Living Death Read Free

see was the wall lights on the end of the two rows of kennels, and their reflection in the wet tarmac yard. His first thought had been that there was a fire, but he couldn’t see any smoke, or smell any, either.
    He opened the window so that he could hear the dogs more clearly and there was no doubt that they were hysterical. He recognised at least two of them: Bullet, the young Welsh terrier, whose high-pitched yapping was always distinctive, and the throaty barking of Trippet, the Labrador.
    ‘What time are we?’ he asked Cleona, crossing over to the chair where his jeans and his brown cable-knit sweater were hanging.
    ‘Twenty past four,’ said Cleona. ‘What do you think’s wrong with them?’
    ‘That’s what I’m going down to find out.’
    ‘Well, for the love of God be careful. You can never be sure who’s prowling around these days. Hold on a moment and I’ll come down with you.’
    ‘No, pet, you stay here. I’ll call out for you if I need you.’
    Eoin struggled into his jeans, grabbing the side of the wardrobe to keep his balance, and then pulled on his sweater, so that his black curly hair stuck up. His eyes were puffy from lack of sleep and his head was thumping. It had been his thirty-eighth birthday yesterday, and since his birthday was on 31 October, he had celebrated as usual with a monster Hallowe’en party at Hurley’s.
    He switched on the landing light so that he could see his way down the steep, narrow stairs, but he didn’t switch on the light downstairs in the hallway. He doubted if the dogs had been disturbed by anybody more threatening than a petty pilferer – some Knacker looking to see if there were any tools or bicycles lying around. At this time of the morning it was even more likely to be a red fox, rummaging through their dustbins. If it was a prowler, though, he wanted to catch him by surprise, and he didn’t want to open the front door and appear as a backlit target. Sceolan Boarding Kennels was very isolated, with the next house nearly a kilometre away, and the village of Ballinspittle more than four, and Eoin was always cautious about security.
    Before he opened the front door, he looked out through the semi-circular window in it, but he could still see nothing but darkness, and rain, and the two lights at the end of the kennels. He pushed his bare feet into his wellington boots, picked up the ashwood hurley stick that he kept in the umbrella stand, and stepped outside. The wind was cold and blustery, and even though the gutters were gurgling, the rain seemed to be easing off a little. The dogs were still barking, though, and as he crossed the yard, he thought that they sounded even more frantic. Marcus, a pedigree Labrador, was giving out a long convoluted howl like the Hound of the Baskervilles.
    When he reached the two parallel lines of kennels, he began to see why the dogs were so distressed. At least six or seven of the doors at the far end of the left-hand line were wide open. He broke into a run, gripping his hurley even tighter. The kennel doors were all fitted with alarms, which he religiously switched on at night, but clearly somebody had found a way to short-circuit them.
    As he reached the first of the open doors, he saw who the intruders were. Just out of sight of the house, a silver Range Rover and a large black Transit van were parked in the driveway that led down to the road. Two men were pulling a reluctant German Shepherd called Caesar into the side door of the van, while three more were walking back towards the kennels.
    Eoin stopped running, and stood where he was, holding up the hurley in both hands. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘What in the name of Jesus do you think you’re doing?’
    The three men said nothing at first, but kept on walking towards him until they were only five metres away. Two of them were wearing black windcheaters, and had scarves wrapped around the lower half of their faces, like jihadis, so that Eoin could see only their eyes. The