Knock knock?

Who’s there

Poo.

Poo who?

Andy King.

This was the height of break time bants. King, who was the bully, was dead. Tied up with a collection of skipping ropes liberated from the /out of bounds/ classroom, his struggle had proved an interruption too much to the gang – who now also risked being caught entering the asbestos ridden prefab classroom – and so they had thrown him into the pit. The joke had been earlier.

Quite why a school had a pit was anyone’s guess. It was always supposed that it had been intended as a pond, something possible but unlikely given its position behind the glimmering blue panels of the fenced off classroom. No matter, it was there, it was big, and it was deep. As soon as King had started to struggle and to shout in his high pitched whine, the gang had pushed his chair over to its back and dragged it out of the three steps to the edge of the pit. There, they had spoken.

“King, you’re dead meat”

Sometimes, the linguistic finesse of a young child can surprise you. This was not one of the occasions.

With a small tap of Albert’s left foot – still bleeding after King’s earlier attack – the chair toppled over the edge of the pit and fell. Unlikely as it sounds, they did not hear any landing or splash. The chair, and King, were gone.

“No one talks about this.” Albert was fierce when he was not asleep, and so there was no risk that anyone would disagree. Not only had they trespassed – a foul of the school rules that would almost certainly lead to a detention – but they appeared to have killed King. More detention. Expulsion even. They’d not got as far as contemplating the police.

The bell wasn’t sure to sound for another five to ten minutes, a timescale that varied depending on whose watch they consulted. Paul, who contested that his digital watch was the most accurate and should be believed, said it was 10 minutes. That would be good, if so. Time for an alibi.

Inside the school grounds there was an old fashioned quad between four underwhelming brick buildings, that failed to live up to the grandeur to which they had aspired.

Barked at the postman, at the other dogs, at his reflection in the TV or the glass cabinet door of the book shelves. He’d bark if he was lonely, at night, in the morning. For food. To go outside. To play.

This was, as you would expect, quite normal. Being a Cavapoo called Bryan, the level of expectation on his ability to speak beyond a bark was non-existent. This was before Tuesday.

On Tuesday, Bryan began to talk.

Nothing /particularly/ unusual had happened in the lead up to this. It’s true that the Smith family had been on holiday and, whilst it was unusual, had witnessed the most fantastic display of the northern lights. Unusual not just for the time of year, but also to have witnessed them from their holiday cottage in the lake district.

It is also true, at least in so much as anything ever can be, that the Smiths found that they had lost track of time whilst looking at the amazing etherial display. On arriving home – a perfectly ordinary mid-victorian terrace on the outskirts of Sheffield – they were a day late. Mr Smith’s work might well have tried to call, but his mobile had also broken whilst they were away.

So Tuesday morning – which should have been Monday morning if not for the confusion – saw Bryan walk happily up towards Mr and Mrs Smith, tail wagging, as they emerged bleary eyed into the kitchen.

“Morning, dog” said Mr Smith.

“Morning” said Bryan.

There are times where a lack of coffee can excuse the thought that a furry smell machine is the cause of miscellaneous chat. This was /almost/ one of the occasions. It would have been, had Bryan not continued

“Sleep well”

There was no mistaking this for the sound of a dog farting, and Mr Smith found himself not knowing how to reply.

“I said, Sleep well?” repeated Bryan, who seemed irritated by Mr Smith’s lack of conversational finesse.

The wall was especially hard on Mr Smith when he stepped back into it in shock, banging his head and then bumping forwards into Mrs Smith who had just joined him in the kitchen.

“Did you hear that?” He asked?

“Uh?”

Mrs Smith hadn’t yet had her coffee.

“Bryan just spoke to me.”

By this time, Bryan had got bored and wandered over to the doormat where he sat, licking his bottom. Mrs Smith looked down at him, and he raised his head, smiled, and wagged his tail.

“He asked if Id had a good sleep!”

Mrs Smith looked at her husband with exasperation, and not for the first time.