The bungalow in Larkhall me and my missus lived in for a while was on. The guy who rented it out did a fantastic job. If there was ever any problem it was sorted quickly, would have stayed on if we’d needed to but managed to save up enough to buy our own place.
The second says:
My old landlord (Henry Hamilton) was on it but not our actual place. We were on housing benefit at the time which meant it was a nightmare getting a landlord to take us but he was cool with it. There was some damp that nothing seemed to be able to fix, he did try and help us as best he could. Builders needed to come in for a week to put down a damp course and he put us up in a decent hotel with reasonable expenses covered. Damp still came back though so we moved out before our lease was up which he was fine with.
Maybe, just maybe, Harry is not that bad a man. He is, however, still a former landlord, the money for his dog rescue centre only possible from not showing the same love and affection to humans. On Brian’s phone I open the tab for the centre’s website and admire the pictures of the grounds which appear to also be where Harry lives. There’s a large modern home with a matching kennel outhouse set in among lush grounds of fields and trees in the countryside outside of Bellshill.
A check of the land registry shows he owns the woods around him, which he will have been asked to sell at some point – every patch of green space on the outskirts of towns in this part of Scotland has been overtaken by new builds. He must have refused their offers. Happy to, yet again, withhold affordable housing from the market. Nah, his hands aren’t clean just because he no longer actively landlords. Harry is for it.
The plan is simple: appear with a dog and then hit him on the head with the hammer I defended myself against Pete with. I admit, the hammer is a bit on the nose given the source of my victims, but I know how effective it is as a weapon and, unlike with Pete, who was in a confined space, Harry will have copious room to flee. If I don’t immediately thwart him, he could overpower me and then it’s all fucked. The day of the union meeting is the best day for Harry’s murder to take place. I’ve already booked the afternoon off because I have a dentist’s appointment for a filling. My plan looks like this: get the filling, go home, wait for Mrs Neilan’s yappy wee shitty dog to make its appearance in the hallway during Mrs Neilan’sCountdowndoze and then nab him. Both of us take a scenic bus ride to Bellshill, get Harry sorted, then bus home in time to deposit the dog back where it belongs before Mrs Neilan has woken up. Change into something more attractive than jogging bottoms and then make my way to the union meeting for bang on 6:00 pm at Amara and Nicol’s. No one will suspect I’ve just been murdering. I will be so cool and collected as I turn up with my new lover at my old lover’s house to share the results of our corporate espionage that my alibi will be rock solid.
After sending a very vital email to a couple who are selling their grey velvet-clad new build in Ferniegair to say that Brian will be along tomorrow with someone who wants to live in a soulless home in the middle of nowhere, I collect my things. Brian is doing an impression of a businessman from a film, tossing a little ball from hand to hand, his feet resting on the corner of the desk as he leans back in his office chair. He speaks into a tiny microphone in front of his face from his handsfree headset, giving me a wave as I make my way out for my appointment. Brian paying attention to my movements is why I don’t give Gavin a kiss but say, ‘Get you outside Amara’s at six, yeah?’
‘Sure.’ They kiss their fingertips then waggle their fingers at me as goodbye. I am not sure I am into it, but I have more pressing matters to attend to than whether this is an ick or not.
The dentist is running behind, which is not ideal, but not so late that my plan can’t still run smoothly if I hurry. Back at the flat I put on the outfit I laid out last night in preparation, what has inadvertently become my standard uniform on days like today: black training leggings, black vest covered with a black hoodie and a pair of black Nike trainers. To complete the look of someone about to legitimately go to the gym, I have my holdall. The items inside it include a pair of rubber gloves, two towels, two bin bags, some dog treats and the hammer.
Preparation done, I turn on the telly and change the channel to see what’s happening onCountdown. From my weeks of unemployed misery, I know Mrs Neilan is usually awake for the first two word rounds and occasionally the first numbers one, too, because she shouts her answers at the television. Today is no different. C L O E N M W A T is on the board as the clock counts down. ‘Lone!’ I think she’s shouting, ‘Lone!’ The speccy male contestant in the lead trumps this effort with ‘Cowmen’, getting six points. After a segment of polite chitchat between the host and a posh woman who used to present a food and drink programme in the 90s, Mrs Neilan is quieter. Then the telltale yapping of her dog, Angus, starts. After years of living with her he has not figured out that every time she closes her eyes she is not, in fact, dead. His yaps move through the flat, from Mrs Neilan’s living room to the front door of her flat, and that is my cue.
The reason Angus is able to escape is that Mrs Neilan doesn’t lock her Yale until evening. During the day it is off and so Angus’s repeated jumping and pawing at the handle eventually eases it into opening. I don’t have time for this process to happen organically so I open the door and grab him. He’s only little; I would have thought he liked being held like a baby in my embrace, but no. Angus protests, growling and barking more than usual, at a volume which could easily rouse a dozing elderly woman.
Ideally, I would go unnoticed from this point until I return home. That is, after all, why I’m dressed entirely in unobtrusive black clothing. I had not factored in how cradling a cute little dog at a bus stop would make me an attraction, with all kinds of people admiring Angus and telling him what a good boy he is, how gorgeous he is, and asking me his name. I have to pretend to be very proud of him and to enjoy this attention until our bus pulls up and I am subjected to similar behaviour by the passengers around us until we disembark.
Purposely, I’ve gotten off the bus early so I can enter the property through the woods that surround it rather than from the road. I cradle Angus awkwardly in the same way I have multiple acquaintances’ babies and traipse through the woods towards Harry’s, taking a trail I memorised rather than bringing my phone to follow the map. When we reach Harry’s house, it’s clear he feels safe in the middle of nowhere. There are no high walls or electric gates like I would have if I were miles away from civilisation. There’s a hip-height wrought-iron gate which is closed over; the walls surrounding it are no higher. I wander the perimeter with my hood over my head and spot the cameras facing the gate, the kennel building and the front door. I find a position not covered by them and climb over the wall there awkwardly, not wanting to release Angus in case this is when he absconds.
It’s silly to admit, but I had envisioned my feet thudding on this flowerbed would signal my arrival and Harry would reveal himself to me, asking who I was and what I was doing here. I had not anticipated I would go unnoticed. More time is about to be wasted trying to be discovered.
‘Hello?’ I shout, my voice deeper should any of the CCTV pick up audio. ‘Hello?’
Angus whimpers, possibly sensing all the neglected animals nearby, concerned that if he does not comply he too could be left here. I shush him, stroke his head.
‘It’s OK, wee man. I can’t leave you, you’re too incriminating.’
We walk in the direction of the kennel building. Every few steps I shout, ‘Hello?’ There’s no reply. There’s a modest Peugeot parked out front, which had led me to believe Harry was here, but maybe that’s a second car, the vehicle of a family member of whom there’s no clear record online. But the closer we get to the kennels, the clearer it becomes why no one is responding to me. They can’t hear me over the dance music being played to the dogs.
‘Hello?’ I say, louder. I’m at the side of the kennels now. Each dog has its own cell with an indoor and an outdoor area. The outdoor bit is surrounded by chicken wire and has a bowl of water and food laid out for them. I creep along the side. There’s the scrape of a metal bowl against concrete, the snuffling of food, but I can’t see any dogs.
‘Hello?’
And suddenly, soundtracked to thethump thump thumpof techno, Harry pops up from one of the cells further up. ‘Can I help you?’ he asks, much friendlier than I would if I had found a strange woman prowling my land.
Even though I’ve been waiting for him to appear, this instant reveal surprises me. I yelp and drop Angus, who runs off. ‘Fuck,’ I say in my real voice without even meaning to.
‘Give me a sec.’ He leaves the cell he’s in, I assume to come outside and closer to me, which makes this my time to prepare. I unzip my bag and pull the hammer to the top as Harry appears a few metres away from me on the lawn.
‘I found a dog.’ This is back in the lower register, which maybe sounds daft to Harry. It makes him smile. His face really is quite lovely. It’s wild, when you think about it. I am going to happily, intentionally smash his skull in shortly, but credit where it’s due, he’s a lookerandhe deserves what’s coming to him. ‘And then it ran off. Sorry, you surprised me.’
‘I’ve a habit of shocking the ladies. Sorry. The wee bugger won’t have gotten far. We’ll find them soon enough.’
As previously demonstrated, I am not a natural with animals so I don’t have a clue where to start with trying to get one to voluntarily come to me. I follow Harry’s lead and say, ‘Here, boy,’ while hunching over and tapping my thigh. After a minute or so of this, Angus isn’t for showing himself. Harry walks into the area totally uncovered by CCTV to try his luck there. I follow behind.
‘You can ditch the bag if you want. There’s no one else around today, just me. I promise not to steal it.’
I leave it up against the kennel wall, removing the hammer, which I hold behind my back. There’s a thick bush, which I point to and say, ‘I think I saw him in there.’
Harry creeps quicker now, right up to it. ‘You there, boy?’
As he bends down, I run behind him and crack his skull with the hammer. The first blow sinks him to his knees. His arms curl over his head to protect himself but he’s so confused he doesn’t know what he’s up against. He leaves the crown of his head exposed and it’s two more cracks and he’s unconscious. Two more, then he’s dead.
