12
It was one of those mornings where the comfort of the bed was even more welcoming, as grey clouds covered the sky and poured out rain like a forceful shower. Deep rumblings punctuated the sound of the downpour and the occasional flash lit the town for a split second.
No-one would actively want to go out in this weather. That was except for George Dennison, who, while not actually ‘wanting’ to go out, was fulfilling what he felt was a duty every morning to his Staffordshire bull terrier. Basically, every morning at 07:30, he would take it for a walk around the park behind his house. It didn’t matter what the weather was like, the dog had to be taken out, so he found himself in the park, walking along a path, carrying a dog chain while ‘Fang’ ran around on the grass, sniffing everything and chasing a ball that George threw often.
George was one of those bachelors whose life revolved around motorbikes. He was overweight, had a large grey beard, and wore leather no matter what the weather was like. His house was like a garage, with spare parts and tools scattered everywhere. His pride and joy sat in his backyard, a Harley Davidson heritage softail classic, which he occasionally rode around the streets and would take to conventions and shows. He was basically a north-western 47 year old hell’s angel.
Fang was his alarm. At nigh on 7am, the dog would go into George’s bedroom, jump on the bed, and wake him up by licking his face. Half an hour later, they would be out in the park.
This morning, George was forced to wear a raincoat, beneath which was his well worn leather jacket. The dog didn’t seem to notice the rain. Sometimes he would meet other dog walkers and not end up back in the house for three hours or more. Today, he knew he wouldn’t be out for too long. The others had probably decided that there was no way they were going out in that, no matter how much their dogs whined.
Further into the park they walked, George walking slowly, as per usual as Fang always explored everything as though he was seeing it for the first time. He was sniffing around bushes. George saw that up ahead, the path curved to the left, and on one of two opposite benches, somebody was lying on the left one.
George frowned and walked towards them. As he drew closer, he saw that it was a teenage boy, old enough to still be called a boy, but not quite old enough to be called a man. He was however, nearly of that age. It was though he was dead, wearing a white shirt and ‘going out’ trousers. George just stared at him, watching as the rain lashed him, soaking him to the bone.
Jake Ingram was 17, and was one of those teenagers who seemed to have it all. He had good looks, a job at his father’s restaurant, a good physique, and a seemingly constant appearance of wealth. He couldn’t walk past a mirror without checking his appearance. His hair was spiky, although not now in this rain, and streaked blonde. He wore a diamond earring, along with a gold chain necklace, an expensive watch and a thick bracelet.
Sometimes he would wear sunglasses, no matter what the weather was like, often even indoors. He was what could be described as a ‘pretty-boy’, an aspiring male model who was halfway to getting a presentable portfolio of photographs of himself to show to agencies. Whilst celebrating one of his friend’s 18th birthday parties the previous night, he decided he was strong minded enough to ingest more alcohol than he had ever had before. It was mainly to show his friends, and girls, that he was mature and adult. As well as seven pints of lager, he had also taken four shots of vodka and three double whiskeys.
These were like bullets to the brain. The shots he had taken were basically made to ‘down in one’, which he did, to show he could do it, that he could handle it all, that he had made the transition from boy to man, and here was the proof. However, he had in fact deluded himself.
With his mind and vision blurred, the music not being comprehended, his sweat stained shirt clinging to him, no T-shirt beneath, of course, the shirt purposefully a size too small, he began to make less sense to everybody, and people could see he was clearly drunk. He and his friends made sense to each other, because they were all on the downward path to intoxication, and in the end, the inevitable happened, Jake was sick in the toilets, and at 01:30am, devoid of female company, they all staggered out of the social club together.
Jake was sick again in the car-park, but all six of them reached a point where they had had to go their separate ways. Jake lived three and a half miles from the club, and deep in the recesses of his mind, something told him that he could take a shortcut through the park. Taxis were none existent.
He had staggered, zombie-like, through the park, until he had crashed into, rather than seen, a bench. He worked out what it was, and decided to rest there a while until he felt he could carry on. He didn’t think he would fall asleep.
George continued to stare at him like a scientist would stare at a new species of mammal in a zoo. He looked back at Fang who had crossed the path and was now sniffing around the edge of the park pond. The dog chain hung at his side dripping rain. He wound it slowly, once around his hand, and then stepped forward and grabbed pretty-boy’s soaking hair. He pulled him off the bench and began to drag him in to the bushes behind. He could feel the scalp coming loose as he dragged, so dropped him and gripped his throat.
Jake was still virtually unconscious. George dragged him into a clearing. Bushes surrounded them and he threw Jake down who regained consciousness.
“Wass goin’ on?” he said, blinking. George ignored him, instead, sent the chain across his face. Jake slammed back into the ground, into the dead leaves and twigs. George struck him again, shattering teeth and splitting his jawbone. There was a scream ready to leave Jake, but it wouldn’t come. George repeatedly sent the chain smashing into his face until it collapsed inwards. Blood splashed out as George relentlessly pummelled away until the eyes slid into the leaves, and his skull cracked enough to show the web of nerves across his brain. Pretty-boy wasn’t so pretty any more.
George dropped the chain. It was exhausting work, even for a man of his strength. He saw that only about two metres away, there was a brand new spade, which he picked up. The work was about to get even more exhausting.
With Jake satisfactorily buried, George left the bushes and walked across to the pond. He threw the spade into the water and wound the chain back around his hand, as it always was when the dog wasn’t attached to it. He went back to the path, and continued as he did, every morning.
“Come on Fang,” he said, having to say it loudly as the rain continued to shower down. The dog, as usual, did as it was told.