Chapter Text
“And you know what to do if anyone calls, or, god forbid, shows up with an animal?” Sam said through the driver side window of her Golf GTI.
“Direct them to the emergency vet on Charles Street,” I replied for the fourth time. I had the entire route memorised and printed maps behind the desk just in case.
“Right,” she said, unconvinced.
“Sam, we’re outside of opening times, I’m going to be here for three hours, and then I lock up. It’s going to be fine,” I reassured her again.
“And you’re okay to get home?”
“Got my trusty stallion,” I said, nodding my head at where she was chained up at the front of the clinic.
“I can’t believe you still ride that antique. It doesn’t even have gears.”
“It’s a classic fixie! And it gets me home faster than the bus, especially at night.”
She smiled indulgently. One more push.
“Go on, you’ll miss your train. Congratulate Jacqueline for me.”
“She has no idea who you are, Alan,” she said, as she fired up the ignition.
“It’s just what you’re supposed to say,” I said, stepping back to wave her off.
Sam was sweet, and a really good boss, but I’m pretty sure she saw me as approximately ten years younger than I actually was. I had to beg her to delegate anything, and if I wanted to be do any real work, especially with the animals, I’d learned to just do it rather than telling her, because no matter how overworked she was she’d instantly take it on herself. Just to convince her to let me to lock up so she could get away early for her sister’s wedding had been a struggle. There weren’t even any animals here overnight – unless you counted the fox that sniffed around the bins before I’d had the tamper-proof clasps installed. All I had to do was hold the fort for a few hours, finish the stocktake, turn off the computers, check the alarms and lock the doors.
What the hell was that noise?
Usually I liked being on my own. Being on my own meant I could do things at my own pace. Doing things at my own pace meant bursts of work followed by periods of thinking and planning which, to the outside observer, could look a lot like leaning back in my chair with my fingers interlaced behind my head, staring into space. But it also meant that there was no-one who was supposed to be here who could be making that crashing noise of splintering glass from the stockroom, and no-one here that I could say “hey, what was that noise?” to, and there was definitely no-one around who would tell me I was overreacting as I crept towards the stockroom door, white-knuckling a broom-handle.
There was a fucking bear in there.
First of all, there was no way there could be a fucking bear in there, I told myself, panting, as I stared at it and it stared at me. This was England, not… Russia. Or Canada. Or somewhere else where you might expect to see a huge, seven-foot, furry creature rifling through the contents of a smashed medicine cabinet.
It had to be a bear, right? It was standing on its hind legs and, although it was hard to tell in the dark, with the only light coming from the distant streetlights and low bright moon well outside the smashed window, it was huge and bulky and covered in fur and those were definitely teeth and that’s quite a big muzzle for a bear and are bears that fast-
When I blinked, it was gone again. Hands still shaking, I reached out and flipped the light switch. The door to the medical supplies cabinet swung crazily on one hinge, each swoop sending a few more shards of glass tinkling to the ground. The floor was covered with various cardboard boxes, strips of gauze, pieces of broken glass and, now I could actually see, a fair few small pools of blood. My rational brain started to catch up with my animal terror which had gotten a massive head start. I lowered the broom and began absent-mindedly sweeping as I began to piece together what must have happened. First of all, not a bear, obviously. Not an animal either. A guy. A thief. They’d broken the window looking for drugs. Ketamine, probably, but the small supply we kept on hand was locked in the safe with the rest of the controlled substances and that was in the back office. So, I should call the police, and check what was stolen. Reverse that order, perhaps, in case they pulled up, sirens blaring, to find out the only thing missing was a roll of animal-themed bandages.
I tipped the broken glass into a strong black bin liner and was just about to tie it off when I noticed a shard that I’d missed, wedged under the cabinet. I gently teased it out using the pads of my fingers and dropped it into the bag. The thief must have cut himself pretty bad on the window or the glass door of the cabinet, because there were little spots of blood everywhere. Despite everything I couldn’t help wishing he was okay. I didn’t really want to call the cops on him if I could help it and make whatever he was going through worse. On the other hand, it wasn’t like I’d gotten a good look at him so they’d probably just hassle the nearest homeless guy they could find which would have been what they were planning to do with their Friday evening anyway. The guy hadn’t hurt anyone, just snarled in my face and jumped out of the window.
That had been what had happened, hadn’t it?
I picked up my stocktaking clipboard, which was still sitting on the table where I’d left it, next to my uneaten sandwich from lunch. While I’d been putting boxes back I’d been mentally tallying them against the numbers I’d jotted down earlier in the day and I was pretty sure nothing was actually missing. Some bandages and antiseptic, and, assuming I’d counted properly on the last delivery, about a 200 count of amoxycillin. Good luck getting high on that, I thought, as I swabbed the floor with disinfectant.
The more I thought about it, and the more my heart slowed down from its mile a minute marathon, there wasn’t much point calling the police after all. I’d report the break-in on the non-emergency line, get a crime number for the insurance and that’d be it. The one thing I definitely wouldn’t do is call Sam. She’d be mad on Monday, but if I told her now she’d be on the first train back, and it had taken weeks to wear her down into taking the time off. Of course, that meant boarding up the broken window before I could leave tonight. Handyman wasn’t exactly my skillset, and there was an Ikea bookshelf at home that could give the leaning tower of Pisa a run for its money to prove it, but I was confident I could manage this, at least.
Two hours later I was much sweatier and less sure of my practical skills. The window was more or less secure, but I’d hammered bruises onto three of my fingers and opened a nasty gash on the side of my hand where one of the boards had slipped while I was nailing it in place. Still, as long as I imagined my hand was a nervous dachshund or something I was pretty sure I could clean, sterilise and wrap it competently. The wound drawer was already opened so acting on instinct I slipped my hand into the compartment where I knew the antibacterial spray was and howled in agony as I impaled it.
Shaking, I drew out my hand, now with the attractive new addition of a wicked sliver of glass piercing through the sensitive web between thumb and forefinger. Blood dripped down it as I stared, shallow, fast, staccato breathing making my whole body shake.
“Gnngh,” I winced as I carefully pulled the shard free and laid it on the counter. Now I had wounds on both hands. If I went for the feet as well I could cosplay as Jesus for Halloween, except I clearly lacked the requisite carpentry skills. Moving far more carefully, I cleaned and wrapped the newer, more severe wound, then clumsily did the same for the original self inflicted gash. I looked ridiculous with both hands bandaged, but on the bright side I was unlikely to have the manual dexterity to cause any further injuries to myself.
I sat on the office chair and sighed as I looked around, ignoring the throbbing coming from my heavily bandaged hands. The stocktake was complete, the window was secure enough, and if the cabinet was still broken, it was at least organised and tidy. Everything else could wait until Monday morning, surely? I was suddenly very tired, and the gentle moonlight streaming in between the boards over the window was actually making me pretty sleepy.
I needed to get home, fast, before I dozed off at work. I forced myself to jump out of the chair, and slapped myself awake. I checked the boards were firmly attached, turned out the lights, activated the alarm and locked the door, waiting for the chime that would tell me everything had been properly closed off. Cycling home with two bandaged hands was going to be a challenge, but if I took it slowly and kept to the less bumpy residential roads I should be fine. With the moon it wasn’t even that dark out, I thought, looking straight up at its bright silver glow.
***
I woke with mud in my mouth and an especially pointy stick jabbing me in the hip. Woodlice scattered as I pushed myself upright, spitting, from the pile of leaf mould where I lay. My body felt impossibly heavy and absurdly light at the same time and my head spun like I’d drunk an entire bottle of cheap whisky. Had I drunk an entire bottle of cheap whisky? It wasn’t the sort of thing I normally did.
I didn’t normally sleep naked in the woods, either.
Birds were twittering away in the trees above me and I pressed my hands to the side of my head, hoping that I could stop the trees spinning round me by applying an equal and opposite motion to my brain. My hair felt weird under my hands. My hands felt weird on my head. My mouth felt like I’d eaten a mouse and it might still be in there. My throat ached like I’d been screaming for hours. Every bit of me was moving in ways that made me want to throw up.
As far as I could tell, I had three major problems. One, I had no idea where I was or how I’d got there. Two, I was stark naked and my clothes were nowhere to be seen. Three, I was sick or hallucinating or drugged because every time I looked down I was convinced that I could see – and feel – a fairly substantial pair of tits.