holding out his hand to greet the man with a cordial shake.
The man stared at his dad's hand and then back up at his face.
"Erm, I was just wondering if I could ask about one of your greyhounds?" his dad stuttered, withdrawing his hand. His dad’s confidence withered in spite of the fact that he towered over the flat-capped man.
"What about 'em?" he said and spat out the blade of straw.
Tommy turned his attention to Lucky Lady. She jerked her head up as Tommy approached her. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees, trying to make himself appear smaller, less threatening. She had affected him the moment he saw her but being close to her now flooded him with joy and when his eyes met hers it was like a bolt of lightning hitting him square in the chest. Her jet black eyes were so piercing they looked straight into him, into his heart, into his soul. All the weight he was carrying from the year of putting up with his parents fighting suddenly lifted from his shoulders. He felt so light he thought he might float away. He seemed to have a similar effect on her as she instantly perked up. Her ears pricked, her eyes widened, she even mustered what Tommy considered a smile-others might say she was panting but Tommy understood her perfectly.
"Hey there girl," he said, trying to hold a soft, gentle tone in the wake of the happiness threatening to explode from within him. "It's okay."
He reached out a hand and softly stroked the crown of Lucky Lady's head. She responded by nuzzling into his palm, egging him to continue.
"You like that, girl, don'tcha. Don't worry. My dad is going to buy you and then you can come home with me and you can be my girl. How d'ya fancy that?"
Lucky Lady whimpered and then let out a gentle bark.
"Hey there," called out the capped man. "Keep away from the dogs they're not domesticated."
Tommy stood up as his father approached him.
"Come on son. Let's go home," he said placing a hand on Tommy's shoulder, ushering him away.
"What about Lady? What about my girl?" Tommy pleaded.
"Not today, Tommy. We'll stop by the pound and see what they've got," his father said and began walking toward the guard by the gate. His eyes were lowered, avoiding Tommy’s.
Tommy fought to keep the lump rising in his throat down. He turned to Lucky Lady who gave him a slight nod, as though she appreciated his efforts. Then he was lost in the crowds.
"What happened dad? What did he say?" Tommy asked as he clicked his seatbelt on.
"He wouldn't sell her, son."
"But why? She didn't win. Why is he making her race when she doesn't want to?"
"You don't know that son. Dogs don't have feelings, not like humans."
"They do too," Tommy spat. "She told me. Not in words but she told me with her eyes. I saw it. She's tired, dad."
"There's nothing I can do, Tommy. The trainer uses her as a companion racer to his other dogs. He says they perform better when she's in the race with them."
"So he's using her."
"Tommy, she's a dog."
"That's not the point. She has rights."
"Well unless he's guilty of animal abuse there's very little you can do."
"What do you mean?" Tommy asked, sensing there might yet be hope.
"I mean unless you can prove the trainer is not providing her with adequate care then she'll remain under his ownership."
Tommy's mind whirred into activity. He knew what he had to do. It was his and Lucky Lady's only hope.
Whilst his dad was in the shower that evening Tommy grabbed the telephone and the yellow pages and made a call to the RSPCA. He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he had to do it. He had to do it for Lucky Lady.
"Hello," he whispered down the receiver. "I'd like to report a dog trainer for abuse."
"Abuse you say?" replied the operator. "What kind of abuse?"
"Well, he...erm, he's making a dog race when she doesn't want to."
"And how do you know she doesn't want to race?"
"You'd know it if you saw her. Oh please you have to help me. She's really tired. He's making her race so his other dogs will win for him. It's not fair on her. She's old. She deserves better."
"Okay, okay," soothed the operator. "All I can do is notify an Animal Protection Officer and he'll investigate the circumstances. What's the name of the trainer?"
Tommy didn't know. He thumped the palm of his hand against his forehead. How could he not have found out the name of the trainer? How did he expect the RSPCA to do anything without that vital piece of information?
"I can't remember his name. But the dog's called Lucky Lady. She raced today," Tommy said suddenly remembering the programme his father had. With the receiver still in his hand he shuffled through the papers on the telephone table-lots of unopened mail and scribbled notes from phone calls-and found the programme. "Wait, I have it," Tommy said, scanning the Wilson Memorial Stake runners."Plimpton, Roger Plimpton."
"Okay. Can I take your name and telephone number so we can contact you with the outcome?"
Tommy eagerly gave her all she needed and was so pleased with himself it was only when he put down the receiver that he realised his dad would have to take that call. He was bound to be in big trouble for that but his dad's worst punishment couldn't compare to the agony of waiting a week for the outcome.
That week turned out to be the longest Tommy had ever endured. Every minute felt like an hour, and every hour felt like a week. When Saturday came he was so excited to see his dad he'd draped himself over the sofa and stared out of the living room window from the moment the sun rose over the rooftops. When his dad's silver Volkswagen pulled into the driveway Tommy grabbed his bag and shot out of the house like a bullet from a gun, forgetting to say bye to his mother.
"So I got a strange phone call on Thursday," was the first thing his dad said as Tommy buckled himself in. "From the RSPCA."
Tommy sheepishly fiddled with his bag in the foot well. His mind was burning to know what they said but guilt made him too afraid to look at his father.
"I thought you might know something about that," his dad said.
"I might. What did they say?"
"Well, they investigated the allegation of abuse," his dad said emphasising the word 'abuse' to make it clear that he wasn't in approval of Tommy's actions.
"And?"
"And there was no grounds for complaint as far as they could see. Her care and living conditions were considered adequate and within the law."
"What!" Tommy spat. "How can that be? Did they investigate thoroughly? Did they inspect the kennels? Did they even take a look at her?"
"Tommy that's enough," his dad said and slammed the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "It's bad enough that you used my phone without asking me and putting me in a difficult position by having to take that call, but to falsely report abuse against someone."
Tommy felt his heart sink into his feet.
"I know you meant well but what you did was wrong. Surely you can see that."
Tommy kicked his bag and stared out of the window. He was angry. Angry that Lucky Lady was still where she was and angry at himself for disappointing his father.
"I'm sorry, dad."
His dad's hand lightly ruffled Tommy's hair. "There's no real harm done. Let's forget about it, eh? So where do you want to go today?"
There was only one thing Tommy wanted to do.
Tommy snatched the programme from his father's hand and ran a trembling finger down the list of races. If he couldn't have her he at least wanted to know that she was okay.
And there she was, scheduled for the 2.50pm Ten Guinea Champions.
"Dad, she's here, she's here," Tommy said, waving the programme in his father's face before grabbing his arm and dragging down to the track fence.
The race wasn't due for another three hours but Tommy didn't care. He'd have waited all night if he had to. By the time Lucky Lady's race was due Tommy was so anxious he could hardly breathe. He leaned over the fence as far as he could and craned his neck round the throng of spectators. As the commentator called the runners names, one by one they came into view, like furry bullets about to be loaded into a gun.
Trailing at the back was the familiar sorrowful look of number five. Her leash was being thoughtlessly tugged by the man leading her. He was pulling so hard her collar was around her throat. Tommy wanted to cry out, to tell them to stop hurting her but over the cacophony of gamblers no-one would have heard him. All he could do was snarl and fight the sickening feeling inside him that was rising like a tide.
He rested his chin on the track fence and waited. The race seemed to take ages to start. Everything was in slow motion. The dog leaders ambled off the track as though they had nothing else to do, the baying of the greyhounds was lethargic and muffled and the idle chatter of the spectators sounded like it was under water. After the fake rabbit set off and the gates inched up the dogs bounded out with their forelegs extended, their muzzled snouts low and their eyes focussed on the ball of fluff fixed to the moving track on the fence. The last one out was number five.
Tommy felt it even before she left the starting gate; a flutter of panic in the pit of his stomach. As she rounded the first turn her gait suddenly became unsteady. She seemed to waver from side to side as though disorientated. The dogs in front of her were so far ahead there was a cloud of dust between them. By the time she was on the back straight her head was slumped almost trailing on the ground. She stumbled once, twice, three times. Tommy heartbeat and his breathing quickened. His white-knuckled fingers were clenched, and his nails were dug into the soft wood of the fence..
"Something's wrong, dad. Look at her. We have to do something," Tommy cried.
His dad looked down at him but the helpless frown on his face meant Tommy’s last hope now seemed to be lost.
As the greyhounds rounded the last corner, on the home stretch, Tommy struggled to keep his sight on Lucky Lady. She was so far behind he couldn't see her through the mist of dust and galloping dogs. When the first greyhound streaked past the finish line and the sand began to settle, Tommy saw her. She was staggering and tripping in the foot holes left by the greyhounds before her. Her tail was dragging through the ground and her back legs kept giving way beneath her. She was struggling, fighting to remain upright. Trying to do what she was trained to do; finish the race. Tommy was breathing so rapidly he was struggling for air. His chest felt like he had a hundred pound weight resting on it. He watched with despair as she collapsed ten feet from the finish.
"No!" Tommy screamed.
He leapt over the fence and scrambled towards her, kicking up sand with his heels as he went.
"Tommy come back," yelled his dad.
Tommy heard him but nothing was going to stop him.
By the time he reached her two vets were already at her side. One removed her muzzle and put an oxygen mask round her snout whilst the other performed what Tommy assumed was some sort of heart massage.
"What's wrong with her?" he pleaded.
"Stand back, Tommy," his dad said, gripping Tommy’s shoulders. "Let the vets do their job."
Tommy stared down at her, helplessly. She tried to lift her head up but when she couldn't she lifted a paw instead. Tommy kneeled down beside her and took it in his hand. He stroked her soft fur and whispered. "It's going to be okay. I'm here for you. They can't ignore this. You're going to be free now."
She spluttered a cough through her mask then whimpered. Her chest heaved up, down, up, then deflated like a balloon. Her deep black, almond eyes looked up at him. They were no longer tinged with sorrow or hopelessness, they now sparkled with happiness and relief. Tommy was sure of it. It was as though in her way she was telling him she was okay. Her eyes then softly closed andTommy felt her paw go limp in his hand.
"Lucky," Tommy whimpered.
He looked up at the vets, each one in turn. They both shook their heads at him.
"No. You have to do something. You can't leave her. You have to help her."
"Sorry, but she's gone," one said coldly and started to pack up his equipment, removing her mask.
"No, you have to carry on," Tommy cried as hot tears poured from his eyes and stung his cheeks. He leant over Lucky Lady and started to pump her chest. He had no idea what he was doing but if no-one was going to help her he was going to do it.
"Tommy, stop," his dad said, gently planting his hands on Tommy shoulders.
Tommy shook them off. "No. She needs help."
"Tommy, she's gone."
At that moment Lucky's trainer strolled over to Lucky's side. He glanced down at her.
"Damn it," he snapped.
Tommy glowered up at him. The rage within him was like a volcano about to explode. He wanted to beat that man. He wanted to pound him with his fists, kick his shins, punch his flat-capped head until bled. He did this to her; worked her into the ground.
"Do you want us to take her?" one of the vets asked the trainer.
"May as well. I've got no use for her now," he said coldly.
"No," Tommy exclaimed, sweeping the cuff of his jumper across his cheeks. "I'll take her."
"Tommy, don't be ridiculous," said his dad.
"I want to. P-please dad," Tommy snuffled. “We can bury her in the garden.”
"She's all yours, now," the trainer said blithely before striding back to the paddock.
The vets shrugged their shoulders.
"We'll take her," his dad said.
Tommy sat in the back of his dad's car with Lucky Lady's head resting on his lap. He stroked her gently. With his tears now dried, he mustered a smile and whispered down to her, "You'll be with me now, always!"
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