Chapter 3
Chapter three
Rhys
Filming days are long and grueling. We condense a nine-week season into just a few days of filming.
I put in the hours, keep the grin wide even when my nerves are fraying at the edges.
It gives me the perfect excuse to become unsociable afterwards.
No one even asks me anymore. I’m Mr. Happy for the rest of the month. Social and approachable.
But what no one realizes is that these unsociable evenings are my gift to myself.
Where I go home bone-tired and do the opposite of sleep.
I research my itch; the part of me that can't be sated by a camera or an operating table.
Holding a cherished pet's life in my hands doesn't bring the same peace as my nocturnal activity, because that pet is fundamentally good.
Strays give me even less thrill because their need for sympathy is greater.
I thought maybe euthanasia of a dangerous dog might cure the itch, but even the most aggressive dog is simply a product of its owner's treatment.
The only thing that eases the itch is holding the life of someone truly guilty in my hands.
The pressure of someone hanging between life and death, with my scalpel the only thing that can save them. That is what I long for. The clarity to make the decisions society refuses to make.
Tonight, I have a puppy farm in my sights. They won’t be missed.
The expected exhaustion from my filming commitment gives me the perfect cover, and when the media broadcasts about the situation, I can use it to highlight the sins hidden behind a puppy's wagging tail. I'll be hiding in plain sight, just like every time before.
It's a long drive, but everyone at the practice is so accustomed to my first-day tiredness, they won't think anything of it. Everything I need is checked and double-checked in my duffel bag. I'm ready.
The routine never changes. Routine keeps mistakes from creeping in. Gloves first, folded neatly beside the bag. Then the syringes, already prepared and labelled in my careful handwriting. A second set goes in as a backup. I rarely need them, but planning for failure keeps failure at bay.
A small torch. Spare number plates. A clean change of clothes sealed in plastic.
Finally, the scalpel case.
I open it for a moment, letting the lamplight glide across the steel. The instruments are polished to a mirror shine, every edge sharpened earlier in the week while the rest of the practice chat about weekend plans.
To them, it looks like diligence. A vet caring for his tools.
To me, it is preparation.
I close the case with a quiet click and slide it back into the bag.
Bypassing my usual car, I unlock the Metro kept safely stored in my garage. Something small and unobtrusive, unlike my day-to-day Land Rover. Something that wouldn't link my presence to the puppy farm.
My companion for the drive is an audiobook of Persuasion, the film airing tonight on my lonely TV, its only companion is a side lamp on a side table. Signs of life, should the night shift glance out of the practice windows toward my home.
The plot will be fresh in my mind should anyone wish to test my alibi.
The motorway is almost empty at this hour. My headlights sweep across reflective signs and hedgerows while the narrator of Persuasion murmurs politely from the speakers.
Jane Austen understood restraint. Characters living entire lives inside carefully maintained appearances. Smiles and manners hiding desperation and regret.
I suspect she would understand me.
I pass dark farmhouses and sleeping villages, each window glowing faintly against the countryside. Somewhere behind those windows, people are cuddling their dogs on sofas, scratching soft ears and laughing when tails knock against furniture.
They imagine puppies appearing in pet shop windows as if by magic.
They never imagine the kennels.
As I arrive at the dark puppy farm, the lovely Miss Elliott wins her man and her future.
Gravel crunches softly beneath my tires as I pull the Metro off the road and into the shadow beside the hedgerow. I switch off the engine and sit for a moment in the sudden quiet. The itch builds slowly, rising from my spine to the base of my neck.
Even from here I can smell the place. A sour mix of damp straw, disinfectant, and a wet dog.
The kennel block sits low against the ground, a long metal structure with narrow windows glowing yellow through the darkness. Somewhere inside, a dog shifts, and a single bark echoes briefly before falling silent again.
They’ve trained them well.
Too well.
The place is silent. Dogs aren’t allowed to bark here for long.
The kennel block is lit. A single light burns in the house where the owners live.
Well, it seemed my two targets were currently apart, a blessing for me. I chose the house first; the single light made their location easier to predict, and if they were expecting the second owner to return at some point, it meant the door would be unlocked.
I am an expert at this. I know more about Frank and Derek Hardwood than they know about each other.
They are lazy, self-centered and greedy. They cut corners on everything, including security.
The front door of the farmhouse opens with the barest creak. I’m inside within three minutes.
Derek is in the kitchen, with his back to the slightly open door separating us. Even with his back turned, I don’t take chances. He’s facing the window, and if he glances up…
The itch grows between my shoulder blades, restless and impatient.
Finally, the moment arrives. Derek steps forward to rinse something in the sink, his shoulders turning away from the door.
I move with quiet steps. I barely breathe.
My hand closes over his mouth before he can inhale properly. The syringe slides into his neck with the same smooth motion I use on a nervous dog.
His body jerks once in shock.
For four seconds, we watch ourselves in the reflection of the kitchen window. His eyes are wide. Mine are calm.
Then the drug reaches his bloodstream.
His body slumps, and I lower with him, letting him slip to the floor. Duct tape around his wrists, ankles, and mouth finishes the job.
Unconscious bodies are heavy, but I’m used to moving dead weight.
I have little to do with the large animal side of the veterinary practice, but I do my bit during calving season, and that's all the excuse I need to keep in shape.
Derek takes up most of the trunk space in my tiny hatchback. I rarely do double abductions, but I'll make a special arrangement for puppy farming. The compact car may necessitate these brothers getting uncomfortably close; the cops won’t look twice at any CCTV I appear on.