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  “Over here, doggie, over here! Look, a treat!” the security man said.

  The white beast snapped its mighty jaws, severing the man’s head from his body and swallowing it in one gulp.

  Another round of gasps were heard as the man’s headless body fell to the floor. The white beast scanned the room and locked eyes with a horrified Winston, then thrust its body at him.

  Winston ducked out of the way as the dog overshot him and crashed onto the piano, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Winston had to find a way out, but the front door was still being choked by fleeing party guests who were quickly learning that, contrary to what they had been taught their whole lives, not all creatures in the world were intimidated by social status and witty repartee.

  Winston saw his only way out was the way he’d come in.

  Winston broke into a dead run through the reception room and into the corridor leading back to the rear entrance. Just behind him he could hear the raging ball of white fur smashing its way through the house after him.

  Winston shot out of the rear entrance and attempted to shut the massive oak door behind him. He knew if he could get it to lock just one more time it might buy him enough time to get back to his van. He tried in vain to re-assemble the shattered pieces of the Stonebridge Lock then heard the dog approach the door on the other side. Winston went for broke, slid the latch closed, and raced off.

  Behind him, he heard the dog attempt to smash its way through the door as he had throughout the rest of the manor.

  But the Stonebridge Lock had not yet been defeated. As if knowing its day of reckoning had come, the lock miraculously held on to life and kept the door locked tight for a few moments more, as if it knew it was more honourable to die in battle than to be smashed to bits by a baboon with a couple of sharp stones.

  The dog bounced off the back of the door, ending up on its side. Shaking off the confusion, it stood and hurled itself at the door once more. The door bulged from the force, its rotting oak slats splintering into pieces and sending tiny metal bits everywhere, but the lock held again.

  Outside, Winston was desperate for a place to hide. He could see by the moonlight the extensive grounds were made up mostly of grasses, flower gardens, and low-lying hills, none of which could provide anything approximating decent cover. He briefly considered making a run for the orchard on the far side of the car park, but given the time of year, the trees were mostly bare branches that would be of little use now. He was done for.

  Meanwhile, the dog continued its assault on the rear entrance door, and after three more painful attempts, the Stonebridge Lock, which had kept the valuables and inhabitants of Stonebridge Manor secure for so many centuries, lost its eternal battle with the forces of change and shattered into bits as the door broke apart and fell to the ground.

  The dog hopped out into the cold night air and scanned the area. Its eyes were particularly well suited to seeing in the darkness with only the tiniest shred of moonlight to go by, but it saw no sign of anyone.

  The dog then closed its eyes and raised its mighty snout into the wind. It gave two quick sniffs of the air.

  Its eyes snapped open as it caught a scent and turned its head towards the car park. With two more sniffs, it sauntered over to a row of cars parked at the edge of the gravel drive.

  From underneath a Silver Shadow, Winston could see the dog’s massive paws approaching the cars and cursed the goopy brown stuff that now covered his tuxedo jacket. It smelled of a rotten onion that had fermented in the shorts of a football player during a long semi-final match on a humid summer afternoon. It didn’t take a bloodhound to pick up that scent as it was making his own eyes water.

  The dog walked up to the first car, planted its snout underneath the chassis, and gave a sniff.

  It moved to the next car. A black Maybach this time that sat low to the ground. The dog put its snout next to the rear tire and gave another sniff.

  The dog turned and moved on, this time approaching a classic Rolls Royce Silver Shadow in British racing green. It gave one sniff and its eyes popped open. It had found its prey. It buried its nose under the rear bumper and flicked its head back, tipping the car over onto its roof and filling the night air with the sound of crunching metal.

  Underneath, the dog found the source of the smell: Winston’s tuxedo jacket.

  But Winston was gone.

  The dog jerked its head up and scanned the area again. This time it caught sight of a fleeing Winston as he hit the edge of the car park, leapt over a small fence, and raced through the orchard toward the edge of the cliff.

  The dog jumped onto the overturned Silver Shadow and let out a loud howl, then ran after Winston.

  Winston wasn’t sure where he was going any more. His van, and any hope of getting out alive, were in the opposite direction. In front of him lay nothing but a small orchard and a few hundred feet of sheer cliff. His mind raced to find a solution but he was quickly running out of options. He needed time to think.

  Winston stopped running and turned around to face his nemesis. The dog had slowed its pace, sensing Winston had nowhere else to run. It opened its jaws and began to drool in anticipation.

  “Nice doggie…niiiiice doggie….look, if this is about that ‘stupid mutt’ comment back there, I take it back. Totally uncalled for. Just a bit of banter, right?”

  The dog was not moved by Winston’s apology.

  Winston thought he should take stock of his life as it reached its conclusion. Contemplate the life lessons he’d learned and atone for all the people he may have wronged in the past. Given how long a list that was, though, he probably didn’t have the time.

  Besides, all that Winston could think about now was how ridiculous it was going to sound at his wake when the vicar revealed that he’d died being eaten by a giant dog while wearing a cat costume. It would probably get a laugh in church. And rightfully so, Winston thought. It was funny. Had his whole life come to this? Was his obituary really going to say “Winston Lamb–Bit of a bell end but at least his death was good for a laugh”?

  Big red ball, his brain told him.

  Winston could see a big red ball nearby, but shook the distraction out of his head. He was supposed to be concentrating on his demise. He wondered why he was finding it so hard to do so.

  The dog opened its jaws, letting drool spill everywhere as a growl began to build from the back of its throat.

  Big red ball, the thought came again.

  Winston hated how he was always so distracted by ideas all the time. They would just run rampant through his brain, keeping him up at night. They used to be helpful, back during the good old days. Now they just got in the way. Like she used to…

  Big red ball!! his mind shouted at him.

  Suddenly it clicked in Winston’s mind. The big red ball was just like the one he’d seen in the dog’s bed in the study. It wasn’t just a ball–it was a dog toy.

  Winston snatched up the ball and held it in the creature’s view. The dog ignored the gesture, licking its lips. Winston could see scraps of the security man’s collar still caught in its teeth.

  “Doggie want to fetch?” Winston asked, going for broke. “Huh? Fetch, doggie! Fetch!!” Winston threw the ball.

  At first, the dog was unimpressed by the display as it reached striking distance of Winston’s head, its growl growing louder.

  Then the growl cut off as the dog snapped its head to look over to where the red ball was bouncing in the grass.

  The dog shook off the thought and returned its full attention to the Winston-burger it was about to enjoy.

  Then the dog’s attention snapped back to the ball. Then back to Winston. Back and forth it went before finally giving off an annoyed huff and running toward where the red ball had stopped rolling in the grass.

  Winston got to his feet and made a break for it. He could see the lights of a neighbouring manor house a bit further down and knew he might have a chance if he could reach it.

  As Winston ran he co
uld hear a fast-approaching galloping sound coming up from behind and suddenly felt the dog’s muzzle ram him and sent him tumbling end over end. He settled on his back and looked up to find a very annoyed white hell beast with a red ball in its mouth.

  The dog dropped the ball and licked its lips, ready to eat. It walked up to Winston and put a paw on his chest.

  Winston was just able to reach the big red ball and held it up for the dog to see.

  “Doggie want to play fetch again? Eh? C’mon, you know you do,” Winston said, and threw the ball as far as he could.

  Once again, the dog fought valiantly against the urge to be distracted, but once again gave in to temptation and went bounding after the ball.

  Winston hopped onto his feet and continued running for all it was worth. He was close to the other house now and had only to get over the next rise to reach it.

  But as he sprinted over the summit, Winston quickly learned three hard lessons about rambling along the cliffs of the British coastline. The first was that it is hard to see in the dark. The second was when one cannot see in the dark one is in danger of missing small details in the terrain, such as when the sea cuts deep canyons into the coastline that are easily hidden from view by small rises. The third was that mud is slippery.

  Winston vaulted over the top of the rise and saw too late that a large canyon stood between him and the neighbouring manor house. His attempts to stop running were in vain given the wet, soggy ground and Winston felt his feet slip out from under him and his inertia toss him over the side of the canyon.

  Winston flailed about, trying to grab anything to keep him from falling onto the jagged stones that lay tens of metres down at the bottom. Just in time, he felt his fingers wrap around an old tree root that stuck out from the crumbling edge of the cliff. He grabbed it with both hands as he felt his legs dangle over the edge.

  A few moments later, the dog appeared above him. He dropped the red ball in his mouth and Winston watched it roll past and fall into the canyon below him.

  “Okay, I get it, you’re still upset,” Winston said as he gripped the tree root for dear life. “But tell you what. If you help me back up I’ll let you smell my arse. Yeah? How about that? I know you mutts are really into that…”

  The dog began to growl again. Deeper this time, as if starting from further back in the throat. It stepped to the very edge of the cliff and lowered its head. Winston could see his head was now in range of its jaws and there was crap all he could do to duck him this time. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of that poor security man back at the party.

  “Moolsem, stop,” came a familiar voice from the distance. The dog reluctantly stepped back.

  A moment later, Lady Devon appeared at the cliff edge and peered down at Winston’s dangling body.

  “Well, it appears dear Moolsem has caught another stray cat on our grounds.”

  “Yes…very good….” Winston said.

  “I don’t think we’ve been acquainted. My name is Lady Nigella Devon, level twenty-eight witch, and the host for this evening. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure?” Nigella asked.

  “Just call me Cat,” Winston said.

  “Yes, well Mr Cat, I feel I have to apologise for Moolsem’s behaviour. He is generally very sweet but can get a bit grumpy when he’s woken from his nap. You should feel quite privileged. Normally, only my most generous of patrons ever have a chance to meet him.”

  Winston suddenly got her furry joke from before and groaned inside.

  “Now I am curious as to why someone in the…private investigation business I’m assuming?…would be so keen on ruining a fundraising event that I have put so much work into over the past few months. You upset a lot of very important people. The least you can do to make up for your rudeness is tell me who would want to hire someone with your…skills.”

  Winston saw that Lady Devon had little use for a plastic mask at a fancy dress party. She wore her own face like one.

  “Tell you what, Lady Devon Level Twenty-Eight Witch, why don’t you help me up here and we can have a civilised conversation?” Winston asked, feeing the root starting to give way a bit.

  “Please, call me Nigella. Lady Devon is so formal and reserved for only my furthest acquaintances,” she said. She made no effort to help Winston up.

  “I have a question for you then,” Winston said. “Where did Rover here come from?” he said, nodding his head toward Moolsem. “You and I both know he’s not supposed to be here. It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. But you will have to tell the authorities when one of your guests calls the police.”

  Nigella smiled and crouched down. “You know, Mr Cat, when one reaches the higher levels of witch training as I have…I am a level twenty-eight…one of the most important lessons you are taught is the art of finesse. The mark of a truly great witch is one who uses the smallest spell possible, in the smallest possible quantity, to get the job done.”

  Nigella reached over to Moolsem’s paw and plucked out Winston’s lock-pick. Moolsem gave a sharp huff of breath, but didn’t move.

  “Sometimes it takes only the tiniest nudge to get the job done effectively. It is an astonishing philosophy.” Nigella produced a tiny wand from the folders of her gown and with the flick of a wrist, produced a small bottle of witching powder. Wetting her fingers, she rubbed a bit of the powder on the tip of her wand.

  “This is intended, of course, to prevent unnecessary harm from coming to innocent bystanders while one performs one’s witching duties. But I believe it to be a good philosophy of life. Because life is so precious, and fragile. It comes from dust and ultimately…must return to it…”

  Nigella waved her wand over the lock-pick. It turned brown and gray and seemed to crack. As if on cue, the breeze picked up and the end of the pick began to fall away and blow off into the wind. Bit by bit, the lock-pick disappeared until it was gone.

  “I’m a humane person, Mr Cat. I believe in doing my bit to help my fellow man. I just feel it would be good etiquette on your part to tell me who hired you. Otherwise I might get upset. And Moolsem hates it when I’m upset, don’t you?”

  Nigella ran her hand through Moolsem’s thick white fur and he growled at Winston.

  Winston looked down at the darkness below, knowing it was a long way down.

  Dammit, he thought. Dammit dammit dammit!

  A thousand escape plans ran through his mind and exactly none of them involved him getting away injury-free from a razor-toothed hell beast and a level twenty-eight witch.

  His hands were starting to tingle. They couldn’t hold on for much longer. He had to do something.

  “You wouldn’t want your host to be upset, would you Mr Cat? The party never ends well when that happens,” Nigella said as she gently caressed her wand over the root Winston was clutching.

  Winston cried out in frustration. He knew what he had to do. He just didn’t like it. He really, really didn’t like it.

  Winston looked up at Moolsem. “I was right the first time,” he said to the dog. “You are a stupid mutt.”

  Winston let go of the root.

  Nigella and Moolsem watched with astonishment as Winston tumbled and fell into the darkness below. A moment later came the sound of a body splattering upon the jagged rocks of the shoreline below.

  Nigella sighed in disappointment. “Come along, dear. I’m sorry you won’t get to play with him today.”

  Nigella and Moolsem both turned from the cliff and walked back toward Stonebridge Manor.

  2

  A metallic clink sound pierced the silent darkness. Then another. Someone nearby was working with tools. They were also swearing under their breath. Beyond that, the sound of cars rushing past on a motorway. Very close. Just outside.

  Winston kept his eyes shut. He knew what would happen if he opened them and he just wanted a few moments of peace before the inevitable.

  He could feel that he was lying on his back on a cold metal floor. The smell of petrol, wet pavement an
d old burger wrappers permeated the air. There were raindrops sprinkling his face from somewhere above him and he could feel an ice-cold draught coming in from above.

  Then it clicked–he was in the back of his own van.

  Winston’s eyes popped open and he confirmed it. His attempts to sit up met with failure as he felt how badly his body had been mangled from his landing on the jagged rocks of the shoreline. As waves of excruciating pain rippled through his body, he took stock of the damage. Both legs seemed broken, as well as his neck and his spine in several places. He could feel multiple fractures in his skull and something unpleasant was oozing from his right ear. Pains of all kinds rocketed about his rib cage suggesting several of his major organs had been crushed beyond recognition as well.

  Another clink sound from outside, along with another tirade of expletives, drew his attention. Someone had the bonnet up and was working on the motor. Probably the same someone who had gone through a lot of trouble to scoop his mangled remains off the beach and bring him here. Someone who was not enjoying working on his van in the rain by the side of the M40. And based on the swearing, someone who had little hope of a career in children’s television.

  Winston felt his leg twitch uncontrollably. The process was beginning and he drew in a sharp breath in anticipation. This was always the worst part.

  His body seized violently as every bone, muscle, and joint exploded with pain. Winston cried out in pain as he felt his bones move about under his skin as they realigned themselves, shifting muscles and tendons around and stretching the outer skin to its limits.

  Winston’s shattered organs also began recombining and slogging their way through his abdomen to return to their rightful places. Winston heard himself screaming as his nervous system healed itself and made him feel as though his entire body were on fire, being stabbed with a thousand needles all at once.