CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen

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       Chapter Six

      Back home after your trip to town and your mate Mikey holds up the Sun, grins an inane smirk and points to the headline.

       ‘Scream Teas.’

       You like it. Trust the nation’s favourite rag to come up with something special for you. This isn’t what it’s about – the fame and glory – but you’re flattered nonetheless. However, you know you mustn’t believe your own press. You’re not some preening celebrity or a politician bending to every whim.

       Mikey points to the date on the paper’s masthead and shrugs, making a mock, clown-like sad face. The poor mutt can’t say much, doesn’t really understand the Gregorian calendar, but he knows the Special Day is coming soon. He puts the paper down and slips one hand inside his trousers and you see him begin to move his hand rhythmically.

       ‘Outside!’ you say, pointing to the door and Mikey scampers from the room, his demeanour somewhere between a monkey and a stallion.

       You shake your head. The boy is crazy, but he helps you run the place, provides the muscle power. His strength is frightening at times, but he’s as good a guard dog as your Rottweiler, his blank staring eyes and gaping mouth usually enough to put off casual visitors even before they’ve opened the gate to the yard.

       Yesterday it was a rep selling solar panels. Some rip-off scheme no doubt. From the kitchen window you watched the man get out of his Audi and move to the gate. Mikey was chopping logs in the shed, but he must have heard the car because out he came, scampering across the yard with the dog alongside, a big smile on his face.

       The bunch of colourful brochures under the rep’s arm slipped down and, caught by the breeze, they whisked themselves through the bars of the gate and landed in a large puddle. The man opened his mouth to say something as Mikey uttered one of his guttural wails and then thought better of it. He moved back to the car, jumped in and reversed along the track even as Mikey was picking up the soggy brochures and raising a thumb in appreciation of the glossy pictures.

       Now, you shake your head as you watch Mikey cross the yard. The dog scampers out of its kennel and barks, wanting to play, but right now Mikey’s not interested. He shouts at the dog and enters his little shiplap shed. He keeps his puzzle magazines and God-knows-what-else in there. The rep’s brochures are probably in there too, although you doubt Mikey is going to look at them now.

       Ten minutes later and he’s in the yard again. On his pogo stick. Boing, boing, boing. That great grin of his, the lopsided face, tongue hanging out, his mind concentrating on staying upright. But upright doesn’t last for long. He falls and smacks his head on the ground, the mark of the graze visible. The pogo stick gets flung to one side and Mikey scrabbles in a clump of dock. ‘That’s for nettles, you idiot,’ you feel like shouting out the window, but maybe you’re wrong and anyway, it will save on the cost of a plaster.

       Mikey wipes a piece of dock leaf on his forehead and then looks over to the window. You tap the glass and point at the pile of white silica gravel sparkling at one side of the yard. ‘Get on with your job,’ you mouth. Mikey shrugs and goes back to moving the stones from one side of the yard to the other. He takes up his shovel and begins to load the wheelbarrow. You are not really sure why you asked him to move the stuff, but it gives him something to do.

       Best not wear out your workhorse though, as you’re going to need his help and you don’t want him tired. Not with what’s coming.