Murder with the Lot by Sue Williams Page A

whimper and I jumped inside the car and slammed the door. Then I screamed some more.
    I checked my throbbing leg and saw it was oozing blood onto the floor. I sucked in a deep breath. Started the car with a shaky hand.
    Bubbles raised herself off the ground. She hurled herself at the window with a heavy thump, all black hair and teeth and slobber. My hands shook harder. Most of me was shaking as the car lurched forward and shot out of there, dust swirling in a thick red cloud behind it.

Racing home, I passed Dean’s divvy van coming the other way. He pulled sharpish off the road, gravel flying, then turned and followed me. I sped up. I didn’t have time to be arrested. The blood from my leg was seeping onto Brad’s floor. Dean could wait until I put some disinfectant on it.
    Dean surged behind, tailgating. I sped up until the engine whined. He pulled out beside me, waved wildly, wound down his window, shouted to pull over. I ignored him. I knew he wouldn’t turn his siren on. He wouldn’t want anyone to see him heartlessly pursuing his injured mother in a high-speed chase. He tucked back in behind and followed me home.
    Finally, I pulled into my driveway and stopped the car, Dean’s car sliding in after me. I limped in through the back door in my tattered dress, a good chunk of it flapping bloodily around my leg. I stared straight ahead, my most dignified look.
    â€˜Jesus, Mum. What happened?’ Brad’s face turned white.
    I half-collapsed into a chair. Dean walked in behind me, glowering and sat down.
    Feeling faint, I gabbled out a brief summary, Noel, Bubbles, the bite. Best to fill Brad in before I passed out.
    Brad dabbed some Dettol neat onto my leg. It stung like hell and I kicked a bit. He had a few things to say along the lines of don’t-you-bloody-kick-me while he dabbed, interspersed with a hissing mini-rant to Dean, you-should-bloody-do-something-about-this-instead-of-leaving-everything-to-me .
    I wouldn’t have minded a word with them about all that weird stuff in Noel’s van, the spikes, the mini-scimitar and Clarence’s handcuffs, but I wasn’t feeling entirely well.
    While Brad wiped my leg and went on with his rant to Dean, I shut my eyes. I tried picturing Miss Marple and her nephew, Raymond. Raymond wasn’t one to go on; he was the supportive type. The kind that might thank a person for finding Clarence and Aurora and for short-circuiting a huge police operation to locate her car. He’d listen politely to her description of a mini-scimitar; maybe he’d look it up in some reference book. He might even give his mature female relative, at risk of swooning any minute from a painful dog bite, a little spot of sympathy.
    Dean sat in silence through Brad’s tirade, arms folded across his chest, then said, ‘You’d better take her to Casualty in Hustle.’ His voice was low.
    Hard to say why they were acting as if I wasn’t there. Surely I was pretty noticeable since I was bleeding all over the floor.
    â€˜Dog bites can be nasty,’ said Dean. ‘She could end up with an infection.’
    Infection? I tensed up. What diseases do dogs carry? Into my head they all surged, in one big, unwelcome crowd. Brucellosis. Diarrhoea. Tetanus. Rabies.
    Dean stood up. ‘I’m heading out to have a word with this Noel.’
    Well, finally . ‘And Clarence was in handcuffs,’ I said. ‘They’re probably making some weird illegal porn.’
    Dean looked at Brad. ‘While you’re there, you’d better,’ he gave a little nod, one of those nods that are meant to be all hush-hush-significant, ‘get her head checked out as well.’ He strode out to his car.
    I struggled into the passenger seat of Brad’s car, careful of the leg. Despite the pain and nausea, I felt surprisingly at peace. Dean was onto this moist-wipe business now, he’d sort it out. And he’d been almost sympathetic,