Chris Simms: Killing the Beasts

By now Alice was standing in the doorway to the telly room, arms folded and a smile on her face. 'Nice to see you getting your priorities right,' she said, nodding down at the dog. 'You're late back — you've missed rugby training again.' Jon let his shoulders drop. 'New case,' he said, walking towards his partner and bending forward to kiss her. 'Not after you've just snogged that ugly hound,' she said, raising her arms and shying away from his puckered lips. 'Go and wash your mouth out first.' 'Did you hear that, Punch?' he asked the dog, feigning outrage. 'You're ugly and Daddy gets no kiss!'

From the corner of his eye he saw that she had lowered her arms. Suddenly he dipped to the side, then straightened his legs so his face burrowed upward to her throat.

Instinctively she pressed her chin down to her sternum to protect her windpipe. Giggling through clenched teeth, she said in a contracted voice, 'Get off!' A foot snaked round the back of his right ankle.

Not fully aware whether it was a playfight or not, Punch had started up a half-anxious, half-delighted barking. Jon felt Alice's forearm forcing its way across his chest, and realized she was manoeuvring towards one of her tae kwon do throws. He broke the embrace, stepping away from her and laughing breathlessly. 'I'll have none of your martial arts high jinks in my house.'

Her feet now planted firmly apart, Alice flexed her knees and held up the back of one hand to Jon. The tips of her fingers flexed inwards once and she whispered with Hollywood menace, 'Come and try it, motherfucker.'

His eyes flicked over her combat stance and he took another step back, realizing that he'd think twice about taking on someone like that in a real life situation. 'Later,' he smiled, then looked towards the kitchen door and sniffed, signalling that the fooling around was over. 'Something smells good.'

'Shepherd's pie, 'Alice answered, relaxing her posture. 'With salad in the fridge.'

'Ah, nice one, Ali, 'Jon answered with genuine appreciation. 'Do you mind if I go for a quick r-u-n first?' Having missed rugby training, he was twitching for some exercise.

'Course not; I ate mine hours ago.'

Jon looked down at the dog. 'Fancy a run?'

At the word 'run' the dog let out a moan of delight and padded towards the front door, eyes fixed on his lead hanging from the coat peg.

'How was your day?' he asked as he began climbing the stairs. 'Tell me as I'm getting changed.'

'I was late for work again. The stupid train into Piccadilly was cancelled.' She followed him up to the spare room, stepping over the weights stacked on the floor and sitting down on the gym bench in the corner. Jon was standing at an open wicker unit, pulling his running gear from the assorted items of sports kit piled up on its shelves. Quickly he removed his shoes and socks, hung up his suit and returned his tie to a coat hanger that had another half dozen threaded through it.

As he began unbuttoning his shirt, Alice said, while innocently examining the nails on one hand, 'Actually Melvyn introduced a new beauty regime to the salon today.'

Clocking her tone, Jon replied guardedly, 'Go on, what's he up to now?'

He dropped his boxer shorts to the floor and bent forward to pick up the neoprene cycling shorts he wore under his cut-off tracksuit bottoms when running. He glanced up and caught her looking meaningfully at his arse.

'It's waxing for men. “Backs, cracks and sacks”, Melvyn's calling it.'

Jon digested the information for a second, then looked at her. 'You're not ripping the hair off other men's bollocks?'

She gave him a provocative little grin.

'Oh, sweet mother of God, tell me it isn't true,' he groaned, holding his head in his hands and pretending to cry. 'If this gets out I'm a dead man.' He looked at her again for confirmation that she was having him on.

Alice held his glance for a second longer, then suddenly smiled. 'Why, got a problem with that?'

'Backs I can understand. Cracks maybe at a push — but sacks? Oh, Jesus.'

'Don't worry. It's going to be Melvyn's special treatment; he's already drooling at the prospect.' She grimaced. 'Can you imagine it? First booking on a Monday morning, pulling some bloke's knackers to the side and…' She yanked sharply at the air while making a ripping noise at the back of her throat.

'Don't,' Jon winced. 'It's making me feel ill. What is the world coming to? Backs, cracks and bloody sacks.' He shook his head in disbelief.

'You'd be surprised at the demand for it. And not just gay guys, as you're probably imagining. Besides, you've never objected to me doing other women's bikini lines.'

'Well, that's different, isn't it?' answered Jon, voice suddenly brighter. 'Why, any recent ones to tell me about?'

'Sad,' she replied, as Jon pulled on a running top with reflective panels at the front and back. Downstairs he clicked the lead on his dog's collar.

'Punch, if you ever catch her creeping up behind you with a waxy strip in her hands, run for the bloody hills.'

He could still hear her laughing as he slammed the door shut.

The cold night air hit him as he ran along Shawbrook Road to Heaton Moor Golf Course. After cutting on to the grass, he kept to the perimeter, making his way round to the playing fields of Heaton School where he could do some sprints up and down the dark and empty football pitches. Rounding the corner of the school buildings, he saw a group of young lads sitting on a low brick wall, the scent of spliff hanging in the air. Having chosen to ignore them, Jon was jogging past when one of them let out a low wolf whistle. A burst of raucous laughter broke out. Jon carried on and another cocky voice said, 'I hate fucking boxer dogs.'

Jon slowed up, turned round and jogged back, Punch's claws tick-tacking on the concrete as they approached. Jon surveyed them for a second, then narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a whisper. 'My dog don't like people laughing. He gets the crazy idea you're laughing at him. Now, if you apologise like I know you're going to, I might convince him that you really didn't mean it.'

From the blank silence he knew they didn't have a clue what he was on about — and certainly no idea which film he was quoting from. 'I thought you lot looked too thick to be anywhere near a school.'

Now aware he was having a go at them, they looked uncertainly at each other, wondering who would be first to speak. Jon switched to bullshit mode. 'I'm doing two circuits of these fields. Next time I pass this point I'll have my warrant card on me. If you're still here, I'll lift you.'

'You a policeman?' one asked, eyes now wide.

'That's right. And I've got better things to be doing with my free time than nicking little twats like you. But I will, if you make me.'

They started getting to their feet, joint now hidden up a coat sleeve. Without another word Jon turned away and resumed his run.

Back home, he showered and pulled on an old rugby shirt and tracksuit bottoms. After retrieving his supper from the oven, he sat down on the sofa. Punch was already stretched out in front of the gas fire, one brown eye tracking Jon's every move.

'What's this?' he asked, looking at the telly.

'I don't know,' Alice answered sleepily, moving across the sofa to rest her head on his leg. Holding the plate below his chin to stop any bits falling into her hair, he began shovelling great forkfuls of food into his mouth.

After a few seconds he felt her jaw moving as she began to chew. He glanced at the table. Next to a jar of folic acid pills was an open packet of nicotine gum. 'You fighting an urge?' he asked quietly.

'Mmmmm,' she replied without moving. 'It came on just after you went out. First one since lunch, though.'

'That's great; well done babe,' he answered, thinking how close he'd come to sneaking a cigarette earlier that day. 'By the way, this new case I'm on… it's a murder investigation and McCloughlin's made me SIO.'