A Murder Unmentioned by Sulari Gentill

rope, a makeshift lead to prevent Lenin tearing after every rabbit they came across, and man and dog set off. Once the sun set, the evening became quite pleasant. There was no moon but the stars were many and spectacular, one of those vistas that Rowland had always thought unpaintable.
    Lenin padded along quite happily for about a mile, straining against the rope at every movement in the grass. But then it seemed the past day’s heat and the unexpected exercise took its toll. The dog’s head began to droop pathetically and he whined from time to time.
    “For pity’s sake, Len, you’re a greyhound. Well something like a greyhound,” Rowland muttered as he realised the drag on the rope was now more to do with the dog wanting to stop, than rabbits. The hound’s eyes glistened reproachfully up at him. “I know, it’s my fault we have to walk, but I’m not carrying you.”
    They were nearly halfway back to Oaklea when Rowland caught sight of headlamps in the distance. “There you go, Len, you can quit your complaining. It looks like the cavalry’s arrived.”
    He blanched as the vehicle approached. He knew it wasn’t the Mercedes by the sound of its motor, but the glare made it impossible to see who was behind the wheel. Rowland waved. The car slowed to an idle.
    “Come on, Len,” he urged, tugging on the rope. Lenin whined and resisted in reply. Rowland was still arguing with the dog when the first shot cracked the night air. Instinctively, Rowland dropped down. He felt the whistle as the second shot passed his shoulder. Cursing, he tried to pull Lenin off the road but the dog would not stir. “Len!” he shouted. “Move!”
    Lenin whimpered. The car’s engine roared. A third shot, and a screech as the car swung around and sped back in the direction from which it had come.
    But Rowland wasn’t looking at the car. In the swing of the headlamps as the car turned, he’d seen the blood.
    “Len, hang on mate,” he said pulling out his lighter to inspect his dog in the feeble glow of its flame. Blood oozed from Lenin’s bony hind. Swearing, Rowland pulled off his jacket and then his shirt. He pressed the shirt against the wound, and then wrapped the stricken hound in his jacket. Knowing the dog would respond to his voice, Rowland spoke calmly. “Helluva way to get me to carry you, mate.” He heaved Lenin into his arms. “You’re going to be all right… we’ve just got to get back.”
    Rowland continued on the dirt road as quickly as he could manage under the greyhound’s weight. The road was rough here and he was forced to slow down and step carefully lest he stumble. Lenin became limp and somehow heavier.
    “Come on, Len, talk to me,” Rowland demanded as even the whimpering stopped.
    Then he saw headlights again. For a moment, he panicked, looking frantically for some place to hide, some sort of cover. And then, he recognised the familiar attention-seeking scream of a supercharged motor. His car. He ran towards it.
    The Mercedes stopped as it caught him in its headlamps. Clyde stepped out first and then a giant of a man, so dark that had he not been standing against the yellow paintwork he might have been invisible in the night.
    “Harry!” Rowland exclaimed, recognising the shape of the shadow.
    “Rowly, what the hell!” Harry Simpson said by way of greeting.
    “Lenin’s been shot,” Rowland gasped.
    “That was years ago, Rowly. Are you all right?”
    “He means the dog,” Clyde said. “Who would—”
    “He’s not moving,” Rowland said as Harry took the dog from him.
    Harry Simpson put his ear to the greyhound’s muzzle. He listened, his face grim. “We’d better get your dog seen to quickly, Rowly.”

    Rowland sat by his dog’s head, comforting and restraining the hound as Harry Simpson stitched the wound. The bullet had grazed but not lodged. Lenin had lost a good deal of blood, but thanks to Harry’s needlework the wound would not be fatal.
    “You gave me one helluva scare,