Savage Moon

Two

Jon stood in front of the draining board the next morning, unscrewing caps of dirty feeding bottles and dropping them into the sink full of warm water. His eyes felt itchy and tired and he raised his hands to rub them. But his fingers were covered in soapy bubbles and he had to use the heels of his palms instead. It only made them feel worse.

He leaned to the side and scooped a spoonful of muesli into his mouth. As he did so his eye caught on the row of photos stuck to the fridge door by an assortment of coloured magnets. His and Alice's wedding day. Chewing on the cereal, he stared with a slight smile at an image of his wife. She'd picked a simple white off-the-shoulder dress with a gossamer shawl that shimmered in the sunlight. Unusually for Alice, she'd worn her hair up, clips carefully arranged so that a few strands hung down at the sides of her face.

They'd opted for a registry office, much to both of their mothers' disappointment, but Alice was keen to get married before the baby arrived and it was their only option at such short notice. After a brief debate during which Jon felt he was being guided to the right answers by Alice, they'd decided on a humanist wedding. He wasn't bothered whether it was religious or not, but his mum still went to her local Catholic church every Sunday and he could sense her disappointment deepen.

The day itself had been clear and crisp, pale blue May skies, blossoming chestnuts swaying in the light breeze. The sort of day when you could feel the world easing itself into the start of summer. He had been nervous before the ceremony, anticipating that the gravity of the commitments they were about to make would slam home at any moment. But the impact never came and he'd floated through the day feeling like he was playing a lead part in some sort of strange play.

For after the ceremony they'd booked a function room at the Marriott hotel, close to where Alice's mum lived in Worseley. It was meant to be a small, simple and inexpensive reception, but the guest list soon began to multiply. Jon remembered their slight argument when he'd added the names of his team mates from Cheadle Ironsides rugby club. Probably wasn't such a good move after all, he now admitted to himself, remembering the flaming sambuccas that had begun appearing towards the end of the night.

Half way through the evening, in a brief moment alone with Alice, he'd mentioned how surreal everything felt, almost as if he was at someone else's wedding entirely. To his relief she had immediately agreed, gushing that it all felt like a dream to her too. Just in time he'd stopped himself from saying that wasn't quite what he'd meant. Instead, he'd sat back and lit a celebratory cigar, grinning as Rick, his friend and colleague, expertly twirled Alice around the small dance floor.

He looked down at the silver wedding band on his finger, still finding the sight of it there slightly bizarre. Shaking his head, he turned back to the sink and scrubbed at the bottles with a small brush. Satisfied they were clean, he lined them up in the rack, shoved it in the microwave and turned the dial to three minutes on full power.

Christ, he thought, what did I actually do with my time before this baby was born?

Punch sat in his basket patiently watching Jon's every move. 'I know, I'll be ready in a minute,' he said with a self-conscious glance towards the door, aware of how Alice laughed at him for chatting to the dog. Once he'd eaten the remainder of his cereal, he crouched in front of the washing machine and started emptying damp babygrows and bibs into a plastic washing basket. Turning the key in the back door, he stepped out into their yard and began hanging the miniature items from the clothesline.

The sun was just clearing the end of the alleyway and a horizontal shaft of orange light cut across the top of the yard walls. Punch came padding out, nose to the ground, to begin his usual check around. When he reached the wooden door leading into the alleyway itself he stopped and began sniffing loudly.

Jon looked over his shoulder. 'Smell something boy? Some- thing been prowling about, hey?' He pegged out the last babygrow and ducked into the kitchen for the dog lead and his jacket. As soon as he unlocked the wooden door, Punch shoved his way past Jon's legs and began excitedly cutting back and forth across the cobbles. Jon looked to the side. Their bin had been tipped over and the refuse sack partially dragged out. Something had ripped it open and removed the remains of the chicken they'd eaten two nights before. Bones were scattered around, pieces of vertebrae crushed and mangled. 'Bastard foxes,' Jon muttered to himself, thinking how he'd have to sweep the mess up later. Punch's head was down and he was snorting away at the base of the yard wall opposite. Abruptly he turned around and sprayed some urine over the spot.

'Something been marking your territory? Well, Punch, if it comes over into our yard you'll see it off, won't you?'

The dog heard the words 'see it off ' and began to look around eagerly at the tops of the walls, tongue hanging from his open mouth. It was the phrase Jon used whenever they spotted a squirrel in the local park and it was Punch's cue for a mad dash towards the smaller animal. Jon knew his dog was doomed to eternal failure in his chases, but it amused him to see his pet frantically dancing around a tree trunk, excitedly barking up at the branches.

'Come on then, I haven't got long.' He set off towards the end of the alley, cold autumnal air clearing his head. Out on Shawbrook Road the yellowing leaves were beginning to curl and drop from the trees. Kicking aside spiky horse chestnut shells, Jon thought about how it was getting dark by seven-thirty each evening. The clocks would go back in another few days and then things would get really miserable. Bloody great.

He reached the grounds of Heaton School five minutes later, striding along the track that dissected the playing fields, Punch keeping pace off to his side like a hunting party's outrider. As he skirted the edge of Heaton Moor Golf Course he looked across the dew-covered grass at the bunkers full of damp sand. Cobwebs glistened on the clusters of gorse bushes that crouched in the still morning air and curls of steam rose where the sun's rays sliced through the trees to his side.

Ten minutes later he was back home and unlocking the kitchen door. Punch waited obediently as his wet paws were dried with an old towel, then they both stepped back into the house.

Silence.

Jon took off his coat, grabbed a bin liner and the dustpan and brush, then went back out into the alley and swept up the scattering of bones. After dumping them in the fresh bag, he placed the ripped bag inside it too and walked back into the kitchen. He made a cup of tea, then climbed the stairs and peered into their dimly lit room. Alice was lying on her side with the duvet peeled back. Holly's tiny body was alongside her, face pressed against an exposed breast. Jon could smell the slightly musty aroma of milk.

'She scoffing again?' he said, placing the cup of tea on the bedside table.

Alice smiled. She had a serene expression on her face and it was one Jon had never seen until she'd become pregnant. It carried a suggestion of peace and contentment and he was always delighted to see it. 'She woke up as you took Punch out. Did you clean his paws before you came in?'

Irritation suddenly needled him. He could sense Alice's mounting resentment of his dog — now the baby had arrived, Punch had dropped in her affection. He had even spotted her looking at the animal with obvious distaste.

'Course I did. So she's been feeding a good quarter of an hour then?'

'I suppose so, I think she's about full.'

'I should hope so. She took almost six ounces just before five this morning.'

Jon realised that, though they were talking to each other, both of their eyes were glued to the baby.

'I thought I heard you moving around. I wasn't sure if it was a dream.'

Jon sat down and passed a hand over the sheen of pale hair covering his daughter's head. Her skull was so warm and he had the urge to kick off his shoes and climb in beside them. Sod work and the bunch of dirty old men he was trying to protect.

'What are you up to today?' he asked.

Alice reflected for a moment. 'Thought I'd skip into Manchester for a spot of shopping, pop into the gym for a massage and sauna, have lunch in Tampopo then go to the cinema or theatre. Or I could sit in all day with this gum-toothed little monster latched on to my tit.'

Jon looked at her, relieved to see she was smiling.

'Actually, your mum's coming over and we're going to the park. Might stop for a coffee somewhere. I may even end up doing the feeding thing in public,' she said, raising her eyebrows and nodding down at her swollen breasts.

Jon frowned. 'That's not a problem, is it?'

She hunched a shoulder. 'Some people can be funny. You know, they reckon it shouldn't be done outside.'

Jon shook his head. 'That's totally wrong. It's the most natural thing in the world.'

Alice put on an upper class voice. 'Not very civilised though, is it?'

He let out a snort, then remembered the scene from their back yard. 'Did you hear that bloody cat screeching in the night?'

Alice was looking back down, attention almost completely absorbed by her baby. 'No.'

'God, it was a horrible noise. I can see where the word caterwaul comes from. It was on our back wall, something down in the alley was really putting the shits up it.' He paused. 'Which park are you going to?'

'I don't know. Probably Stockport Little Moor, walk along the river there.'

Jon glanced at her mischievously. 'Well, don't stray from the path, OK? What if the thing scaring the cat last night was the Monster of the Moor? It's only twenty miles away from here. It could have crept down from the hills looking for fresh meat.' Alice glanced up, looking alarmed. 'Jon, stop it! That's horrible.'

He grinned sheepishly, surprised at her reaction. 'It's only a joke Ali.'

'Well,' she said, hand cupping Holly's head protectively. 'It's not funny. Imagine being that poor woman. Your last memory some savage black beast lunging at your throat. What's happening with that anyway?'

Jon's eyes lingered on his wife. The outburst wasn't like her. He'd noticed a few since the birth. Brief flashes of insecurity, even tears at the most trivial of human interest stories from the news. He shrugged. 'The local bobbies out near Mossley Brow are dealing with it. Apparently they've called in some expert in charge of the panther enclosure at Buxton zoo. He's giving them advice on how best to trap it.' He grinned. 'Last I heard there was a proposal to draft in a regiment from the Paras to stake out the moor with lamb chops.'

'Oh, that's ridiculous.' Her hand moved across to Holly's crown then back to her forehead. Rhythmic, soothing, even though their daughter wasn't crying. 'There must be a better way of catching it. People aren't safe with that thing roaming around.'

Jon felt himself frowning. What had happened to her sense of humour? He thought back, trying to remember the last time he'd heard her laughing. When she was working as a beautician she'd always be giggling, relaying the gossip from the salon, recounting Melvyn's outrageous exploits in the Gay Village. Too much time in the house, that was the problem. He hooked a frizzy strand of hair from her face. 'Hey Ali, why don't you leave Holly with my mum and nip into Melvyn's for a haircut? Your work mates, they'd love to see you.'

'It's not a barber's, Jon. He'll be fully booked for days.' Suddenly she shuddered. 'You've put me off now. We'll probably end up going to the Trafford Centre.'

Jon pictured the gargantuan shopping centre on the eastern edge of Manchester. 'I'd rather take my chances with the Monster of the Moor than the hordes of zombies shuffling around in that place. And give Melvyn a call; the treat's on me, all right?'