The Left Hand of Dog
Keep scrolling for a sample of A Bit of Murder Between Friends
Chapter 1: Bunnyboos
‘Geez, Spock, you want me to freeze to death?' I tried to grab some of the duvet and … wondered why I couldn't move. I opened my eyes, but it was too dark to see.
‘Hang on,' I muttered. ‘You sleep at my feet. Why are you stealing my covers?' Surely my eyes should have started adapting to the darkness by now. I tried to move my hand again. No joy on my right; it was pinned in place. My left arm was tangled around Spock, her fur thick between my fingers. I lifted my hand to my face and used my nose to tap my watch to activate the torch – and promptly began hyperventilating.
This wasn't my house. No, wait. I wasn't at home. Spock and I had gone away somewhere. My mind felt like it was swimming through treacle – my reactions were sluggish and my head was foggy.
And now we were spooned together in some sort of double-wide coffin. No room to move. I was curled up on my side with a squishy gel supporting me. It felt cool and slick, like it ought to be liquid, but acted more like memory foam.
‘I'm dreaming. I'm not trapped. It's just a dream.' Closing my eyes again, I took slow, deep breaths.
Two, three, five. I struggled to remember what came after five. Seven, eleven, thirteen. Another deep breath.
We'd left Toronto and gone… Where did we go?
Some sort of back-to-nature break – that was it.
Spock tried to roll over.
We both panicked at the same time – her scrabbling desperately and me screaming. A light appeared beyond what turned out to be a clear roof above us. Although I couldn't make out what was outside the confines of our little prison, I could at least see that there was an outside. That's comforting, I suppose.
‘Algonquin Park! That's where we were.' We'd gone hiking and then we'd retired for the night in a little log cabin.
I sat upright as the lid of the coffin lifted and slid aside with a soft kshhh. Wave after wave of nausea made me wish I hadn't moved. Spock made that hur-hur-hur that was both a motion and a noise. I scrambled to one end of the coffin just as she threw her dinner up at the other end.
A pink ball of fuzz in the corner of the coffin-box caught my eye. I reached out and picked it up. Spock's brain. A handmade squeaky toy shaped like a human brain. I'd bought it for her a year earlier. She carried it with her everywhere. She must have been clutching it in her sleep when we … when … when whatever had happened. Spock snatched it out of my hands.
I looked around the dim room. Maybe a workshop? No, too clean for that. A dentist's office? Lots of shelves, cupboards, and bits of strange equipment.
Spock sat back on her haunches and panted. I wrapped my arms around her. ‘We'll be all right, mate. Just gotta figure it out.'
A few months back, I'd packed up my dog and everything I owned. I'd moved us from England to Canada. It was all part of my grand plan to reinvent myself. Ergo the hiking: I was determined to become the kind of person who had adventures.
Finding myself in an alien dentist's office wasn't really the sort of adventure I had in mind, though.
Startled by the sound of movement behind me, I whirled around to face three … they had to be children in bunny costumes. ‘What?' That's what they had to be, right? I mean, they weren't actually rabbits. Definitely not. For one thing, they stood upright. Real bunnies don't normally do that, do they? For another, they were about the size of Spock.
But the costumes looked real in that no skin showed through – not even on their faces – and I couldn't see any zips. Also, I was pretty sure rabbits didn't come in pastel rainbow colours. Actually, they reminded me of a toy I'd had as a child. Bunnyboo, I'd called it. Four-year-old me was terribly inventive.
‘Check out your floopy-floppy ears! How adorable are you?' Nervous sarcasm still intact then.
I was nauseated enough that shaking my head seemed like a bad idea. ‘It was beer I had last night, right? Not, like, psychedelic mushrooms? Maybe some natural tree spore that makes a person have trippy visions?' No one answered me. Or even looked at me.
Spock sat neatly and dropped her brain in my lap. She lifted a paw towards the nearest of the bunnyboos – for want of a better word. The creature's mint green fur matched the emerald hue of its humongous Disney princess eyes. ‘Yip,' said Spock in her smallest, most polite voice.
This is not happening. I must be dreaming. Or hallucinating. Something.
The creature pulled a device from a holster like a carpenter's apron and pointed it at Spock. Or maybe it was merely reading what was on the screen – if it even had a screen. Who was I kidding? I had no idea what they were doing.
Another, slightly taller bunnyboo – this one periwinkle blue with eyes like Wedgewood plates – stepped forwards and ‘spoke' to Spock as well. That is, its mouth moved and Spock's full attention was on it. But no sound emerged. Spock yipped again in response to whatever it was I couldn't hear.
Spock pointed at me with her long, sable nose then looked back at the bunnyboos and emitted a low noise, not quite a growl.
‘Would someone please tell me what the bollocking pufferfish is going on here?' I demanded. Okay, not demanded. Requested. Well, pleaded. Whined, maybe. Whatever verb it was I verbed, no one paid me any heed.
The bunnyboos of my strange hallucination were too deeply engrossed in their silent conversation with my very real dog to spare me any of their attention. It was like watching a TV on mute – except I could hear movements and breathing and the sound of my heart beating a drum on the inside of my chest.
After a few further moments of this bizarre fever dream, Spock leapt down out of the coffin and turned to face me. She sat on her haunches and looked me in the eye. Then she lifted one paw at me in a clear imitation of the ‘stay' command I used with her.
A bunnyboo with heather purple fur lowered a rope lead over Spock's head. Spock stood and followed them from the room.
‘Where are you taking my dog, you fluffy bastards?' I clambered out of the coffin-bed and scrabbled after them as fast as my besocked feet would carry me. But the thick metal door slid shut seconds before I got to it.
I pounded impotently on the door, screaming, ‘Spock! Come back. Don't let those fuzzy arseholes hurt you.' Unable to find a doorknob or control panel or anything, I leant against the wall next to the door and slid down until I landed on my arse. I shivered and hugged my knees to my chest.
Why can't I wake up? Letting my head fall forwards, I cried for a bit, whimpering Spock's name periodically.
* * *
After a while, I took a deep breath. And another. I counted primes up to thirty-one.
‘Time to snap out of it, Lem. Think, think, think. If this is a dream, you'll wake up soon enough, have a nice shower, go for a hike, maybe later you'll get some therapy – and everything will be fine. But if it's not a dream, and you really have been kidnapped by small furry creatures, then you need your wits about you, right?'
I'd read somewhere that talking to yourself didn't mean you were crazy – it was only crazy if you answered yourself.
‘Right,' I replied. ‘Okay, first things first.' I checked my smartwatch. Where the date and time normally were, there was just a single word: ERROR.
Hmm, that's weird. I checked the relevant settings. Offline. I suppose that was to be expected.
Deep breath. ‘Right, let's check this place out.' I hauled myself to my feet and looked around, stopping to grab Spock's brain toy. I clutched it to myself as I explored the perfectly ordinary room. The walls were a brilliant, glossy white and the shiny, clean floor was pale grey.
The ceiling was more than two metres high, but the door Spock and the bunnyboos had walked through had a clearance of well under two metres – I'd have to duck to walk through it.
The tops of the bunnyboos' ears barely reached my shoulders, so that fit. The edges of the space were lined with cupboards and worktops – all sized for beings much shorter than me.
There was something that looked like a sink. Smacking my lips, I wondered how long it had been since I'd had anything to drink or eat. How long had I been unconscious?
A series of coffins on plinths stood in the middle of the room – not just the one Spock and I had climbed out of. Four of them. They looked a bit like commercial fridges lying on their backs. I approached the nearest one and peered in. The top was frosted over. I touched it to see if it was cold – but then the room was like a giant refrigerator. Everything felt cold.
I focused on looking through the window rather than just at it. There was something in there. Another person, maybe? It dawned on me to use my watch's torch again, so I switched it on and aimed my wrist at the window. I gazed into the abyss and … a large yellow bird stared back at me.
It opened its beak and screamed. Well, I thought it screamed – much like when the bunnyboos spoke, I couldn't hear anything. I could definitely hear myself howling, so I knew my ears worked.
The door to the room whooshed open with considerably more urgency than it had whooshed shut with. The three bunnyboos and Spock ran back in.
Oh, thank God!
The purple one still held Spock's lead. Thankfully, she didn't look any the worse for whatever they'd done. I ran to her. Dropping to my knees, I wrapped my arms around her neck and buried my hands in her thick fur. ‘My baby. Are you okay?' She sat on the floor and leant her head into my chest.
The lid of the coffin-fridge I'd disturbed slid open and the bunnyboos gathered around it. They had their backs to us. This was my chance. I lifted the end of the lead up over Spock's head, then beckoned her to follow me as I ran for the door.
As before, it slid shut before I got to it. I skidded to a halt in my sock-feet and slammed into the closed door. You know that definition of stupidity that involves repeating the same actions and expecting a different outcome? Yeah, well, I may or may not have searched for a doorknob in the same spots I'd already examined. But what else was I supposed to do?
Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned to find the blue one was pointing a device at me. Weapon? Communicator? Weather-sensor? Coaster? How the hell was I supposed to know?
Blue looked at me. Green raised her arms. Wait, his arms? Their arms? I shook my head. Not the time to wonder about alien pronouns. I decided to stick with she until someone told me otherwise.
Blue's lips moved rapidly. But with no noise. The bird-creature stood up in its coffin and squawked. Frantically.
Spock leapt in front of me. Alsatian genes told her to protect me. In stressful situations, they tended to override any good sense in her tiny dog brain.
The bunnyboos had a silent conversation. Looked heated, though.
‘Wrooh.' Spock made a plaintive bark.
Didn't work. Blue moved towards me. The Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog raced through my mind. But a dog-shaped shield flew through the air and chomped down on her child-sized leg. She pulled the bunnyboo away. Then, it was all a blur. Fur flew in every direction. Green. Blue. Purple. Spock's sable. Limbs and bodies tumbled and rolled. Spock snarled and snapped her teeth.
Green pointed her device at my dog. Spock crumpled like an empty bag. My vision glowed red. Not literally, of course. Figuratively. Still…
‘You killed my best friend, you fuzzy little bastard. I'll kill you all, you monsters.' I launched myself at the nearest bunnyboo, whichever arsehole it was. The last thing I saw was the same weapon being pointed at me. Then something hit me and I died.
A Bit of Murder Between Friends
Chapter 1: In which our heroine sets out on a quest
As Baz steered her mobility scooter into the intersection, the screech of a horn almost gave her a heart attack. The driver turning left was trying to cut in front of her.
Heat flushed her cheeks. She opened her mouth to apologise but before she could say anything, a person walking in the opposite direction bellowed at the driver. ‘You’ve got a red, mate!’
Sure enough, when Baz looked up, she found that pedestrians and vehicles heading straight on had the right of way. Drivers turning left still faced a red. ‘What a confusing intersection.’ She wasn’t sure whether she was speaking to herself or to the angry driver. To the Good Samaritan she added, ‘Thank you.’
The pedestrian nodded and carried on walking. Baz squeezed the scooter’s accelerator with the fingers of her right hand.
Before long, she was wending her way along Deptford Broadway, heading west. If she followed this route for another six kilometres, she’d end up somewhere in the vicinity of London Bridge. It still amazed her how close to the heart of London she was.
But she wasn’t going nearly that far today – just a short jaunt.
In the last few months, Baz had accepted a sizeable financial settlement, signed divorce papers, sold half of her former house to her now ex-husband, left her job, said goodbye to all her friends, moved her entire life thousands of kilometres away, and bought a new flat.
Oh, and she’d come out of the proverbial closet to live as the woman she’d finally accepted herself as.
To say she felt a bit lost and alone in the whirlwind would be something of an understatement. Would her old self have immediately apologised to that driver without knowing who was in the wrong? She wasn’t sure.
Five minutes later, Baz parked her scooter on the little strip of pavement next to Wellbeloved Café’s outside seating area. It was a beautiful September day, the sun shining brightly over south-east London. The pain bit into her knee when she stood up and she tried to hide her grimace. She smiled at a young man walking past and gave a cheerful wave to his toddler.
‘W.H. Wellbeloved: Butchers & Graziers’ proclaimed the sign on the pebble-dashed south wall. Baz found herself wondering how long it had been since a butcher had actually occupied the building. She walked the few steps to the door but paused outside and took a deep breath.
‘Come on, Baz. You can do this.’ She pursed her lips, ever-so-slightly smearing her rose-coloured lipstick. ‘They’re not monsters.’ She cast her eyes to the window to her right. ‘Look at them.’ Why did making friends have to be so hard? Children did it all the time – why couldn’t adults? And, more specifically, why couldn’t she?
Adjusting her shoulder bag and smoothing down the fabric of her lavender cotton dress, she took one last deep breath and pushed open the door of the small coffee shop. Ever since she’d started hormone therapy a few months back, her senses had become stronger, more vibrant. The scents of the shop filled her with warmth and comfort. Freshly roasted coffee was the dominant aroma, but it mingled with cinnamon and sugar and fresh-baked pastry.
The young woman behind the counter – Olena was her name – looked up and smiled. ‘Morning.’ She held a hand out for the expected takeaway cup. ‘The usual?’
Baz had been visiting Wellbeloved every day for the past two weeks and the staff – two women – had already learnt her order. They worked hard to make her feel so comfortable and accepted. She held out her empty hands, palms up. ‘Yes, please. Though I think I’ll stay in this time.’ She could do this, she reassured herself.
Olena nodded and rang up the order. ‘Go ahead and take a seat.’
Waist-height and below, the walls were painted a very fashionable green. Higher up, shelves were lined with pieces of art. There were small, framed paintings and photographs, knitted goods, pottery. All sorts of lovely things. Overall, the effect was vibrant but tasteful. The creativity on display brought a smile to Baz’s face.
She took a deep breath. Putting a hand to the solid stone wall, she ducked through the door into the shop’s second room – originally a separate building, she suspected. The place must have been several hundred years old; the walls were thick and the door between the rooms wasn’t quite high enough for modern adults. At five foot seven, Baz wasn’t exactly short – but she was hardly tall. She could probably walk through without smacking her head on the lintel – just. Better to be safe than sorry.
You can do this>, she reminded herself. Not aloud, of course. She didn’t want anyone to think she was a bit batty. It was enough that some people assumed that just from looking at her.
People could be so judgemental.
But her loneliness pushed her to overcome her fears. Pulling her shoulders back, Baz approached the three women sitting nearest the window. ‘Good morning, ladies. My name is Barbara, um, Baz. I’m new to Deptford and I wondered if I might join you?’
Just then, what Baz had taken for a heavy carpet lifted up off the floor. And up … and up … and up. After a few moments, she found herself face to face – well, more like crotch to face – with the biggest, most beautiful Alsatian she’d ever seen.
He wagged his tail and licked her hand. Smiling, she scratched his head. He reminded her of her own dog. Well, her ex’s dog. For a while, after they’d split up, he’d brought the dog to Baz’s on weekends.
Gosh, she missed that dog. If she wasn’t careful, she’d burst into tears. And then what would these women think of her?
A full-figured Black woman with a knitting project resting on an ample bosom looked up at her. ‘In my day,’ she said in a local accent, ‘men were men and women were women and—’
Baz felt heat rise in her cheeks. She knew that – to most people – she looked like a man in a dress. As much as she knew to the very core of her being that she was a woman, she sometimes feared the world would never see her that way.
‘In your day, Madge,’ said an elderly white woman with spiky hot pink hair and an equally spiky choker necklace, ‘nurses weren’t allowed to have sex. Never stopped you.’ With an encouraging wink, she grinned at Baz. Her tartan jacket was covered in pins and badges. Baz couldn’t read them from even the short distance between them – though she was sure she spied a rainbow flag.
The pink-haired punk woman addressed Baz. ‘Pay Madge no heed. I promise she’s not actually transphobic – she just likes to stick her sanctimonious nose into people’s business for no reason at all.’
‘Sanctimony doesn’t come into it.’ Knitting needles still clicking away, Madge studied Baz. ‘What I meant was I would like to understand – are you a woman or are you not?’ She waved a hand, still clutching her knitting, in Baz’s direction. ‘I’m not asking what’s in your pants – just how I should think of you. I’ve never met a transgender person before and I’m not up on all the newfangled terminology. If that seems rude, I apologise.’
Baz’s stomach twisted inside her. She wanted to flee. Or to argue back. But her fight-or-flight instinct was firmly stuck on freeze. Alas, the arrival of a young woman served only to further cement Baz’s inability to move.
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