Chapter 17

“You stole from Mrs Thompson’s garden?”

“Why do you think I’m bleeding?”

“I take it the bite wasn’t Mrs Thompson?” The old woman had it for her to bite, and Jay wasn’t sure he didn’t mean literally. Her bark was appalling enough. He took the plants and set them aside resisting the temptation to let Dean lose a little more plasma while he searched for a pot. Choosing to be generous, Jay washed his own hands, instructing Dean to do the same. Dean hissed as he exposed his wound to water. How gratifying to know the antiseptic would sting so much more. By the time Dean turned off the tap, the first-aid box lay open, all Jay needed set out on the table. He hooked a chair out with his foot—a silent order.

Not until they both sat did the position strike Jay as too close, too intimate, as well as ridiculous, not unlike the necessity to push back the too big, too baggy sleeves of his jumper.

“Toffee or Fudge?” Mrs Thompson owned two vicious Pomeranians.