The
puppy raised its head and sniffed the air. Manure? Manure! Wowee! That meant cows! Ancestral memories stirred. Chase them! Bite them! Round them up! It growled, peeling its lips back to reveal an impressive set of teeth.
“Don’t be daft, Dinkum.” Mick, the dog’s owner, spoke sternly. The pup looked up guiltily then grinned in apology, tongue lolling out sideways.
“You’re not in the Outback now, mate. Don’t you start getting ideas. Heel.”
The pup wagged its tail, waiting obediently by its master’s side as he opened the gate into the meadow. A path led up over the hill then down to a wooded copse, where the bluebells would be just starting to bloom. Mick’s heart lifted at the prospect of seeing them: he loved this time of year.
The herd had been grazing quietly by the far hedge, but when they saw the man and dog they ambled closer, propelled by bovine curiosity. By the time Mick neared the top of the hill, fifty or more cattle had surrounded him, snorting, blinking, huffing clouds of steamy breath into the morning air. He stopped to admire them.
Maybe someday he’d have a herd like this. If things worked out, he’d get a nice place in the country. Once everything had blown over. Once Bill had seen sense
… The situation was driving Angelica mad. She was already right on the edge. Suppose she totally flipped? What then? He didn’t want to think about it…
Mick flapped his arms and the cattle skittered aside. He and Dinkum continued their walk. The sun crested the hill, blinding them for a moment. Neither saw the figure coming towards them, an ivory-topped walking stick raised like a club.
One well-aimed blow was all it took. Mick didn’t have time to dodge or scream; he didn’t have time to make any kind of noise. One minute he was standing upright, the next he was lying still, blood pouring from his head. The pup wagged its tail uncertainly. Was this a game?
The sudden violence had unsettled the herd. So when Mick’s assailant began shouting and waving the stick through the air in sweeping circles, they didn’t just skitter, they stampeded. And with no master’s command restraining him, Dinkum did what comes naturally to an Australian cattle dog: he gave chase, snapping at their heels, driving them across the field, then back and forth, once, twice, three times, until their hooves had obliterated all evidence of the blow that had felled his master.
Mick’s killer watched from the safety of the stile. A good morning’s work. The police would be sure to conclude that this was the scene of a tragic accident. Natural causes. It was death by misadventure, no doubt about it.
dropping everything
My name is Poppy Fields. When we got pulled out of school for a few days and whisked off to a tiny Greek island, my friend Graham was none too pleased about what he described as “the potential long-term damage to our education”. I, on the other hand, was absolutely delighted – and not just because we were missing a whole bunch of End of Term Tests and Assessments, although I have to admit that helped. No, it was because we were going to meet Bill Strummer, real-life rock star … and witness his wedding! Right up close and personal. The world’s press had worked themselves into a frenzy about it and I knew it was going to be a mind-blowingly sensational event. But little did I know quite
how
sensational…
It was July and the end of the school year was approaching fast – although nothing like fast enough as far as I was concerned. My mum, Lili, who’s a landscape gardener, was away doing demonstrations at a flower show and I was staying at Graham’s. His dad was at some IT conference in France so his mum, Sally, was in sole charge of us. We were sitting in their kitchen on a Sunday afternoon, and this being a typical English summer, the weather was dismal. The rain was lashing against the windows and the wind was howling around the house. We’d been doing the
“
Hubble, bubble, toil
puppy raised its head and sniffed the air. Manure? Manure! Wowee! That meant cows! Ancestral memories stirred. Chase them! Bite them! Round them up! It growled, peeling its lips back to reveal an impressive set of teeth.
“Don’t be daft, Dinkum.” Mick, the dog’s owner, spoke sternly. The pup looked up guiltily then grinned in apology, tongue lolling out sideways.
“You’re not in the Outback now, mate. Don’t you start getting ideas. Heel.”
The pup wagged its tail, waiting obediently by its master’s side as he opened the gate into the meadow. A path led up over the hill then down to a wooded copse, where the bluebells would be just starting to bloom. Mick’s heart lifted at the prospect of seeing them: he loved this time of year.
The herd had been grazing quietly by the far hedge, but when they saw the man and dog they ambled closer, propelled by bovine curiosity. By the time Mick neared the top of the hill, fifty or more cattle had surrounded him, snorting, blinking, huffing clouds of steamy breath into the morning air. He stopped to admire them.
Maybe someday he’d have a herd like this. If things worked out, he’d get a nice place in the country. Once everything had blown over. Once Bill had seen sense
… The situation was driving Angelica mad. She was already right on the edge. Suppose she totally flipped? What then? He didn’t want to think about it…
Mick flapped his arms and the cattle skittered aside. He and Dinkum continued their walk. The sun crested the hill, blinding them for a moment. Neither saw the figure coming towards them, an ivory-topped walking stick raised like a club.
One well-aimed blow was all it took. Mick didn’t have time to dodge or scream; he didn’t have time to make any kind of noise. One minute he was standing upright, the next he was lying still, blood pouring from his head. The pup wagged its tail uncertainly. Was this a game?
The sudden violence had unsettled the herd. So when Mick’s assailant began shouting and waving the stick through the air in sweeping circles, they didn’t just skitter, they stampeded. And with no master’s command restraining him, Dinkum did what comes naturally to an Australian cattle dog: he gave chase, snapping at their heels, driving them across the field, then back and forth, once, twice, three times, until their hooves had obliterated all evidence of the blow that had felled his master.
Mick’s killer watched from the safety of the stile. A good morning’s work. The police would be sure to conclude that this was the scene of a tragic accident. Natural causes. It was death by misadventure, no doubt about it.
dropping everything
My name is Poppy Fields. When we got pulled out of school for a few days and whisked off to a tiny Greek island, my friend Graham was none too pleased about what he described as “the potential long-term damage to our education”. I, on the other hand, was absolutely delighted – and not just because we were missing a whole bunch of End of Term Tests and Assessments, although I have to admit that helped. No, it was because we were going to meet Bill Strummer, real-life rock star … and witness his wedding! Right up close and personal. The world’s press had worked themselves into a frenzy about it and I knew it was going to be a mind-blowingly sensational event. But little did I know quite
how
sensational…
It was July and the end of the school year was approaching fast – although nothing like fast enough as far as I was concerned. My mum, Lili, who’s a landscape gardener, was away doing demonstrations at a flower show and I was staying at Graham’s. His dad was at some IT conference in France so his mum, Sally, was in sole charge of us. We were sitting in their kitchen on a Sunday afternoon, and this being a typical English summer, the weather was dismal. The rain was lashing against the windows and the wind was howling around the house. We’d been doing the
“
Hubble, bubble, toil
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