Tonight I have to watch you do it yet again. The passion which you two share angers me. Where’s our passion? You’re such a whore sometimes.

I love you, dearly.

I resort to sneaking around in the darkness of your garden to catch a glimpse of you, naked, taking him in. I feel like an animal. What have you done to me? Where does this end? How does this end? Why did we end up like this?

Explain yourself!

Why did you bear his children? I don’t like following them around in the street, wondering how easily I could hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. And why do you share meals with these people? Why do you bathe them?

I hate them. I might hate you, too. But only time will tell.

Would you even remember me, if we bumped into each other on the street? Of course, you would, you’re the one who sent me away. And we aren’t allowed to “bump” into one another on the street anymore, are we?

You did this to us!

But I’m back, baby, won’t you take me back? This time it’s going to be easier, smoother. I don’t ever want to cause you any pain, physical or otherwise.

Tomorrow you’ll see me and it’ll be like nothing ever happened, I promise. I have a plan. I will forgive you, of course, I will. You’ll never see him again, however. He’ll never see you again either. Don’t worry, I am going to take care of it.

You’ll be mine, and mine only, forever!

Honey, I’m coming home!

At 12.50 p.m., Steeve pulled up outside an old red wooden bungalow situated on the corner of Richmond and Selley Roads in a quiet neighbourhood. It had a white front door, faded dark green roof tiles, and the red exterior paint job was agonisingly parched and desperate for a lick. There was a faint smell of freshly cut grass in the air, although, looking around, he could not see a patch of green grass anywhere on that street. The old property was surrounded by steel fencing that had leaned in towards the house, which made him wonder how it kept an angry Doberman at bay. He edged closer to the gate with his wits about him, paranoid – good start to his new career as an Animal Behaviourist! There was no sign of Bruno yet; the only sign of a dog was an actual sign of a dog, which read: “BEWARE of the dog”.

“Hello?” a grainy voice said from the front porch. Steeve was so involved in his reconnaissance journey to the gate that he hadn’t noticed Patrick already waiting for him at the front door.

Steeve froze. “Oh …” He was still hunched over with his knees bent. “Hello, my name is Steeve, I’m an Animal Behaviourist and I was called to this property about an aggressive dog. Are you Patrick by any chance?”

“Yes, that’s me. What are you doing?”

Steeve was trying to play off his awkward stance by scratching his left hamstring and feeling around his back trouser pockets, pretending to be looking for something vitally important.

“Ah ha!” he announced, holding up a piece of paper. “How lucky was that?” he thought to himself for actually finding something in his pocket. This, however, didn’t have the effect that he thought it would. If the situation was awkward before, then it just got a whole lot worse.

Patrick was visibly wary of this strange little man approaching his house. “OK then, please do come in.”

Once inside, the men exchanged pleasantries and the situation with Bruno was explained again, this time in greater detail.

“I simply do not understand what’s gone on with him,” said Patrick, “he used to be so well behaved.”

Steeve wasn’t listening, his eyes had snatched his attention from the conversation and drifted around the mess of a house that surrounded him. He couldn’t believe somebody lived in that dump. After a few minutes, he realised that Patrick wasn’t talking anymore and quickly said, “OK, so where’s the little fella, then?” Another awkward moment passed, slowly. In all honesty, he didn’t care for the lengthy stories about what may be causing the mutt’s discomfort. He figured the only way to find out was to have a little chat with Bruno himself.

“He’s through here,” said Patrick, leading the way to the next room.

And there he was, lying on an old woolly blanket.

Steeve’s immediate thought was that Bruno might have simply been cheesed off about the appalling state of his bedroom/living quarters – sometimes you don’t need to be a genius or have super-human abilities to figure things out. Prepare for Steeve’s complimentary life lesson: Be attentive to your surroundings, some answers may just be under your nose! Back to the story, though.

The blanket was caked with dust and animal hair – not wool as previously assumed. There was a dense atmosphere in the room; the kind of atmosphere experienced by all five senses. The window on the far side of the room begged to be opened. Steeve held back a cough, or was it a gag? He wasn’t sure, but he had an awful taste in the back of his throat and didn’t wish to reveal either reflex.

“Hey, Bruno, up and about, boy. This man has come to help with your anger issues.” Patrick chuckled a little at the last bit of his sentence, then added, “I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted,” and left the room.

“There aren’t any anger issues to help with, you old fart!” said a very frustrated voice.

Steeve was still watching Patrick’s exit but the outburst turned his attention to the dog. “Bruno, I presume?”

On Steeve’s way to Mr Stolkr, Maggie flanked him, her face buried in her mobile; fingers frantically typing a text that must have been a dire message to the White House or Buckingham Palace about national security or something. It needed to be sent, stat! She joined his path with perfect precision without crashing into him, almost as if there were two parallel train tracks running towards Henry. She did all of this without looking up from her phone.

“Steeve,” was all she said, just enough to get his attention. Her body language told him that she was going to engage in further conversation just as soon as her eyes and hands were free.

“Oh, hello Maggie,” said Steeve, not daring to say more. He feared this woman and didn’t want to distract her with his monkey business. He was dealing with a serious business-type person. Powerful. Precise. Punctual. He, on the other hand, was simply a fraud with an amazing newfound gift, masquerading his way through life, which was hardly something to be proud of. The real world was still an intimidating place for him.

“Have you had a chance to work your magic?” she asked, glancing up just long enough to reveal a smile, the forced variety.

“Yes, I have. And I believe I have a solution to your pet peeve.”

Another smile. This one less forced. “Excellent,” she said.

The arrival at Henry also brought to an end Maggie’s mobile term paper.

“Henry,” said Maggie, “Steeve tells me he has found a solution to our problem. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“This should be rich,” thought Henry. “Oh great, can’t wait to hear it,” he said.

Steeve turned away from the pair of them and took a few slow steps in the opposite direction. His arms were crossed but his right hand was raised up at his face, stroking an imaginary beard. Maggie and Henry stood waiting for his assessment of the situation, and after a couple of seconds to properly conduct and prepare himself, Steeve opened the flood gates. He turned ninety-degrees, smacking his heels together as though he were in a marching drill, and simultaneously fired a finger in their direction and tilted his head back, slightly, his eyes bulging down the barrel of his nose. He wanted it to be dramatic.

“Guilty!” he yelled. “This man has violated the code of conduct for the proper care of captive marine wildlife in a gross … a gross manner!”

A gasp was heard coming from the jury – the kids from the field trip had entered the enclosure and were now standing nearby to witness proceedings. In Steeve’s head, these were his jurors. He continued with the marching drill but it was he who was doing the barking, not the instructor. Well, one could argue that was because there wasn’t one.

“My client,” he pressed on, “has expressed grave concerns over current working conditions. Serious concerns. Health and safety concerns!”

At this point, Henry and Margaret were too shocked to move, let alone say anything. They simply let Steeve continue without objection.

“Now … I cannot stress enough the gravity of any H&S concerns … concerns of supplying the correct facilities to accommodate my dear friend and client, Mr Barnaby, and maintaining said facilities to an immaculate standard.”

“Objection, Your Honour!” The defence had heard enough. OK, so it wasn’t actually “objection” – that’s what Steeve heard – in reality, it was, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” and it was coming from the defendant himself, Mr Stolkr. Henry took a step forward. Steeve took a seat while his counterpart graced the floor to clarify his objection claim. He found a step, sat down, and waited, patiently seeking rebuttal opportunities.

“Now, Steeve, I’m not entirely sure what the hell you’re doing here but these facilities are of the best standard out there and, as for maintaining them, I do a damn fine job! If I didn’t, I’m sure Margaret would have fired me a long time ago.” He looked at Margaret for any sign that she agreed with him. It was somewhat pitiful, like a dog seeking praise for bringing back the stick. She didn’t say anything. She remained bemused at what she was witnessing.

Steeve decided to cut through the awkward silence. “Mr Stolkr, if I may?” he said while getting back to his feet.

Henry gestured in front of him, “the floor is yours,” and took a step back again.

Steeve continued. “As you may or may not know, pool water requires certain chemicals to stay clean and clear, crisp and sparkly. Is this not a fact, Mr Stolkr?”

“It is.”

“Super. And is it not also true that foreign chemicals and/or acids could be detrimental to a pool’s health?”

“Well, that depends on the chemicals.”

“OK, well let’s say that these chemicals or acids would never be used to keep a pool healthy, would you say then that introducing them to a clean pool would damage the integrity of the purified water in said pool?”

“Again, it would depend on the chemical, Steeve. Pools are exposed to many chemicals without actually becoming contaminated.”

“Very well. Mr Stolkr, would you agree that the following would need to read perfect scores if a pool were to be considered clean: Total Chlorine; PH level; Calcium Hardness; Free Chlorine; Total Alkalinity?”

“I would say yes, that’s correct.”

“I see. Mr Stolkr, would you expect my client to work in water which has been exposed to a vile substance?”

“Of course not! What are you getting at here, Steeve?”

“Stop pissing in the pool!”

The prosecution rested its case.

After another gasp from the “jury”, there was absolute silence. Not a word from any of them, Steeve included. It was a time of reflection for them all. Steeve was kicking himself for losing his cool; he figured he could have drawn that out a little more. “There’s always a next time,” he thought to himself, and made a mental note to practise in front of the mirror.

Henry was absolutely devastated. He had been embarrassed for the second time that day and wasn’t about to open his mouth again, not even to try and defend himself.

Chapter 62

Hmm, let’s see here, what else has been going on? Oh yeah, there’s this:

A small white van pulled up outside farmer John’s house and out stepped a man round enough to roll around comfortably. How he managed to fit into the tiny van is beyond me. The little white van was still rocking from side to side when the man slammed the door. Mr Chubby, better known as Timothy Goodfellow, was a balding man who wore thick spectacles far too low down on his nose for them to be aiding his eyesight; unless, only seeing where his feet were headed was his only concern – which was fair enough considering he couldn’t actually see them. He wore a white button-up shirt to conceal the workings of sweat, and gracing each of his shoulders was a suspender strap; the poor things stretched as far as they could, holding up his golfer’s trousers. His shoes were, well, I don’t actually know. His pink – or salmon, if you will – socks were visible, however.

His thick cologne had a similar job to that of his shirt.

He finished off the half a pasty he was throttling in his left hand in one giant bite and stuffed the wrapping down his trouser pocket.

“Timothy! Good to see you, old chum!” said John from his front door.

“John, hello there, how are you?” The words fought their way through steak bits and puff-pastry shrapnel.

“Very well, thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“No problem, what you got for me?”

The two shook hands and John gestured for his guest to go inside, then hung back for a few seconds. And when Timothy was properly inside, John looked around suspiciously as if he were paranoid of being watched.

“Tim, would you like anything to drink?” asked John once he had caught up.

“Do you have any Red Bull?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sorry.”

“Then, nothing. So what do you have for me, John? I have to get back to my other pasty … Uh, I mean other work, you know? Busy, busy.”

“Well, I’ve got a real good-looking one for you this time. Almost primed and ready. Come, I’ll show you.”

“Ooh! Very exciting,” gushed Timothy as he followed Farmer John out the back door and down the back garden all the way to the serene stream where a crumbling shed awaited them.

“We have her hidden down here,” John mentioned as the two walked side by side, “but we don’t have much time. There’s a lunatic running around chasing its disappearance.”

“I don’t even want to know, John, you know our deal.”

“Yes, yes, plausible deniability.”

“Good.”

When they arrived at the shed, John stepped forward and knocked three times; then another three times in quick succession; then once; then once again but a little louder; and finally, ten times really, really quickly.

“Why?” asked Timothy, puzzled. “Just, why?”

“It’s our secret code,” offered John.

Timothy looked around at the vast nothingness surrounding the shed. The only noise and, in fact, the only thing moving, was the stream trickling peacefully by, minding its own business, a few feet away. “It seems a little cumbersome, don’t you think?” he finally suggested.

“Best be safe and not sorry, you know?”

“How about saying, ‘Peter, it’s me, your father, not an imposter, let me in.’”

John thought about this for a few seconds but was distracted by the shed’s door swinging open, so they walked inside.

“She’s looking good, dad,” announced Pee’ah as the room suddenly shrunk.

“Thank you, son. Well, Tim, have a look, what do you think? She’s a fine specimen, don’t you reckon?”

The chubby man leant over the baby calf and gave it a once-over with his eyes. He then asked Pee’ah to help him out by shifting the animal around so that he could see it from various angles. When he was satisfied, he said, “Yes, quite a marvellous creature, this one. It’s been well looked after. Good job, boy.”

The two men left Pee’ah and the calf in the shed and spoke business just outside. After five minutes, Timothy announced that he had to get to “that thing” he needed to get to, so they shook hands and promised to meet again in a few days. John was glowing as he thanked his old pal again for coming. He walked him to his van and watched, in juvenile amusement, as the circle shape squeezed through the square shape.

“Hey, dad?” asked Pee’ah once the man had left.

“Yes, son?”

“What’s veal anyway?”

Musical sting: Dum, dum, duuuuuuum!

Steeve was asked to call his next witness, which was William, but he suddenly had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was extremely nervous at that point. His attempts at painting a negative picture for the jury through character witnesses had backfired in spectacular fashion, and he was sure the Bakers, his own clients, hated him for the humiliation he had put them through. His confidence rallied just enough for him to beg for an early adjournment so that he could get his next witness properly in order. He didn’t say this, of course. What he said was he needed some time to get his “notes in order following certain revelations” – he needed to stay professional, or at least seem so.

John was asked if the adjournment would satisfy him. He shrugged as if he couldn’t care less, and said, “If it pleases the court, Your Honour.”

Mrs Abbott checked her notes and decided that they could afford the missed time, but glared at Steeve. “Make the time count, counsellor.”

Court was adjourned.

The crowd dissipated quietly and Steeve snuck out unnoticed. He told the Bakers outside that he’d be round soon to chat with William once more but he just needed some time alone to gather his thoughts. The Bakers, being awesome, told him not to worry about a thing and that they’d see him later on.

On the drive home, Steeve reflected on his failed attempts in the courtroom thus far. He was starting to wonder why he ever tried to start with character witnesses and not just jump into the hard evidence. Then he remembered that his “hard evidence” wouldn’t be understood by anyone but him, what with the language barrier, and that maybe he was just stalling because he was scared of what everyone would think; what everybody’s reactions would be. He banged on his steering wheel in frustration, cursing John and that little punk son of his with each thrashing. He had to commend John, however – which annoyed him immensely – on a fine job at playing defender. Steeve had seen it many times on television: The burden always lay upon the prosecution to prove guilt. It was sometimes a heavy burden, sometimes not. The defence only had to pick apart the prosecution’s case – dig enough holes in it – to get it thrown out or at least get a favourable conclusion. This would, in turn, mean having potentially dangerous people walking the streets once again, which made the prosecution’s job just that little bit more stressful. Hell, the defence didn’t even have to prove innocence. They only needed enough holes in the story to place doubt in a single juror’s eyes, causing him or her to say, “Hmm, you know, I’m not so sure he actually did it.” And just like that, a hung jury is formed.

Of course, this case wasn’t as dire as, say, a murder trial, where Steeve was fighting to keep a maniac off the streets, but that didn’t matter to him. There was a wrong that needed to be righted – Is that a word? And he was determined to make believers out of the jury. Make them believe beyond a reasonable doubt. But in order to do that, he needed concrete evidence. Concrete testimony. He knew where to find it, and knew what he needed to do; if only he could get over his stage fright. He pulled over and fished out his cell phone.

Maggie answered immediately. “Oh, hi! How is it going?”

“Hey, Mags, not good. I asked for an early adjournment. John tore through Ronnie again this morning and I begged for extra time to get over the feeling in the pit of my stomach.”

“Oh, dear …”

“Of course I didn’t tell them that. I told them I need to get some things in order. An animal’s testimony, to be more specific. An animal’s, Mags. An animal’s.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m a little nervous, to be honest.”

“Totally understandable. What you’re about to do will be puzzling to most, if not all.”

Steeve sighed. “I know what it’s going to look like. I can see myself there, being laughed at. It’s ridiculous. I’ve never had such a large audience.”

“How many people are there already? How do they fit?”

“There are a lot, maybe 3,000 …”

“Ha-ha!”

“And they hardly fit.”

“This is your stage, Steeve. Show off a little. You’ll be the envy in everyone’s eyes when they realise your talents.”

“Thanks. How’s work? Can’t believe they called you in on your time off.”

“Yeah, this place falls apart without me. Everything is fine now. There was a disturbance in the chimps’ enclosure. A lot of faeces hurled around.”

Steeve giggled. “Yeah, it’s what they do, apparently. There will be one particular culprit. Can’t remember his name. The others complained about him and his turd tossing to me when I was there to see Barnaby and Frederick.”

“Extraordinary.”

“OK, well, I’m going to see Seymour now. He wanted to stay home this morning so I’m going to surprise him by returning home early.”

“Sounds wonderful. Will I see you later for some tea?”

“Definitely. See you later.”

When Steeve pulled up he noticed Seymour hopping up in place, trying to catch something above his head. Upon closer inspection, he still couldn’t quite figure out what his dog was doing. “You OK, boy?”

“Oh, hey! You’re home! What’s the time? Have I been out here all day?”

“No, it is early. Case was adjourned while I get my life together.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Yes, let’s go inside. You want a biscuit?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“I don’t know, I heard that somewhere. I think it’s supposed to mean like, duh! You know? As if your question was rhetorical, I guess. I don’t know. Crazy squirrels.”

“Be careful who you talk to out here.”

The two of them went inside and Steeve put on the kettle. He gave Seymour two of the special biscuits Ronnie had suggested. “Try chewing them next time, boy!”

“I did, I think. Can I have another?”

“Sure, but only one more. I don’t want you losing your appetite for your food.”

Seymour looked over at his bowl. “Oh, that stuff, never. That stuff is better than these biscuits.”

“Well, I’ve never seen you eat your food as enthusiastically as you scoff these down.”

“Well, that’s got nothing to do with the flavour. The biscuits are new, which is exciting. And, and, they’re shaped like bones! I know it isn’t really a bone, but I just get too excited and forget … to care.”

“Wow, I am learning so much from you. You know, we humans really don’t know a lot about your species.”

Seymour stopped panting and his tail stopped, dead. “What do you mean your species?”

“Wait, what? I didn’t …”

“Ha-ha! Just yanking you, is all.”

“Funny.”

“So, what’s on your mind, champ?” said Seymour as the two got comfortable in their favourite spot. It was chilly out so Steeve lit the fireplace.

“It’s my next witness,” said Steeve, sipping his tea and sinking into his recliner. “The goat. An animal, Seymour, an animal!”

“What are you worrying about? Making believers out of everyone?”

“Something like that,” mused Steeve. “More along the lines of making a believer out of Mrs Abbott and the jury. Oh, and not being ridiculed by the masses.”

“I see … If only there were a way …” Seymour paused for a few seconds as if deep in thought.

“What? What is it?”

Seymour dived down to lick his crotch. Upon resurfacing, he said, “Sorry. Didn’t know if it was itchy or not. You know? It’s like having that sensation right before a sneeze comes along. Is it? Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not … And, BAM! A sneeze … Same as my crotch.”

“That … is a lovely story, old pal.”

The pair of them chatted away into the night and Steeve decided that he needed Seymour with him in court as moral support. He called up Mrs Abbott and explained that it was vital to his case. She already wasn’t impressed with a farm animal being in her living room, but figured a dog would be less filthy and so agreed to fuel the circus.

“Are you ready for this, Mr Heath?” she asked.

Steeve knew what she meant. “I am, yes.”

“Good. See you in the morning.”

Mrs Abbott hung up and dialled a new number. “Good evening,” she said into the receiver, “I have a sensational story for you. Can you be here in the morning?”

She went on to give her address, which, due to contractual stipulations, I cannot give out to you lot. Sorry.

Hmm, let’s see here, what else has been going on? Oh yeah, there’s this:

A small white van pulled up outside farmer John’s house and out stepped a man round enough to roll around comfortably. How he managed to fit into the tiny van is beyond me. The little white van was still rocking from side to side when the man slammed the door. Mr Chubby, better known as Timothy Goodfellow, was a balding man who wore thick spectacles far too low down on his nose for them to be aiding his eyesight; unless, only seeing where his feet were headed was his only concern – which was fair enough considering he couldn’t actually see them. He wore a white button-up shirt to conceal the workings of sweat, and gracing each of his shoulders was a suspender strap; the poor things stretched as far as they could, holding up his golfer’s trousers. His shoes were, well, I don’t actually know. His pink – or salmon, if you will – socks were visible, however.

His thick cologne had a similar job to that of his shirt.

He finished off the half a pasty he was throttling in his left hand in one giant bite and stuffed the wrapping down his trouser pocket.

“Timothy! Good to see you, old chum!” said John from his front door.

“John, hello there, how are you?” The words fought their way through steak bits and puff-pastry shrapnel.

“Very well, thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“No problem, what you got for me?”

The two shook hands and John gestured for his guest to go inside, then hung back for a few seconds, and when Timothy was properly inside, John looked around suspiciously as if he were paranoid of being watched.

“Tim, would you like anything to drink?” asked John once he had caught up.

“Do you have any Red Bull?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sorry.”

“Then nothing. So what do you have for me, John? I have to get back to my other pasty … Uh, I mean other work, you know? Busy, busy.”

“Well, I’ve got a real good-looking one for you this time. Almost primed and ready. Come, I’ll show you.”

“Ooooh! Very exciting,” gushed Timothy as he followed Farmer John out the back door and down the back garden all the way to the serene stream where a crumbling shed awaited them.

“We have her hidden down here,” John mentioned as the two walked side by side, “but we don’t have much time. There’s a lunatic running around chasing its disappearance.”

“I don’t even want to know, John, you know our deal.”

“Yes, yes, plausible deniability.”

“Good.”

When they arrived at the shed, John stepped forward and knocked three times; then another three times in quick succession; then once; then once again but a little louder; and finally, ten times really, really quickly.

“Why?” asked Timothy, puzzled. “Just, why?”

“It’s our secret code,” offered John.

Timothy looked around at the vast nothingness surrounding the shed. The only noise, and, in fact, the only thing moving, was the stream trickling peacefully by, minding its own business, a few feet away. “It seems a little cumbersome, don’t you think?” he finally suggested.

“Best be safe and not sorry, you know?”

“How about saying, ‘Peter, it’s me, your father, not an imposter, let me in.’”

John thought about this for a few seconds but was distracted by the shed’s door swinging open, so they walked inside.

“She’s looking good, dad,” announced Pee’ah as the room suddenly shrunk.

“Thank you, son. Well, Tim, have a look, what do you think? She’s a fine specimen, don’t you reckon?”

The chubby man leant over the baby calf and gave it a once-over with his eyes. He then asked Pee’ah to help him out by shifting the animal around so that he could see it from various angles. When he was satisfied, he said, “Yes, quite a marvellous creature, this one. It’s been well looked after. Good job, boy.”

The two men left Pee’ah and the calf in the shed and spoke business just outside. After five minutes, Timothy announced that he had to get to “that thing” he needed to get to, so they shook hands and promised to meet again in a few days. John was glowing as he thanked his old pal again for coming. He walked him to his van and watched, in juvenile amusement, as the circle shape squeezed through the square shape.

“Hey, dad?” asked Pee’ah once the man had left.

“Yes, son?”

“What’s veal anyway?”

Musical sting: Dum, dum, duuuuuuum!

Tale, everlasting

Yet, frail.

Life, over shoulder

A mere tail.