THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Five - Part Four

Wendy Anderson wasn’t old – if she lived another twenty five years she’d look back on this period of her life as still quite a long way off true age – but she felt like she was. She felt like life was pretty much over. She was all too aware that she doted on her dog too much but she also knew that he was the only one now who really loved her.

She was also aware how irritated her neighbours got with his barking and truth be told, she felt the same way; but knowing that didn’t get her any closer to stopping it happening. Boxy barked at anything and everything: people passing by, birds in the trees, mice in the undergrowth, maybe clouds in the sky for all Wendy knew. And he seemed to face each new day of barking with fresh verve. If doing it so much made his throat hurt he gave out no indication. He could have barked for England, as Wendy’s mother had said when Wendy was growing up. But that was a long time ago and Wendy was already past the age when the stroke had taken her mother so (in her opinion) was living on borrowed time.

Yes the barking irritated the neighbours, but it made Boxy happy and Wendy was the logical sort of woman. She knew where her priorities lay. Boxy was the most important thing in her life, now that her daughter had emigrated and didn’t reply to letters anymore. If Boxy was happy then that was really all that mattered. Her daughter could go hang as far as Wendy was concerned – she didn’t deserve an apology for comments that were meant in the spirit of good motherly advice.

Wendy and Boxy lived in a flat on Gervis Road, a quiet leafy street that ran parallel to the cliff top between Bournemouth and Boscombe. Local cars took that route for a pleasant scenic change or if they were aiming for one of the residences, but the bulk of the traffic took the far wider road a hundred yards further inland. Nevertheless, in terms of distance, this was the shorter route if a man on foot were walking from Bournemouth town centre toward Boscombe, Gladstone Road East and Beltane Boarding House. It was an agreeable location for a retired widow to go into a slow mental decline with only her loving dog to keep her company.

Mary’s routine was strict and in all ways focused on Boxy. If she went shopping then his food was the priority. If she went for a walk it was only to exercise him. She had no conception that the love she felt for him was a trap holding her back from renewing human contact, nor would she have cared if it were made known to her. Boxy was her world. But that didn’t stop him annoying her. Far from it.

“Boxy!” Wendy stood in the back doorway to the block of flats, holding it open as she peered into the dark of the bushes at the edge of the car park. “Boxy, it’s time to come in! Good dog, come on, there’s a good boy!” There was no visible sign but she could hear his barking. She could always hear his barking. She had been deaf in one ear since she was a girl so directional hearing wasn’t her strong suit but it was starting to come clear that Boxy wasn’t in the rear arc of the flats. He was round the front of the building: yapping and yapping. Wendy asked herself (as she did every night) if all this hassle was worth the licks of a mangy old dog but she knew she was kidding herself. “Boxy! Get in here you filthy great dollop of fur!”

He went on barking.

Wendy wondered if leaving him outside for an hour or two would cure him of it but she knew it wouldn’t. It’d give him fresh reason. She glanced back into the empty hallway as though she might really do it then muttered to herself as she went outside instead, letting the door close on her.

Boxy definitely wasn’t round the back of the block of flats, behind any of the parked cars or in the bushes. “Boxy!” He wasn’t doing one of his plate-sized diarrhoeas in the middle of the drive, as was his normal post-chocolate-cake pastime. “Boxy!”

The pitch of his barking changed, becoming more rapid; short yaps rather than long, the kind he used to give Wendy’s son-in-law before trying to bite him (she smiled to herself at the memory). Then the barks notched up, getting louder. Wendy frowned and quickened her pace. She turned the corner of the building and started down the dark path leading to the road: no Boxy in sight but the barking was louder again and more frantic.

Then it shut off.

There wasn’t a yelp as though one of her neighbours had finally done what they’d often threatened and kicked Boxy in the snout. There wasn’t any sound. Wendy listened, not walking anymore. “Boxy?” No sound; not even traffic or wind. “Boxy!” Wendy started running.

For a woman in her sixties she was actually tremendously fit because of all the walking she did. When she reached the front corner of the building she wasn’t in the least breathless. She paused, scanning the front lawn. There was nothing visible: no flurry of movement; no wagging tail or panting mouth. “Boxy!” She ran to where the pavement met the drive and looked right: nothing: no traffic; no pedestrians; no Boxy. She looked left.

Boxy was there, lying half on the pavement, half on the grass verge: not barking; not even moving. Wendy ran to him and crashed down onto her knees, already crying. “Boxy!” There was little streetlight on the road and the thick long shadow of an oak fell across the dog’s body, concealing what was wrong with him. But she knew. She knew he was dead.

She lifted him up under his soft furry shoulders, wanting to hold him to her chest and hug him; wanting to weep in sorrow and loss; but as she lifted him he came apart in her hands. Without meaning it, her fingers dug into Boxy’s fur and lacerated flesh, not coming to any kind of stop against the splintered bone inside the carcass, blood gushing down her wrists and soaking the sleeves of her dress.

Wendy stuttered in absolute terror then wailed in disbelieving absolute grief, throwing her head first back then forward, bending over the shattered body of her only family and friend on the world.

Fully two minutes had passed when her hate-filled eyes flicked accusingly up and darted first one way, then the other, looking for Boxy’s attacker, but it was too late. Whoever had done it was gone. The road was clear in both directions; both toward town and further down the road... toward Boscombe.