Savage Moon

'The dog could do with bloody tranquillisers.'

'I need somewhere for Punch to stay.'

'What's wrong with your own house?'

'Problems with the missus.'

There was a pause and Jon knew the implications of his answer were sinking in. 'You'd better bring him round, then. Not that you'd remember, but training finishes about eight-thirty. Any time after that.'

Jon pulled up outside Senior's house just before ten. The lights were on downstairs and in the corner of the front garden was the usual pile of tackling bags and training bollards. It always amazed Jon how the things were never stolen — but every kid on the nearby estate knew not to aggravate the Sullivans. If Senior didn't find you, one of his two equally stocky sons would.

Jon opened the boot of his car. 'Come on boy, got a new place for you to stay. Just for a bit.'

He could see Punch had sensed the fake cheer in his voice. The dog didn't move. 'Come on, you can kip next to Bess tonight. You remember Bess? You play around with her on the touchline.'

Punch sat up and looked at the house.

'That's it. Come on.' He patted his hand against his thigh. Warily, Punch jumped down. Jon scooped up the dog bowl and biscuits, folded up the blanket and carried it all up to Senior's front door. It was opened by Judith, Senior's wife. A neatly dressed woman in her late fifties, she ruled the Sullivan household with a rod of iron. The fact that Senior, who used a non-stop stream of profanities in the rugby club, didn't dare swear in his own house was testimony to that.

'Come in, Jon,' she said, drying her hands on a flowery apron.

'He's in the telly room.'

Jon stepped inside, Punch sticking close to his heels.

'Have you eaten? There's some cheese and biscuits out.'

'No, I'm fine thanks,' said Jon, placing Punch's things on the mat.

'What about you?' she addressed Punch, whose stump of a tail finally began to wag. 'Have you had your supper?'

Jon thought guiltily about the chip shop saveloy he'd tossed to him earlier. 'That would be great, Judith. I'll bring some tins round tomorrow.'

'No need,' she replied, still looking at Punch. 'We've got crates of the stuff. Come on then, Bess is in the kitchen.'

Jon watched as she led Punch away. Bess appeared in the kitchen doorway and the two dogs touched noses, then squeezed past to sniff each other's rear end. Feeling a lot happier, Jon pushed the door open on his right.

Senior was in his armchair, slippers on in place of his shoes, stumpy legs stretched out before him.

'All right, Senior?' Jon asked, placing his mobile phone on the coffee table before slumping on to the sofa.

'Yes,' Senior replied, reaching for the remote and killing the TV's volume. His bull neck swivelled round and he looked at Jon. 'Getting the overtime in then? Hoping for that promotion?' Jon slid his fingers along the armrest. 'Hoping to get a good night's sleep.'

'What about this case? You're not seriously after some wild animal, are you?'

Jon shook his head. 'We've got someone in mind, don't worry.'

Seeing that was all the information he was going to get, Senior harumphed. 'So, Punch needs a crash pad then?'

Jon sighed. 'It would be a massive favour, believe me.' Senior glanced to the door. 'She hasn't kicked your sorry arse out too?' he said, deciding it was safe to swear.

'Not yet.'

'Any reason for all this?'

From his tone, Jon knew that Senior meant was there any rational reason, something that a male brain could understand. How to answer? Somehow he didn't think Senior would have much time for words like hormones or depression. 'She's been feeling down recently. Tired out as much as anything.'

'What, too tired to walk the dog?'

'No, the dog thing's different. She thinks that Punch could be, well, sort of a threat, you know? To Holly.'

'Come again?'

Judith stepped into the room with two cups of tea.

'Cheers,' Jon said, sitting up to take one. He cleared his throat before continuing. 'Punch was licking Holly on the head. Alice was, I mean is, afraid the dog's jealous. Basically, she's worried Punch might bite the baby.'

Judith and Senior touched glances.

'Our kids used to ride around on our boxer dog's back. Remember Bruno, Judith? Lovely breed boxers, no threat at all.' Judith crossed her arms. 'That's hardly a help to Jon and Alice is it? How are you both finding it with the baby?'

'Well, hard work. But we knew it would be. Alice is feeling pretty exhausted to be honest.'

'Is she sleeping all right? It's not easy being a mother.'

Jon thought about her raising her two boys. Junior and Rob. They both played for Ironsides and were enough of a handful on the pitch. 'You're right,' he answered, feeling himself opening up. 'She's not herself. A colleague with some experience of this mentioned post-natal depression.'

'Oh, you poor loves,' Judith said, a concerned expression on her face. 'You must make sure she has plenty of company, people to do things for her. Can I help out? Maybe do the shopping or clean the house?'

Jon smiled. 'That's really kind, but looking after Punch is help enough. Both our mums are around; at least Alice's will be back from holiday soon.'

'Well, you just say. I'll cook you some meals, that's always a help.' She left the room, apparently to start straightaway.

Senior waited for a second before leaning over to Jon. 'What's she depressed about?' he asked suspiciously.

Jon sipped at his tea. 'Nothing in particular. She feels anxious all the time. Now I look back, I can see how odd she's been. She was going on about Iraq the other night. Worrying about the fact civilians are being killed.'

'Jesus Christ,' Senior stated ominously.

Jon gave him a questioning glance but Senior shook his head.

'Come on Senior, what?'

The other man glanced at the door again. Keeping his voice low, he said, 'There's going to be some shit hitting the fan soon.'

'What do you mean?'

'I was at a regimental dinner the other day. There was a lot of chat about what's going on over there. Stuff that won't do your missus any good when it makes the news.'

'Go on.'

'They've been getting a bit too rough with a lot of prisoners.'

'Too rough?'

Senior hunched a shoulder. 'It goes on during any conflict. The problem is those bloody things.' He directed his gaze to Jon's mobile phone. 'They've been photographing it, and now images are leaking out.'

'From where?'

'The big prison in Baghdad. The one the Yanks took over from Saddam Hussain. Abu Ghraib. They're really laying into the prisoners they've got locked up in there. More than just scaring them with guard dogs.'

'Doing what then?'

'One photo had this hooded guy balancing on a stool. Wires hanging off him.'

'A prisoner?'

'Someone they'd pulled in. A terrorist probably. There was more. A few had died during interrogation. Wrapped up in cling film, probably suffocated.'

Jon stared at him in disbelief.

'Don't look so shocked, it's a war, Slicer. You can't pussyfoot around.'

'No, but aren't there conventions for this sort of thing?' Senior raised his eyebrows. 'Like the enemy'd stick to?

They're sawing people's heads off, remember?'

'Those gung-ho Yanks are a bloody liability.'

Senior fixed him with a cold stare. 'I gathered there are photos from Basra too. Our boys aren't blameless either. Anyway, don't tell me you've never got carried away with some little thief you've nicked.'

Jon pictured the times when he'd lost control. There'd been quite a few, but never amounting to more than a few bruises on the suspect. A broken tooth on one occasion. But then he thought of the politicians selling the reason for the invasion with smoothly delivered words. 'Yeah, but our whole approach over there is promising a change from Saddam, introduce peace, freedom, democracy. We're meant to be the good guys.'