BLACK DOG

I’ve taken a day of entitlement and I’m sitting on a sunny beach, a safe distance from the sea.  It’s early and I’m reflecting on life – poetry, music, art, politics, economics, blah.  There’s not another soul around on the endlessly stretching sand.  Until ...

What the hell is her problem?  She’s running fast.  Fit type, down by the shore where the sand is firm, quite a way from me yet.  Desperate, like she’s pushing herself, as if she’s fleeing.  Oh dear God.  Further up the beach, I can see this black dot, far away yet, but moving so very fast.  The woman will not outrun it.  She’s opposite me now, I can hear her breath shrieking, she looks wildly at me and flings down the bag she’s carrying.  Further up I can see other possessions littering the shore, like she’s been shedding everything she ever owned.  This one’s her handbag, containing mobile, keys, money ...  “I can’t ... keep this up ...” she gasps and flings herself forward.

Evidently she can, because she is still running.  I pull some popcorn out of my beach bag.  I can see what the black thing is now – a massive dog; an evil presence, totally out of place in this Western paradise, terrible contrast to sun and sand and sea.  Yet here it is.  It glances at me as it runs past and I salute it with my popcorn packet.  The woman has progressed quite far, but the dog, all shaggy fur and long powerful legs closes in.  She dodges, rather like a gazelle, turning this way then that, to no avail.  There’s the inevitable stumble, the piercing scream of distress and it’s on her.  I can hear growls, snarls and skin torn by teeth.  I can see her hands flailing as she tries to fight, but her blood is staining the sand and every moment she’s getting weaker.  There’s no way of escape, not now the dog’s jaws are round her throat, cutting off air supply.  She’s a goner.  I watch until she stops twitching and so does the dog, ensuring that she’s really dead and not pretending.  Stupid animal, anyone whose throat is in that much of a mess is totally killed.

Well, that’s something you don’t see every day.  I lose interest, getting up and turning away.  I pick up beach bag, laptop satchel and towel; time to go home.  A movement catches my eye.  Even though it’s a way down the beach I can tell the dog is looking at me intensely, its ears are pricked.  The breeze carries the sound of a low menacing growl.  What’s it doing that for?  I haven’t done anything wrong.  Have I?  Fear takes hold; I grasp my possessions close to me and begin to hurry.  The car park is only half a mile up the beach.  I think I can make it.  I look over my shoulder, I’ve dropped the popcorn, but there’s no time to pick it up ... the black dog is coming.

STRAWBERRY CREAMS FOREVER

Sex was what Steve was wired for.  It wasn’t fun if he wasn’t confident, so he avoided sweets and junk food.  However, the sight of a sexy woman lured him into the Candy Shop at closing time.  Katie was voluptuous, with long brown hair and striking violet eyes.  She smiled as if she wanted to play too.
“What would you recommend?” Steve asked casually.
“Did you really come in here for chocolate?”

Once they were naked in the back room, she poured wine over his erection.

“Pleasure’s about taste and sensation,” she breathed and gave him the best head he’d ever had.
“Stop,” Steve gasped, “I don’ wanna cum yet!”
He fucked Katie on the floor, feeling her wet tightness.  At the moment of no-return, she put something in his mouth; the taste was exquisite, Belgian chocolate melting, the heavenly burst of strawberry and champagne like fizz.  As he orgasmed with that wonderful flavour, the neuro-networks in his brain changed and fused.
“There,” she said, “strawberry creams forever.”
He bought a packet and went home.

Steve couldn’t look keen, but as he sucked on strawberry creams and thought of Katie, he became uncontrollably horny.  He returned within two days, having eaten them all.  An older, austere woman was behind the desk.  As she informed him that Katie was away for three weeks, a middle aged man picked up three bags of strawberry creams, paid and left.  She didn’t react and said nothing when Steve bought a packet that day, the next and the next.

That first week, Steve couldn’t stop eating strawberry creams, thinking of Katie and masturbating.  The second, he tried to give them up and took a girlfriend home, but ordinary sex wasn’t good enough; it had to be Katie, there had to be strawberry creams.  He couldn’t get hard.  He rushed to the Candy Shop and bought four packets.  That middle aged man was there and Steve wondered if Katie had fucked him too.  Imagining that, when he was back in his bedroom and sucking on a strawberry cream, only excited him more.  Steve stayed in, neglecting his fitness/nutrition regime and social life.  By week three, he was late for work, not washing his clothes and neglecting to shower.  He ate strawberry creams and thought of Katie in the toilets, during meetings, behind his desk ...  He couldn’t fit into his sharp suits anymore ... 

One Saturday, he rushed back to the Candy Shop and there she was!  He loitered until the shop was empty, then hurried in; “You’re back!”

Katie stared at the unkempt, overweight, smelly guy.  He reminded her of that middle aged man, who came in every day and gave her the creeps; “What can I get you?”
“You know what!” he lunged behind the counter, grabbing her waist and pushing his mouth against hers.
She pressed the panic button and managed to fend him off with the threat of a pair of scissors used for cutting gift wrap.
“Please don’t do this!” he begged as the Police dragged him away, “I need you!  Please!  Just once more in the back room with the strawberry creams!  Katie!  Katie!”
Only then did she remember who he was.

THE COMPANION

His work, there was so much of it and it was so important.  He hid away to do it.  He didn’t see friends or communicate with family.  This life suited him, but it was terribly lonely.  It was not physically possible to work all the time and soon he realised there was no-one about when he looked up from his desk.  Nobody to share the wealth and luxury he’d accumulated with.  When the music records stopped playing, his home was eerily silent.  It was splendid and miserable isolation.

Then he saw the Woman passing his cottage in the woods, the sun on her hair as she collected firewood and berries.  She was beautiful and alone, a highlight he’d watch out for, but soon he needed more than just the sight of her.

He made a Charmer’s Mask, a handsome face he could wear that she wouldn’t see through.  He cut down a tree and piled the wood outside his cabin.  He saw her notice it as she passed and called out of the window; “Please take some.”  She stopped, unable to believe what a handsome man he was.  He lured her into his cabin with the promise of wine and then the Charmer’s Mask did its work.

“You’ll stay with me now,” he told her, “there’s no need to ever leave.  Everything you could possibly want is in this cottage.”

His work, there was so much of it and it was so important.  She daren’t disturb him.  She cooked, cleaned up and looked after his needs when summoned.  In early days he’d summon often, now he was wrapped up again.  She tried to leave, but he’d put the Charmer’s Mask back on and convince her to stay.  This life didn’t suit her, it was so terribly lonely and when the music records stopped playing, home was eerily silent.  It was unbearable and perpetual isolation.   Why did he want her when it was clear he didn’t have time?  Every night she drank the wine until she could sleep.

He had forgotten something, surely.  He looked up frowning.  There had been no noise for some days, no feet on the stairs, no food appearing outside his room.  There was something missing.  What?  The Woman!  Had she left?  Surely not, she would ask his permission first and the Charmer’s Mask prevented her going.  Why the silence?  An investigation revealed every room to be empty and filled with a feeling of dread and guilt.  Why guilt?  Because he’d taken something he didn’t really need?  He hadn’t checked the wine cellar.  She was lying beneath the racks.  There was a smell of sickness and decay, shattered glass on the floor and wine spilt everywhere.  How could she be so clumsy?  On closer inspection; how could she be so decomposed?

ROUND THE HOUSES

There are two different kinds of stray cat.  The first is the Hunter, the feral night creature who catches mice, birds, insects, spiders ... yuck!  The second, the Gleaner, does not use up unnecessary energy or eat anything disgusting.  This cat survives by going round the houses.  You can guess which I’ve become.

There’s the old couple’s house.  It’s warm there and the cat food is premium, but when I sit on the old woman’s knee I get nagged; “Such a shame you don’t have a home of your own, dear.”

Yes, I’m sure Mother would be very disappointed in me.  If she could remember which specific kitten I was out of the fifteen litters she’s had (average of eight kittens per litter).
“You’re such a pretty cat.  I wonder why no-one wants you.”
I believe he said I was an unnecessary hazard ...
I can’t stand those comments for long.

Up the road is the journalist’s house.  Ambient temperature, a garden, no other cats and best of all he buys me tuna from Harrods.  I get the best of everything here, probably would get fat if I stayed.  I lie on his knee purring and getting attention, it’s fantastic.  Until of course it’s over.  There’s always a deadline or a story or something, which he’ll suddenly remember.  I’ll get pushed off his knee and before I know it I’m outside in the cold again thinking – What?  How?  Why?

OK then, to the artist’s pad.  She’s very good to me, quiet, composed and undemanding.  I don’t have to be a cute, fluffy cat; I can be my grumpy self.  It’s great.  The flat is warm, the cat food of decent enough quality.  I could probably live here comfortably, only I always have to leave, her landlord doesn’t allow pets and I don’t want to see her in trouble ...

Back into the cold, the humans say that this perpetual winter has got to come to an end soon.  I hope so.  What day is it?  Friday?  The journalist goes to Harrods on Fridays ...  No, it’s Wednesday.   Don’t want to end up back in the cat shelter where the crazy moggies live.  Where to go?  Where to go?

Somehow I end up back at the old house where I lived with the man.  I loved it so much there.   I got kicked out, didn’t I?  My fault, I used to lie at the top of the stairs (it was the warmest place in the house), but the man, being a Health and Safety Executive, objected to this, especially on the day of the bad accident.  I can still see him lying in the stair well now ... Thankfully the cleaners found him and called an ambulance.   There was no more food or shelter from him; it was to the Cats Home and into a small cage. The in-mates were weird, scarred cats who’d been driven mental by bad experiences.  I escaped by playing dead and soon found my way back to the old neighbourhood.

There’s no-one in the garden and the cat flap looks tempting.  I slide through as quietly as I can.  He’s not here!  Bliss, bliss, bliss!  Nothing to eat, but it’s warm, there’s so much space and it’s familiar.  This used to be my territory before it got taken away.  It was a source of pride.  Now I’m a charming, shameless scrounger, living off human kindness ...  I creep up the stairs and lie where I used to, spreading my hairs on the carpet for him to find - a reminder of the hazard that used to live with him.

THE ATTACK

The target is trussed up, hooded and helpless, suspended upside down from ankles, swinging in the centre of the room.  I attack; beating the skinny naked body as hard as I can with my baseball bat, there’s no sound except the thwack of wood on flesh.  So, I scream “I hate you!  I hate you!” at the top of my voice to break the loneliness.  There’s no reaction, but bruises start to appear on the skin.  Not good enough.   Maybe next time, I’ll use the golf club and hear bones break, ribs, an arm ... It would be deserved, because my God I really can’t stand her ... 

After stubbing my cigarette out on the soft flesh of her wrist, I take the knife and run its sharpness over the paleness.  So pretty; the blood running from the wounds is a release.  I could draw stuff or write.  Yes, I like writing.  I’ll etch her misdemeanours over her back.  I dig really deep, the blade scraping bone.  Finally, to my relief, I hear her crying and the beautiful tears run down my face.