Page 10 of The Twelve Days of Christian
As a kid lost in a world of music, books and hell, even poetry—and daring to have a ‘pretty boy’ face (according to my brothers)—growing up in a small rural backwater was a nightmare. Teasing and bullying followed me around. Even my own brothers joined in; sometimes they led it; taunting me, calling me gay, a potentinsult in a small town where homophobia still lies not far below the surface.
So I put up a tough guy front, and it’s served me well. I survived the last of school, escaped to London, worked in crap jobs, and then forged a multi-million pound career doing the thing I love—all behind this protective mask.
Those pricks who made my life miserable should take a look at me now. I got the last laugh, because although I’ve done my best to roughen up my face, with this scruffy beard my mother hates, it seems girls still like it fine. And this one seems to not only like my face, but has seen the person beneath the beard, tattoos and long hair and—unlike my family—hasn’t found me wanting.
“I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough,” she murmurs into my chest.
“Just seeing that dog make it through was all the thanks I need, Haley.”
Within minutes, her breathing slows, and sleep claims her from me. I could lay here forever, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against mine, but after ten minutes I admit to myself her needs must come ahead of my selfishness; and she needs bed.
I loop one arm under her knees and, taking care not to wake her, raise her gently from the couch. After years on the farm hefting calves and hay bales, lifting Haley’s childlike form is effortless.
With the dog supervising at my heels, I head for her bedroom. I manage to sidle up to the wall and angle one hand to flick on a light switch without disturbing the sleeping woman in my arms. Soft light floods the space. Her space. I didn’t have time to take it in amidst the frantic panic of a few hours earlier. I steal a moment now;pause to breathe in the smell. It’s like her, the fragrance of tropical flowers.
Everything is neat but with a feminine touch. The small sofa looks inviting, the cushions arranged in a tasteful row. A stuffed bookshelf tells me she’s a reader like Ollie—and like me; but I note the arrangement, with colourful spines facing out, in a carefully organised rainbow.
The bed is the only off note in this orderly room, a cue to the mayhem of earlier. Bedcovers lie askew, white sheets in a tangle. The floral spread hangs to one side, its edge brushing the floor.
I loosen an arm and stoop low, dragging a pillow back into place. Lowering her onto the pristine sheet, the sight of her fucking grabs me. She’s perfection; even with her hair disheveled, cheeks blotchy from her earlier tears, and little creases in them where she’s lain, sleeping against my shirt.
Although reluctant to leave her, I have no excuse to stay, so I drag myself away to bed, and between exhaustion and satisfaction, sleep finds me quickly.
“It’s OK, Christian,” Haley says as I reach to open the car door. “You won’t need to come into the clinic. Would you believe she’s up on her feet?” There’s a mixture of weariness and elation in her voice.
Like me, she’s exhausted. We met at the breakfast table way too early, both mumbling about our inability to sleep. As she gloomily munched toast, I reminded her, with guarded optimism, no newswas good news. When the call came, seeing the glow of hope return to her face, like the first wash of a spotlight across a dark stage, I couldn’t contain my happiness for her—and for that damn dog that’s already gotten hold of my heart. I wrapped her tight in a spontaneous hug of celebration. She didn’t object. It felt so fucking good.
It’s great news I don’t have to leave the car, not only for the dog. We were fortunate last night. The entire vet team fell outside the demographic for stupid reality shows and rock music. The woman at reception didn’t show the slightest flicker of recognition at the name on the credit card. It’s just as well, as these few days before the damning Episode 5 airs are crucial. Anyone suspects I’m not on that show before Wednesday night and the arsehole production company’s lawyers are going to grind me into nothing.
So I’m happy not to take a risk with the day staff, letting Haley go inside alone to collect Tully, while Mularkey and I sit in the car park out front, trying to look inconspicuous. That’s kind of difficult when it’s Sunday afternoon and this bright yellow super car is the only one here. Anyone passing by is definitely going to take a second glance at the guy in cap and dark glasses inside it on a wet winter London day.
Not to mention the large wolf-like dog perched in the tiny backseat. I breathe the unavoidable smell of damp canine, one that triggers an avalanche of childhood memories; most good, a few sad, and I embrace the nostalgia of those days. With Mularkey silhouetted against the rear window, it looks like Batman is keeping watch over my shoulder. Somehow she suspects what I know—her best friend is going to appear from those sliding doors any moment now.
I’m grateful Haley takes my need to lie low seriously. It’s heartening she’s accepted my word that all this shit is important, trusting me even though I’ve given her so few details. Maybe she doesn’t see me as such an arsehole after helping her with saving the dog. Where dogs are concerned, I’d have done something, anyway. I couldn’t stand by and let an animal suffer. But when it’s forherdog, fuck it, I’d have walked right in there myself without this subterfuge if that’s what it took. I’d do anything for Haley Templeton, risk anything.
Behind me, Mularkey tenses and then disintegrates into a whole-body wag. She pokes her head alongside mine, leaning through the tiny open window, while with muzzle raised, she sings the song of her people into the chill air, welcoming her buddy. It echoes off the brick-walled buildings and a woman and kids walking by laugh and point. So much for lying low.
Haley and Tully walk slowly towards us, a pair of matching grins as wide as the sky and my mouth curves upwards in response. I feel like punching the air in celebration. We did it; victory over the evil bloat that tried to snatch this beautiful dog away and break Haley’s heart. There’s not a trace of the previous night’s trauma on Tully’s smiling face.
“Dogs are bloody amazing, aren’t they?” I say, as she hauls herself into the back seat on her own, moving with surprising ease despite the stitches which lie hidden along her stomach, a large shaved strip on her side the only hint of their presence. If it was a human, they’d be in hospital for a week after going through something like that.
“For sure,” Haley nods. “This one in particular. She’s staunch. Even the vet can’t believe how well she’s come through. Although they would have kept her until tomorrow except for her having her own personal nurse on call.”
Haley ruffles the back of Tully’s neck, below where it peeks out of the large plastic cone.
“Tully won’t love her nurse when she realises you’re not going to take that off.”
“No, the cone of shame stays till Friday,” Haley laughs.
“My boy, Jet, had to have one once. He went around ramming everything with it—doorframes, walls, posts, even our legs. Then sat there sulking and giving me the stink eye.” There’s a twinge of pain at the memory of how he ended up in that state, but Haley pulls me back from it with a question.
“Your dog, Jet—what was he?”
“Border collie. Failed cattle dog. Scared of cows.”
“Kind of a deal-breaker on a dairy farm, I suppose?”
“Yeah, he wasn’t ours to begin with. Belonged to the farmer next door. Said he was going to put a bullet in him.”
