Neville the Less
Page 58
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Throughout this, Ava, with all of her doggy strength, had been struggling to keep her head above the seductive waves of sedation. She had bobbed to the surface when the cool night air came through the open window, bringing with it the smell of Burnt Bill. A niggling sense of wrongness had almost held her there - not quite, but almost - until an abrupt booming sound, a little like the dreaded thunder, had bounced her thirty centimetres into the air and landed her on trembling legs.
So intent had she become in that moment on finding enough focus to share between that rip-snorter of a noise and the jittery unease in her legs that her actual whereabouts had escaped her attention. No repetition of the sound? Give in to the demand of the legs then. Perhaps a little more sleep. But what’s this? A burning sensation in that flank? A line of tight, stinging veterinarian’s stitches? Just a nibble, then; and a lick. It was that taste of her own blood and the slightly delicious pain behind it that finally helped her clear her mind.
Wait on! Why’ve I even got these stitches? Where am I? Where’s Neville? And what’s this stale, closed-in, medicinal smell about?
It was the same smell, or elements of the same smell, as one that’d dropped over her when she’d . . . oh yes! Been startled in the garden! A hidden stake. Bolted into it, she had. Startled by something. Not quite certain how to free herself. Then a stern voice, a heavy cloth and darkness.
And now there’s the sound of that same voice. Same one as the one behind the hands that’d rolled her up. Not a bad person. Got me off that stake at least. But still, where’s . . . ?