The Dead Weight, Page 3

The honeymoon period lasted an hour.

  It was her fault.

  Jayne kept wandering around like a lost puppy. She went from room to room, sniffing around. Each time she passed her mother's side of the bed, she stopped to howl. She had never howled before, as far as he knew. After several long, drawn out howls, she'd sniff under the duvet. Then she'd curl up on her mother's side of the bed and howl over and over again.

  He tried dog treats, dog food, and human food, but she only sniffed the bowl and walked away.

  After searching the house, she would return to her new favourite spot: the doormat. With an ear to the door and another to the floor, she would lie in silence. No whimpers or whining or sniffing. If he got too close, she nipped at his shoes. Any closer and she showed her pearly whites. He only tried to touch her once.

  He almost lost a finger.

  Then she refused to go out to pee. Instead of making the short trip to the garden, she stopped right in the middle of the living room and let loose. He had never seen such a large puddle of urine. The stench drove him into the kitchen. The bowls of unwanted food scattered across the floor drove him to the bedroom. Then she'd return, her howling bashing his ears.

  The bathroom was his only escape.

  Jayne scratched at the door, so he let her in. She sniffed behind the toilet and under the sink before jumping into the bath. Her nose led her to his girlfriend's strawberry coloured and scented bubble bath. He was teary-eyed when he thought of the make up sessions in that tub. Before his mind conjured an image of the women in Bonnie's bath, he slapped himself back to reality.

  Jayne howled at the bubble bath, so he ran a hot bath. The duo hopped inside and closed their eyes, the bubbles floating around them. He pulled Jayne closer and let her lick his cheek.

  "Just you and me now," he said softly. "We'll be long gone by the time she realises you're gone." He snuggled against her wet head. "Don't worry, Jayne. We don't need--"

  He said her name.

  The dog's ears pricked. Her black eyes widened, showing the whites. She smiled when she turned to the door. Panting heavily, her heart pounded so fast he could feel it against his chest.

  He knew what was coming next. Too late.

  Jayne's legs kicked out as she tried to climb out the bath. Her tough claws scratched his skin, tearing off his chest hairs. Then there was blood.

  "Stop!" he yelled. "Jayne, stop it, please!"

  She managed to place her paws on the tub, but they kept slipping off. Losing her grip, she fell over, her head knocking the tub. Blood trickled from her mouth, but she kept trying to escape. Each time she made progress, and soon she was halfway there.

  If only gravity had pulled her to the other side.

  Neil pulled her to his chest and hugged her. She struggled as she slid away, whining when he tightened his arms around her waist. She dug her claws into his stomach and pushed, wriggling further away. Now his arms were around her neck.

  "Why do they always leave?" He hugged her tighter, his tinnitus blocking out a cracking sound. "Why? What's wrong with me?"

  He let go.

  Ding dong.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall. No one would be ringing so early for no reason.

  It had to be her.

  She'd realised her baby was missing. All over the house she'd checked, but Jayne never came. No wonder. The dog's body was floating in the bath. Jayne couldn't have gone home alone. Neil would get the blame. She drowned when I washed her, he might say. Who wastes bubble bath on a dog? she would ask. And, she would continue, why did you leave her floating in the bath? Didn't you resuscitate her?

  He couldn't remember. He couldn't even remember putting on his dressing gown before he came downstairs.

  There was a flash of light outside. A torch? He ducked and crawled into the living room. Using the sofa as cover, he peeked outside. Two dark figures ran across the lawn and hid behind his car. A moment later, the larger figure rushed to Neil's front door and banged on it.

  Neil sank into the sofa, letting the cushions swallow him. The harder the person banged, the deeper Neil sank. When the cushions smothered his face, he let them. Suffocation was better than meeting who was on the other side of the door.

  It wasn't her. It was the police.

  Bonnie had told them everything. He had no good reason why he'd been in Bonnie's house, at night, without permission, armed with a butcher knife, and kidnapped a dog, who had died in his care two hours later. There was the truth, of course, but nothing that could keep him out of jail.

  Someone gently knocked on the window. "Mister Dobson, please open up!" She pressed her face against the glass and smiled at him. It wasn't the cops. He'd never been so happy to see his nosy neighbour's wrinkly face.

  Neil wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve and smoothed his scruffy hair. He practised smiling in the hallway before opening the door.

  Mrs. Franklin raised the curling tongs in her hand. Her eyes shifted from the hallway to the landing upstairs. Neil closed the door behind him, giving the Franklins his biggest smile. Too big. They backed away slightly, worried looks on their faces. He let the smile go, but ended up frowning instead.

  "The missus 'eard ya shoutin'!" Mr. Franklin shouted. He fiddled with his earpiece before speaking again, his voice lower. "Havin' trouble? That dog again?"

  "Yes. Jayne wet the bed...our bed."

  "Dogs on a bed?" Mr. Franklin tutted. "Not in my day. Nasty habit, that is. A white people thing, I suppose."

  "Eddy!" Mrs. Franklin slapped him hard on the back of the head. "Don't say that outside the house." Lighter-skinned than her husband, Neil could see her cheeks turn red. "Just concerned. She's like a daughter to me...Where is--"

  "Changing the bedsheets."

  "Can I pop in?" Neil sidestepped, blocking Mrs. Franklin's way. "Excuse me!"

  "It's one a.m.," Neil said. "See you tomorrow."

  Ignoring their chatter, he strolled inside and closed the door. He bolted the door and pressed his ear against it.

  "Should we call the police?" she asked. "I bet he hurt her." In a hushed whisper, she said, "He's done it before, I think."

  "Nah! Let's get back to bed. I'm freezing out here!"

  "But Eddy!"

  "Fine! You wait out here for the police. Hopefully they'll show. Don't be surprised if that useless lot don't."

  Neil watched from the living room window. The Franklins hurried next door. Mrs. Franklin kept tugging on her husband's pyjama sleeve, but he kept shaking her off.

  When they finally reached their front door, Mrs. Franklin looked over at Neil's. Slowly she walked back, stopping to look for her husband. Then she reached Neil's driveway, her gaze over his car.

  Neil walked into the kitchen and plucked the largest blade from the knife block. He thrust it into the sharpener and sawed and sawed and sawed until his arm ached. To test the edge, he pricked his finger, flinching from the pain. The blood droplet fell on the counter. He watched it dry.

  Ding dong.

  He knew this wouldn't be easy. He knew this wouldn't be quick. He knew he'd have to kill racist Eddy eventually or there would be a missing person's report. The Franklins had no kids, but no one would overlook that Sunday when Mrs. Franklin missed bingo. Where else would the old bags get their weekly gossip fix? Even now he could hear her chattering away outside. Who on earth was in a gossipy mood so early in the day? A dog walker? A runner? He shrugged it off.

  Ding dong. Ding dong.

  Typical, he thought. Acting like she owns the place.

  Casually he walked back to the front door. He couldn't remember picking up the butcher knife. He thanked his left hand for using its initiative. It'd even taken time to sharpen the blade. There was no time for a test run. All he could do was hope it would work before Mr. Franklin saw or heard a thing. The old man wouldn't think twice about shouting so loud the whole street came out.

  Ding dong. Ding dong. Ding dong.

  His hand turned the knob and he pulled open the door. Adrenali
ne made him shake, the knives almost slipping from his hands. To buy time to compose himself, he rushed into the living room. Sitting by the door, both knives by his side, he waited for her to enter.