The Exquisite Art of Getting Even, page 11
“They take their time,” said Anna. “They always do.”
Mr Macgregor smiled. He pointed to the trench. “It’s a pity that their dog doesn’t fall into the hole,” he said. “That would give him a nasty fright. It would teach him a lesson.”
Rose laughed. “Nice thought,” she said.
“Your mother asked about electronic scarers,” said Mr Macgregor. “You could try one, I suppose. We found that they can keep cats away, but . . .”
“But dogs don’t seem to mind them so much,” said Anna. “At least, that’s been our experience.”
“I’ll look into it,” said Rose.
“You must come and see us,” said Anna. “I could ask some of the neighbours for drinks. There are some very nice people round here.”
“And some not so nice ones,” said Mr Macgregor, with a grin.
Rose glanced at the trench. They were standing near it now, and it was deep and dark – to all intents and purposes, like a grave. She looked at Mr Macgregor. He was so reassuring, with his precise diction and his courteous manner. She thought that she should not have gone to Colin’s dentist. She would go back to Mr Macgregor, she decided, because one should stick to a good dentist: loyalty meant something in those relationships. She glanced at the trench again. She remembered what he had said. She turned away.
She knew the McAdam pet shop; she had often driven past it on her way to Julie’s Designs. It was just on a busy road and had a large sign outside: All Things for All Our Furred and Feathered Friends: Proprietor, Henry McAdam. She had never had occasion to enter the shop, but she had found herself wondering about Henry McAdam. What sort of man would he be? She thought of him as a sort of contemporary Dr Dolittle, able to divine the needs of animals, tirelessly providing all the bits and pieces that ownership of even an undemanding and very ordinary pet seemed to require. Now, as she stood before its front display window, she could make out Henry McAdam behind the counter inside, engaged in conversation with a customer.
As she went inside, her opening of the door triggered an old-fashioned mechanical bell. Henry McAdam looked up from what he was doing and gave her a welcoming smile. “Just a moment,” he said.
He finished serving the other customer, who thanked him and went off with her parcel of goods. Henry McAdam rang something up on a till before approaching Rose. Her attention had been attracted by a display cage, in which a family of guinea pigs huddled together in a bed of curling paper shavings.
“Lovely little things, aren’t they?” Henry said.
“Yes,” said Rose. “Although I never quite know where they fit in. They’re not mice or rats, are they? Are they something to do with squirrels?”
“Caviidae,” said Henry. “Rodents, actually. That’s all one needs to bear in mind. These ones were not in very good shape when I got them. They had been kept in a cage with a floor of sawdust. Sawdust produces tiny splinters that irritate their skin, poor things. Well-meaning, but not a good idea. They’re much more comfortable now, with paper, as you can see.
Rose shook her head. “I wouldn’t have known.”
“Are you interested?”
Rose laughed. “No, I wasn’t thinking of guinea pigs.”
Henry looked expectant.
“Dog treats,” said Rose. “I was looking for something that a dog would find irresistible. A treat that no dog can refuse.”
Henry stroked his chin. “Big dog or small dog?”
“Big,” said Rose. “Massive. A Rottweiler-cross.”
Henry’s expression was one of distaste. “I imagine that he eats you out of house and home. Those large, thick-set dogs have an awful appetite.”
“He’s not mine,” said Rose quickly. “He belongs to a friend of mine.”
“Ah,” said Henry. “A present. Well, that’s very thoughtful of you. And I think I have just the ticket for you.”
He went behind the counter and extracted a packet from a shelf on the wall. “These are called Dogs’ Delights,” he said. “I don’t know what they put in them, but dogs go wild over them. It’s the canine equivalent of catnip, I suppose.”
“That sounds ideal,” said Rose.
“People keep saying that the manufacturers of some of these pet foods put nicotine into them. The idea is that they make the cat or dog into an addict.”
Rose looked disapproving. “Nicotine?”
“I think it’s one of those urban legends,” said Henry, passing her the large packet of Dogs’ Delights. “They list the contents, and I see no mention of anything untoward. If animals appear to be addicted, it’s probably just because they like the taste.”
“And dogs really go for these?” Rose asked.
“Yes,” said Henry. “They love them. They’re large, boned-shaped biscuits. They’re very meaty, which explains the price. They aren’t cheap. But as an occasional treat, they’re very good value.”
“They sound just what I want,” said Rose.
“Good.”
Henry put the treats into a paper bag. Rose gave him her credit card, and he completed the transaction.
“Would you like to go on our mailing list?” he asked.
She almost said yes, out of politeness, but stopped herself in time. She realised that she would rather that nobody knew about this transaction, and so she did not want to leave any further evidence of her having been there. Already, by proffering the credit card, she had left an electronic footprint.
“I don’t think there’s much point,” she said. “This is just a one-off present. Thank you anyway.”
She left the shop and returned to her car. She noticed that her heart seemed to be beating faster than usual. I have done nothing wrong, she said to herself. I have done nothing wrong yet, that is.
That evening, Colin was home later than usual, having been obliged, rather against his will, to attend an early evening drinks party organised by a client. He attended such corporate occasions faithfully, but he did not like them. “Small talk depresses me,” he said. “And these functions rarely rise above that. Golf, holidays – that sort of chatter gets me down. I feel I want to suddenly shout out something shocking and bring the whole thing down about my ears. But, of course, I never will – don’t worry.”
“I know you’d never do anything stupid,” Rose said. “You’re far too intelligent.”
“Far too feart,” said Colin, using the Scots word for “afraid”.
She thought, And me? Will I ever do anything stupid? People who did stupid things – really unwise things – were usually those who were bad at joined-up thinking. They did not link cause and effect. They did not think things through sufficiently to see what would happen. I am not like that, she thought. I will take a risk, where a risk needs to be taken, but I’ll be fully aware of what might happen. I’ll decide what to do on the basis of what the odds are of any particular result. If you did that, then your actions would be calculated, rather than chaotic, as some people’s behaviour was. It was simple common sense, really: don’t do anything you may regret. Why anybody should find it hard to follow that rule escaped her.
Because Colin was late home after his drinks party, they did not sit down to dinner until almost nine. Colin liked something simple when he had been out earlier in the evening, and so Rose served the twice-cooked goat cheese soufflé that she knew was one of his favourites. With this, they had a walnut salad and roasted red Romano peppers. Rose poured them each a glass of white wine, which Colin sampled and described as “pleasantly flinty”.
He looked at her. “I’m very fortunate,” he said.
She watched him across the table. Of course he was fortunate – just look at him.
But that was not what he meant. “You know, I sometimes think of what my life would have been like if we hadn’t met one another at Vicky’s party. I think about that, and you know something? It can make me break out in a cold sweat, because so much of our life is just chance, isn’t it? We may meet the right person at the right time, or we may just miss that person by a hair’s breadth – by this much.” He held up a thumb and forefinger, separated by the tiniest space. “Yes, by that much. It could happen – in fact, it probably happens all the time.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“And then we tell ourselves that we were somehow meant to meet the other person – the person we marry, for instance. We convince ourselves that it was all destined to be, that the planets were all lined up just so that we could meet one another, but it doesn’t work that way, of course. Our human affairs are nothing when looked at against the background of the planets shooting around in space. Nothing. We’re nothing. We like to think we’re everything, but, in reality, we’re nothing.”
Rose nodded. Colin was being unusually talkative, which must be the effect of the wine, she thought. He must have had something to drink at the business party earlier in the evening, and now there was the pleasantly flinty wine to further loosen his tongue.
“I said I was fortunate,” Colin continued. “What I meant was that I am lucky to have you.”
Rose blushed. She did not mind being complimented, but she was surprised by Colin’s unaccustomed loquacity. She replied, “I’m the fortunate one. I’m lucky to have you.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s me – I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t met you.”
She made light of this. “You would have found somebody else. I don’t think you would have struggled.”
“I’m not so sure,” he said. He yawned. “I’m really tired.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “A trying day at work, and then being on duty at the party. You must be shattered.”
“I’m going to go to bed,” he said. “I know it’s early . . .”
“I’ll stay up a bit,” said Rose. “There are one or two things I have to do.” One thing in particular, she thought.
They finished the goat cheese soufflé and, although Colin offered to clear up, Rose insisted he go to bed. She loaded the dishwasher and tidied the kitchen. She turned out the downstairs lights but did not go upstairs. Rather, she left the house by a side door and made her way to one of the garages. She had left it unlocked and went inside, closing the door behind her, before she turned on the light. The cardboard box was waiting for her, ready to be cut for its new purpose. It had contained the new fridge that had been delivered the previous week, and she had been intending to cut it into small enough pieces to allow it to be put in the recycling bin. Fortunately, she had not got round to that and was now able to cut the box into wide strips, four or five feet in length. She made six of these, and then, stacking them together, she switched off the garage light and made her way out into the garden.
The cardboard strips were exactly right for the purpose she had envisaged for them. Laid out side by side across the top of the trench in the garden, they completely concealed the void beneath them. A few handfuls of soil scattered across the top served as camouflage, so the fact that there was a deep trench below the cardboard was not readily apparent, especially at night.
She went back into the kitchen, making sure once more not to turn on any lights. She had left the dog treats on the table, and now she took these, opening the bag as she went back into the garden. She sniffed at the air; even the human nose could detect the strong meaty aroma that arose from the bone-shaped biscuits. Henry McAdam had been right: any dog would go wild over a smell like that. She smiled at the prospect that lay ahead. There was no real victory in outwitting a dog, but there was a distinct pleasure in teaching one a much-needed lesson. What she was doing was not cruel: it was simply an obedience lesson, a necessary intervention to bring an ill-behaved dog into line. That was in the dog’s interest, surely, every bit as much as it might be in the interests of suffering neighbours.
The moon had gone behind a cloud, but there was still enough light for Rose to make her way safely to the edge of the trench. Bending forward – but being careful not to put any weight on the layer of cardboard she had put in place – Rose tossed a handful of Dogs’ Delights into the middle of the trap. Then, just to be on the safe side, she added a few more, scattered closer to the edge this time. If Monty found these, he would then be tempted to go further to wolf down the others. And as he did that, the cardboard would give way under his weight and collapse into the depths of the trench, along with its canine burden. That would teach him. The trench was far too deep for him to be able to climb out of it, and he would spend an uncomfortable night down below, reflecting – if dogs could ever reflect – on the consequences of straying out of his own territory. He would learn a lesson, Rose hoped, but more than that, she would have the satisfaction of paying him back for what he had done. He had destroyed her garlic bed. She had been so excited by the thought of a garlic crop, and he had wrecked it. She hated him for it. She wanted to punish him – and his owner too – and she would do just that. She was not normally vindictive, but this was different; this was special.
She went back into the house, closing the door behind her after hesitating, just for a moment, on the doorstep. Should I really be doing this? she thought. Was it not perhaps even a bit cruel to lure a dog, even an ill-tempered dog like Monty, into a trap? It was not as if she was planning to hurt him – a dog of that size would hardly be damaged by tumbling into an earth pit – but, even so, it might be just a little bit harsh. But then she thought of how else she might make her point to both Monty and Tiger, and she decided that there was no other obvious way. There was no point in trying to talk to Tiger; she must have been only too aware of her neighbour’s annoyance. No, she would proceed with her plan – it was just too delicious to abandon. It was very sweet revenge, indeed. It was compensation for the garlic that was never to be. It was about garlic, and yearning, and disappointment, and justice. It was about so many different things.
Colin was asleep when she went into their bedroom. She looked at his head on the pillow and wondered what he dreamed about. He said that he did not remember his dreams, and that he doubted whether he dreamed at all. She told him that everybody dreamed and, if he did not remember what he dreamed about, it was simply because he had never trained himself to commit the dreams to memory. He listened but was unconvinced. “I still think I don’t dream,” he insisted.
She undressed and slipped into her nightie. She had a magazine on her bedside table and paged through it, but she found that she could not concentrate. She was thinking of Tiger. What was it like to be Tiger, she wondered. What was it like to have hair like that, piled up on top of your head? Was it uncomfortable? Did the beehive move in high winds? Would rain flatten it?
And what was it like to live with somebody like Ray, with his muscles and tattooed arms? What could you talk about with a man like that? If, in fact, he was a man like that – for Rose suddenly realised that she had never actually met him, and she was judging him purely on a fleeting glimpse of him getting out of their car and then driving off to Aberdeen. Yet a mere glimpse could tell a whole story, and she felt that there would be no surprises in store if she ever were to get to know him better. That is not to say I don’t have an open mind, she thought. I am not my mother . . . yet.
She drifted off to sleep, thinking of Tiger and Ray and Mr Macgregor’s wife with her poodles, and of the garlic strewn all over the wrecked bed in the vegetable garden. Just after two, she was woken by a noise from outside. She had been in a light sleep, and she was instantly awake. It was not a bark; it was more of a yelp. And then there came another sound – a thud of some sort.
She smiled in the darkness. That was Monty falling for the bait. That was the wretched dog being taught a long overdue lesson. She strained to hear what she thought would follow – the desperate barking that might waken Tiger and bring her out to investigate her dog’s misfortune. But there was nothing, and Rose wondered whether she had imagined it. She considered getting up to see if anything had happened, but she decided not to go outside. She would not like to meet Tiger – or Monty, for that matter – in the dark.
She managed to get back to sleep and did not wake up again until Colin brought her a cup of tea at seven the following morning. He was going off to work early, he said, and would skip breakfast. “Take care,” he said.
“Of course,” she said. And then she asked, “Have you heard any barking from our canine friend?”
He shook his head. Every morning when Monty was let out of the house at about six thirty, he would spend several minutes barking. That had not happened.
“He must be sleeping in.” Colin said. “I suppose dogs do that from time to time.”
Rose did not reply, but she was wide awake now. She blew Colin a kiss as he left the room and then drank her cup of tea, rather too quickly, slightly scalding her mouth. She heard him leave the house as she got out of bed and began to dress. The day outside, she noticed, was a fine one: the air still and the sky clear of cloud. She would have a leisurely breakfast and then go to Julie’s Designs, although her presence there was not really necessary at the moment, such was the competence and enthusiasm of her assistant. If she wanted to spend a few hours in the garden before going into town, that would be perfectly all right. A few hours in the garden . . . She had put the matter out of her mind, deliberately, but now it came back to her. Monty.
She went out into the garden. Walking round the side of the house, she was able to see the trench and the piles of earth beside it. She stopped, straining her ears for some sound. None came. She took a few steps, nonchalantly, as if undecided what to do. She need not have bothered – from that part of the garden she could not be observed from the neighbours on either side. She approached the trench and saw that the cardboard covering had either been removed or fallen into the trap. Her heart gave a leap.
She decided to call Monty’s name, and she did so now, softly at first, and then slightly louder. She stopped to listen. There was no response. She knew what she had to do, of course: she would have to approach the trench and peer down into it to see if the dog was still there. She took a step forward and stopped again. She was unable to face it. Monty must be there, but he must be dead. She had killed him. He had fallen into the trap and broken his neck. That explained the silence.
