Dear reader/listener,
Welcome to the new season of BadFiction, the podcast where I read you short little pieces from the back places of my brain. Last season was a little messy, but I think I’ve worked out how to run things now. No guarentee it will be run smoothly, but that’s what we’re aiming for.
This is the first episode. I hope you like it.
If you enjoy this story, you can buy me a coffee at www.buymeacoffee.com/olliefrancis or you can become a regular supporter on Patreon, where I currently have precisely zero supporters as of September 2024, so, hey, come be my first Patreon, why not? I'm also releasing more long form fiction there so you can get semi-regular instalments of my novel Futuredebt as a thank you. It's a story about love, fate, the most boring sort of time travel I could think of and one woman raging against the dying of the light. Basically it's about what to do if you know the future: embrace it or fight it? You can take a look at www.patreon.com/olliefrancis .
But for now, I just want to say thank you for tuning in to this new season. Hopefully I can learn from my mistakes and make this one a good one. And I really want to get better at this, so if there's anything you think I could be doing differently, let me know. I'm here to grow.
I've rattled on for long enough. I promised you a story, so here it is.
This is BadFiction.
Good Girl
Chord around his fingers, tight so she won't run. He knows he doesn't need to. He's trained her well. He could walk to the other side of the commons and she wouldn't move a muscle until he told her. Still, his fingers pinch at the rope, unwilling to let go.
Part of it is just for show, he tells himself. If he is seen, he doesn't want anyone to worry. He wants them to see he's got a tight grip on the lead. Nobody in any danger, not that there was any risk of danger in the first place. Not from her. She's a big softie, really. Just wants cuddles and walks. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Timid as anything when the cars hurl themselves past on the main road. Not that he takes her near the main road anymore. Too many people driving past not minding their own business. Too many things in the news, stupid stories about stupid owners who didn't know what to do or how to look after the animals proper. Idiots. They probably never even fed them right. Ruined it for everybody else. Not like him. No. Not like him. He's been on it since day one - since the second he got her, measuring out her servings to the gram on a set of bathroom scales. Not that the scales measured to the gram. Not that exact. But most folk just pour it out until the bowl's full, refilling the thing whenever it empties. You could give them a heart attack doing that. Totally wrong. People like that shouldn't be allowed to own a dog. Not like him. Not like him at all. No, he looked after her proper. He knew what he was doing. *Knows* what he's doing. Not that that will matter much longer.
Her bowl's in a carrier bag by his side now, along with a sack of dry mix. It's just to make her feel comfortable. In the new place Wherever that ends up. A part of him needs to know. But he doesn't have a clue. It was part of the deal. He wasn't to know. Not allowed, they said. Stupid. He could just follow them, if he really wanted to, and find out that way. He's fast on his bike. Got an electric motor fitted a couple of months ago so he's been buzzing around all over on it. He knows the shortcuts round here as well. Could probably keep up with them dead easy, even if they was in a car. Probably. If he wanted to. So it's stupid they wont tell him.
She sniffs at his leg. There's treats in his pocket and she knows it. Always does. Sometimes she nibbles at his joggers, trying to get at them. She's made holes in them, dumb thing. Can smell 'em. Likes the ones in the purple packet most. Beef. And she knows how to get 'em. She knows she's got be a good girl. Proper still. Proper quiet. That's what he's taught her. Never says boo to a goose, she don't, even when them cyclists from Greenacre come screaming down the path too fast every time they're out on a walk, she never even flinches. And it's good for them that she don't. She could have any of them off them bikes in a moment if she wanted and they know it. You'd think they'd have learned their lesson after what happened. But now they have something to prove. That's why they still do it. Why they come so close like that. They're testing her. Which really means they're testing him. But he's trained her good since then. They go round the corner and ride out of sight, hollering like animals, and she just sits there. Then he gives her a treat. If she's been a good girl. Which she always is. Every time, now.
He twists the rope. Should of worn gloves. His fingers are already white, like undercooked sausages. He swaps hands and buries his fingers into her neck, where the skin's always warmest. She loves it when he does that. It's her favourite place for a tickle. He should tell them that, when they get here. They should know that sort of thing. And the sort of things she don't like as much. Not that she would do anything dangerous if they did it wrong. Soft as a puppy. Totally, totally harmless. Not even a fly.
He kicks at a stone and it bounds across the tarmac.
That's what makes the whole thing so unfair. Not a fly. Just a big puppy.
He ruffles her head and she licks his fingers. Harmless, see? Just a big softy. Gets scared in the storms. Doesn't like the wind on the estate. Cuddles up close when it rains. Big softy. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Not a fly.
He flinches at the sound of the van pulling into the car park. White. Unmarked. For a second he's worried it might be the coppers. Ban came in last night so technically he's an unlicenced owner. And there's a real crackdown. First day 'n all. Pig's 'll be out looking to make an example of someone like him. but the guys who climb out of it don't look nothing like coppers. Still, meeting in a place like this, out in the open, like, makes it a bit obvious if someone was watching. Doesn't make much sense in his mind. But that's what they said. Maybe he was glad - yeah, he was glad in a way. Didn't want them to know where he lived. Not because he's worried. Nah, mate. It's just that he doesn't know them. Friend of a friend of a friend. Y'know?
He stands there with her as they open up the back and then he has to hand over the lead. No handshake. Don't even seem to notice him, to be honest. Just take the lead and pull her up into the van. No conversation. Nothing. Could have tied her to a lamppost and it wouldn't have made no difference. It's a bit weird. He's used to talking. He tries talking. They grunt. Don't even look at him. Why won't they look at him? Is that a bad sign? Or is it a good one? He don't know. Maybe it's best to make as little contact as possible. Just in case. Not that he would tell anyone. Not that there's much to tell. Friend of a friend knows someone who's take her. Meet 'em here, 2pm.
It's quarter past.
He feels weird about this. It don't feel right. But he knows that it's better than the alternative. He don't want that for her. A cold death on a slab somewhere. No. No, this is better. This is better.
They shut the doors on her. No rear window for her to look through. Or him. That's it. Not even a last look. He wonders if he should ask them to open up, just for a second, so he can say goodbye, proper like. But then they're thanking him with a wave of their hand and in they get, engine still running, and then (slight rev on the grass to get back over the path and onto the road) they're away.
It's cold out. His fingers still feel the rope around them, cutting into them, but there's nowhere to warm them now.
He stuffs them in his pockets.
It's time to go home.
https://www.dogstrust.org.uk/dog-advice/life-with-your-dog/at-home/american-bully-xl
You can give one-off support at www.buymeacoffee.com/olliefrancis
You can become a regular supporter at www.patreon.com/olliefrancis
All background music and audio effects were taken from the YouTube Audio Library. They were:
East West by John Patitucci
No.8 Requiem by Esther Abrami
Where in Literally by pATCHES
Entangled Life by Lish Grooves
Everything else was written, made and messed around by Ollie Francis, who is me.
You should stop reading these notes now. Honestly, there are more interesting things to do with your life. I mean, I'm really enjoying writing them but I have no idea why. Anyway, if you do read this leave a comment. I don't think I have a comments section, so maybe just write it on the back of your hand. Up to you. You never know, it could end up a nice conversation starter if someone asks you about it.
Good Girl