Питер Ловси - Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

As soon as Keith returned to collect his prize specimens for the Fancy Mouse Show, Nimrod would make his dash for freedom, leaving the brash young punk to discover the mass murder and the football, and draw his conclusions. The next time George saw Keith and Hannah and heard the gruesome story, he would say that he thought he’d overheard some sounds in the garden about nine last night and guessed it was cats. He knew the shed was kept locked, so he hadn’t gone out to check. Then he would apologize profusely for Nimrod’s blood-letting spree and Hannah would say that you couldn’t blame the cat — or George. And if Keith said that the Suttons disclaimed ownership of the football, George would give a shrug and say, “What else do you expect of modern kids?”

After two more scotches, George looked outside to check how dark it was and fetched the plastic travelling bag from his wardrobe. Nimrod actually came running to investigate, so it was simple to sweep him up and bundle him inside. He fought savagely to escape. “Save your energy, old fellow. You’re going to need it presently,” said George, zipping up the bag. “Okay, dinner should be ready.”

He collected the football, picked up the bag, let himself out and moved stealthily past the unlit cottage next door and into Keith and Hannah’s back garden. He rested the bag on the ground and took a precautionary look around him before pressing the football hard against the window. The glass shattered easily and he thrust the football through so hard that he heard it break another pane of glass in one of the tanks. He lifted the bag to the level of the window and unzipped it. Nimrod’s head popped out, his fang-teeth bared. George helped his old friend safely through the hole and felt the strength in the struggling shoulders. The Mighty Hunter had got the whiff of the mice. The energy coming from the black fur was awesome.

George whispered, “Bon appetit!” Having released Nimrod, he picked up the bag and walked back to the house feeling twenty years younger.

The Fancy Mouse Show next day was a revelation. George wandered up and down the rows of tanks and cages in the municipal hall marvelling at the doting owners as much as the mice competing for the titles. They groomed and stroked their tiny charges in an attempt to catch the judge’s eye. First there were the competitions to decide the best in each class. Later would come the accolade everyone coveted, for supreme champion.

Edith clutched George’s arm. “See, George,” she said. “See how exciting it all is? I’m not an eccentric old fool, am I?”

“I never said you were,” George answered.

The judging of the long-haired black and white hooded class took place at noon. Edith’s pair took first place. George and Edith embraced.

“I love you, Edith Plumley,” George declared. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Just keep your fingers and toes crossed for me,” she said tremulously. “They go forward to the supreme championship, on the stage at four o’clock. George, we’re virtually certain to win. Only the late arrival of a truly rare breed would deprive my little beauties of the title.”

“So what happens now?” said George.

“I just told you. We wait for the judging.”

“No, what happens to us now, Edith. What about our future?”

A rough hand grabbed his shoulder.

“So here you are,” said Keith.

George felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Fear gripped him. He was certain his neighbour was about to punch him.

But he did not. “George, old pal,” he said, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

“That isn’t necessary,” said George, suspicious that this was only the prelude to violence.

“To celebrate, man,” Keith said in the same friendly tone. “We just won first prize in our class. In fact, we’re the only entry in our class. The silver-hoods. Extremely rare, the judge said. They created quite a stir. And they’re going to win the supreme champion rosette. No problem.”

George heard a whimper of distress from Edith. He’d almost forgotten her in his anxiety. “Edith, this is Keith, my neighbour,” he said quickly.

He was about to add for Keith’s benefit that Edith was a friend, but Edith said in a horrified voice, “Your neighbour?” Then she covered her face and fled. There was no point in going after her. He’d never explain it to her satisfaction.

“What’s wrong with her?” said Keith. “Wasn’t me, was it?”

George couldn’t find words for some time. “I could do with that drink,” he whispered finally.

After they had been standing at the bar some time while Keith held forth about the idiocy of Fancy Mouse Shows, George managed to say, “Those prize-winning mice of yours — where do they come from?”

“What do you mean — where do they come from?” said Keith. “Other mice, of course.” He laughed.

“No, where did you keep them? The shed?”

“Not the shed. They’re valuable mice, mate. I wouldn’t keep my silver-hoods in the shed. No, they live in luxury, on top of the piano. I just had time to get home and grab them and get them here for the judging.”

“What about the mice in the shed?”

“They’re nothing special. They’re feeders.”

“Feeders?” repeated George.

“Oh, Christ, Han didn’t want me to tell you this. People living next door can get nervous, but there’s no need. The mice are for Percy. You must have seen him on TV commercials. He pays for his keep. He stays coiled up in his tank at the bottom of our shed. It’s got a glass top, mate, so Percy won’t get out. He gets through hundreds of mice. Well, he would. In the wild, a fourteen-foot python would be swallowing live pigs and all sorts. They’re terrific hunters. So quick. They have these dislocating jaws that... What’s up, George? Hey, George, you look terrible.”

“Hey, miss.”

“What is it now?”

“Something’s up with Santa.”

“That’s quite enough from you, young lady,” Pauline said sharply — unseasonably sharply for Christmas week in an Oxford Street department store. The Toy Fair was a bedlam of electric trains, robots, talking dolls and whining infants, but the counter staff — however hard-pressed — weren’t expected to threaten the kids. The day had got off to a trying start when a boy with mischief in mind had pulled a panda off a shelf and started an avalanche of soft toys. Pauline had found herself knee-deep in teddies, rabbits and hippos. Now she was trying to reassemble the display, between attending to customers and coping with little nuisances like this one, dumped in the department while their parents shopped elsewhere in the store.

“Take a butcher’s in the grotto, miss.”

Pauline glared at the girl, a six-year-old by the size of her, with gaps between her teeth and a dark fringe like a helmet. A green anorak, white corduroy trousers and red wellies. She’d been a regular visitor ever since the school term ended. Her quick, sticky hands were a threat to every toy within reach. But she had shining brown eyes and a way with words that could be amusing at times less stressful than this.

“I think Santa’s stiffed it, miss.”

“For the last time...”

A man held out a green felt crocodile, and Pauline rolled her eyes upwards and exchanged a smile. She rang up the sale, locked her till and stepped around the counter to look for Mark Daventry, the head of the toy department. The child had a point. It was 10.05 and Santa’s Grotto should have opened at 10.00. A queue had started to form. There was no sign of Zena, the “gnome” who sold the tickets.

It was shamefully unfair. Mark hadn’t been near the department this morning. No doubt he was treating Zena to coffee in the staff canteen. When blonde Zena had first appeared three weeks ago in her pointed hat, short tunic and red tights, Mark had lingered around the grotto entrance like a six-foot kid lining up for his Christmas present. Soon he’d persuaded her to join him for coffee-breaks: the Mark Daventry routine familiar to Pauline and sundry other ex-girlfriends in the store. However, Zena wasn’t merely the latest temp in the toy department. She wasn’t merely an attractive blonde. She happened to be the wife of Santa Claus.