Read Online The Murder Bag by Tony Parsons - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tony Parsons
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are only having a laugh.
I tried to walk away as they chuckled and chatted among themselves but Stan stopped for a sniff of a bin. Then he squatted on his hind legs, looking shyly at me as he emptied his bowels. I scooped the three little droppings up in a bag, tied a knot, and placed the bag in the bin. They turned their attention back to my dog, pointing and leering. They had decided that Stan was here for their amusement.
And that was their big mistake.
‘Walk on,’ I said.
Stan’s melancholy eyes rolled up to look at me. He made no attempt to move.
The men roared.
‘Walk on!’ the weightlifter said. ‘Do you hear him? Walk on, he says! Hey, mate, does he bite? Or does he just suck your cock?’
I was looking down at Stan. He had never taken his eyes off me, and he seemed to flatten himself even lower now, his tail stiff and quivering between his legs, the paws either side of his head, the giant ears hanging down like shoulder-length hair, his chin pressed against the concrete.
It had to happen one day.
He had to learn fear sooner or later.
We all have to learn fear.
But it seemed a crying shame that it was today when I felt so grateful to him, genuinely grateful, for joining me and Scout in our family portrait on her classroom wall.
‘Walk on,’ I said.
Still Stan did not move.
‘Not very obedient, is he, man?’ the weightlifter said.
There was a confusion of cities in his accent. London and Los Angeles and Islamabad. And the very worst of all of those places.
I wrapped the old leather dog lead around an empty bench in a loose knot and turned to the men.
‘I wasn’t talking to the dog,’ I said, walking towards them.
The weightlifter stood up, his smile fading, and he opened his mouth to say something just as I punched him in the heart.
One punch.
Right hand.
Full force.
They don’t do it in the movies. But the heart is the very worst place to be hit hard. You really don’t want to get hit in the heart.
It was a punch that began in the pivoting sole of my left boot and travelled up the muscles in my left leg, gaining full momentum with my twisting torso and then racing down my right arm into the first two knuckles on my right fist.
Less than a second after it had begun its journey, the punch slammed with enormous force against the man’s sternum, right on the flat bone at the front of the chest where the upper ribs are attached by cartilage just in front of the heart.
I can never understand why nobody ever punches the heart. Drunks in a bar fight would not think of punching their opponent’s heart. Street fighters at closing time would never dream of hitting a man in his heart. The average yob, like these three very average yobs in Charterhouse Square, know nothing about a blow to the heart.
But I knew.
The heart is everything.
The weightlifter staggered backwards, his hands on his heart, reeling from the trauma of chest compression. He sat back down on the bench, between his dumb friends, the fight all out of him. The punch had collapsed his sternum maybe an inch, no more, but it was devastating enough to shock the heart.
I looked at the other two, their faces already frozen. They didn’t know what to do now. I didn’t expect them to. And I looked at the weightlifter, clutching his chest, pawing at his collapsed sternum, and I could see that he lacked the will to get back up.
It was more than just the shock of being punched in the heart. The punch had induced tachycardia – an abrupt and terrifying increase in the heart rate.
He felt like his heart was about to explode.
He felt like he was dying.
I walked back to my dog and rubbed his neck.
‘This is Stan,’ I told them. ‘Stan is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Cavs are the most peace-loving dogs in the world. They are famous for being mild-mannered and polite. Great with children. They were the favourite dog of the Tudor and Stuart kings because of their gentle nature – the gentle nature that you can still see
I tried to walk away as they chuckled and chatted among themselves but Stan stopped for a sniff of a bin. Then he squatted on his hind legs, looking shyly at me as he emptied his bowels. I scooped the three little droppings up in a bag, tied a knot, and placed the bag in the bin. They turned their attention back to my dog, pointing and leering. They had decided that Stan was here for their amusement.
And that was their big mistake.
‘Walk on,’ I said.
Stan’s melancholy eyes rolled up to look at me. He made no attempt to move.
The men roared.
‘Walk on!’ the weightlifter said. ‘Do you hear him? Walk on, he says! Hey, mate, does he bite? Or does he just suck your cock?’
I was looking down at Stan. He had never taken his eyes off me, and he seemed to flatten himself even lower now, his tail stiff and quivering between his legs, the paws either side of his head, the giant ears hanging down like shoulder-length hair, his chin pressed against the concrete.
It had to happen one day.
He had to learn fear sooner or later.
We all have to learn fear.
But it seemed a crying shame that it was today when I felt so grateful to him, genuinely grateful, for joining me and Scout in our family portrait on her classroom wall.
‘Walk on,’ I said.
Still Stan did not move.
‘Not very obedient, is he, man?’ the weightlifter said.
There was a confusion of cities in his accent. London and Los Angeles and Islamabad. And the very worst of all of those places.
I wrapped the old leather dog lead around an empty bench in a loose knot and turned to the men.
‘I wasn’t talking to the dog,’ I said, walking towards them.
The weightlifter stood up, his smile fading, and he opened his mouth to say something just as I punched him in the heart.
One punch.
Right hand.
Full force.
They don’t do it in the movies. But the heart is the very worst place to be hit hard. You really don’t want to get hit in the heart.
It was a punch that began in the pivoting sole of my left boot and travelled up the muscles in my left leg, gaining full momentum with my twisting torso and then racing down my right arm into the first two knuckles on my right fist.
Less than a second after it had begun its journey, the punch slammed with enormous force against the man’s sternum, right on the flat bone at the front of the chest where the upper ribs are attached by cartilage just in front of the heart.
I can never understand why nobody ever punches the heart. Drunks in a bar fight would not think of punching their opponent’s heart. Street fighters at closing time would never dream of hitting a man in his heart. The average yob, like these three very average yobs in Charterhouse Square, know nothing about a blow to the heart.
But I knew.
The heart is everything.
The weightlifter staggered backwards, his hands on his heart, reeling from the trauma of chest compression. He sat back down on the bench, between his dumb friends, the fight all out of him. The punch had collapsed his sternum maybe an inch, no more, but it was devastating enough to shock the heart.
I looked at the other two, their faces already frozen. They didn’t know what to do now. I didn’t expect them to. And I looked at the weightlifter, clutching his chest, pawing at his collapsed sternum, and I could see that he lacked the will to get back up.
It was more than just the shock of being punched in the heart. The punch had induced tachycardia – an abrupt and terrifying increase in the heart rate.
He felt like his heart was about to explode.
He felt like he was dying.
I walked back to my dog and rubbed his neck.
‘This is Stan,’ I told them. ‘Stan is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Cavs are the most peace-loving dogs in the world. They are famous for being mild-mannered and polite. Great with children. They were the favourite dog of the Tudor and Stuart kings because of their gentle nature – the gentle nature that you can still see
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