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“Sorry.   Sorry for the language I mean, officer.   But I’ve got this fucking Cat…”


He laughs.   The dude actually laughs.   A nervous, awkward laugh – sheer ridiculous delight at there still being normal, idiotic shit happening in the world.   Confirmation that the horrors that creep around in your nightmares don’t infect the whole world when they escape out.   The poor sad fucker.

I watch him leave as several more vehicles arrive next door, loaded with suits, reporters and forensics guys.   The bane of our lives, those people.   Do you know how hard we have to bloody work to cover our tracks since they were invented?   Luckily real life is not like whatever clone of CSI you’ve been watching on tv – these guys are seriously overworked, and cases are completely backlogged, and unless it’s something that warrants the special attention, the investigation usually goes off the boil pretty fast.

Unfortunately, this may now be one of the ‘special attention’ type – respectable ‘wealthy’ couple (and their dog), brutal unprovoked (ha!) attack, middle of the ‘burbs, no-one saw or heard the posse of bad guys apparently needed to make it happen…   That’s newsworthy – it will easily scare hordes of the general public out of their armchair complacency.   Which makes for good ratings.   Gotta love the fucking media.

So – police station/science lab/media circus/freak show is setting up camp just next door to clean up my mess from last night, and I’ve recently discovered I now have a body to dispose of, courtesy of Py’s misguided generosity.   Moreover, a still warm one, which means noise and struggle and effort, and I’m bloody tired and irritable after this shit-awful day.   At least the asprin have kicked in a bit.

I go upstairs and into Eddie’s room.   Mitchell is lying where Py left him, also tired from straining against black tape and fear, but he turns his taped up eyes and mouth to the door as I come in, and wiggles kind of pathetically away across the plastic on the floor.   The kid seems to be doing his best caterpillar impersonation.   I watch him squirm, then cower against the far wall, bound too tight to curl into foetal position, and I sigh.   I put my own back again the nearest wall, and slide slowly down the plastic until I’m sitting.  

What to do.


How to dispose of Mitchell.




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