October skies

Sean needed some thinking time. Julian Cooke’s project sounded intriguing.

Watson returned with the stick wedged in his teeth, flecks of saliva across his muzzle. He dropped it at Sean’s feet and sat obediently.

‘Good boy,’ Sean muttered perfunctorily as he scooped it up and tossed it as far as he could towards the spinney.

It seemed Julian had landed on his feet with this find. From what Sean had been told of the story, and from the compilation of fantastically moody footage he had seen on the laptop, there was easily the makings of an hour’s worth of fine-looking documentary. But Julian was quite right to be thinking bigger. This could also be written up as a docu-drama; there were film rights and book rights that could be sold on the back of it. The Mormon angle of the story was also very intriguing. With increasing media attention being focused on the wildcard Mormon independent presidential candidate, William Shepherd, there was a topical relevance to this story.

He looked up at the darkening sky. It was near six, and the dull glow of a drab October day was fast fading.

Watson’s walk was going to be a short one this evening. Sean wanted to get back and put together some notes. If he wanted to fast-track an editorial decision, he needed to sell the project internally. Tonight he’d put together a sales pitch, which he would float across a few desks first thing in the morning.

Watson returned with the stick, and this time Sean tossed it hard into the undergrowth of the spinney.

Let him work off some energy rooting around for it in there.

The labrador hurled himself in amongst the trees in hot pursuit, kicking up fallen leaves and twigs in his wake.

Sean pulled a small plastic freezer baggie out of his pocket and shoved his hand in, pulling it back over his wrist so it was like a glove. He grimaced slightly, still not entirely used to the unpleasant task of scooping up a warm one.

Watson should be just about ready to deliver the goods.

He heard the dog scampering around in amongst the trees and bushes, cracking twigs under-paw and gruffing and growling with frustration looking for the correct branch.

Sean felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of taking off with this project. Julian’s pitch had sold it, but then seeing Rose’s showreel — moody footage of thick and dark woods, mist undulating through the trees, the haunted feel of a clearing in the woods, the moss-covered humps, the slow and steady zoom-in on the rotting wood of a wagon wheel…

‘Marvellous stuff,’ he muttered to himself.

Up ahead, deep amongst the undergrowth, he could hear Watson still scampering about like an idiot.

He laughed quietly — a truly thick dog.

Come on, dummy, one stick’s just as good as another.

Yes, tomorrow morning Sean would get the ball rolling and return to Julian with a firm offer within a day. They needed to be quick. Whilst there was a good working relationship between them, he was certain Julian wouldn’t walk away from a better offer, elsewhere. After all, money’s mon Watson yelped.

‘Watson? Here boy!’ Sean called out.

It was silent across the manicured lawns, except for the rustling of a light breeze through the branches and dry leaves, and the distant rumble of traffic around the three distant sides of the common.

‘Watson?’ he called out with a sing-song timbre that usually brought the daft dog to him. ‘Here boy!’

Nothing.

Sean felt a prickling of concern. Watson never, ever ignored him like that. He half walked, half jogged over towards the edge of the spinney and looked inside for the telltale flash of his chestnut-coloured coat in amongst the foliage.

There was no sign of him.

‘Watson?’

He took several quick steps forward, off the well-clipped grass onto a thickening mat of dead, crispy leaves, twigs, acorn husks and conker shells. Sean wasn’t terribly keen on stepping too much further inside. He turned to look back out at the common. There were a few people around; a couple roller-blading along one of the tarmac paths, another two or three dog owners walking their dogs, a group of teenagers chatting on a bench several hundred yards away.

He wasn’t exactly alone, but in the gathering gloom of early evening, he might as well be.

‘Watson! Dammit! Come here!’

Shit.

It was on Wimbledon Common not so long ago that a woman had been stabbed to death by a care-in-the-community type, a lost and tormented man who’d been convinced that every blonde-haired woman was an agent of Satan, coming to extract his soul and take it down to the underworld.

Sean instinctively reached down and fumbled for a twig big enough to call a branch and grabbed hold of it. It felt reassuring in his hand.

Just in case.

Emboldened, he advanced further in, pushing through a thorny bush that effectively obscured him from view to those few people out on the common. Something must have happened to Watson if he wasn’t answering. Perhaps he had found a rabbit hole and taken a tumble, or run headlong into a tree trunk and stunned himself; he was that stupid a dog.