I WOKE, stiff and freezing cold, around five thirty, to the thoroughly unpleasant sensation of my pocketed stick of Brighton rock poking me in the ribs and my face being buried in dog fur – a choking, sickening sensation that I cannot recommend, and which was almost as bad as my throbbing hangover.
As I opened my eyes I saw that the kitchen staff were making their way into the back of the White Hart. I was sorely tempted to follow them immediately into the warmth and comfort of the hotel but then I got up to stretch and my whole body felt like a damp firework exploding. I thought Pablo and I might take a quick walk around Lewes – just to loosen up and to clear my head.
I nudged the dog. The dog did not move in response. So I nudged him again. Once more, no response. I patted him gently. The body felt stiff.
We never quite established the cause of death of the poor creature: it could have been the cold, it could have been the shock of the fireworks, it could have been that he was a Club Row dog with a Club Row constitution. It could have been anything. All I knew at that moment, on the morning after the night of 5 November in Lewes, was that I had a dead dog on my hands and I had to do something about it.
I headed over to the hotel kitchen.
The brutal fact is that a body, any body, begins to decompose immediately after death. I’d seen it in Spain – and alas on my various outings with Morley. A dead body soon starts to give off a foul, sickening odour and to attract insects, and the hotter the temperature, the faster the rate of decomposition. In Spain, you were really only looking at a couple of hours before you were facing a serious problem. Admittedly, November in Sussex presents fewer problems, and of course a dog is just a dog while a human is a human, but a dead body is a dead body. I also knew from my previous experience with Morley that rigor mortis sets in pretty quickly, so ideally if you’re going to have to handle the remains at all you really want to get going before the full onset of stiffness and leakage. These are of course unpleasant matters to talk of – but then much of what is true in life is unpleasant.
There were three of them in the hotel kitchen. Two of them small and wiry, one of them an entirely more substantial sort of a fellow, a man who looked like he was capable of doing all his own butchery: I guessed kitchen porters and the chef.
‘Gents, good morning,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem out the back here.’
I had to repeat myself. They weren’t expecting anyone walking in the back door of the kitchen at five thirty in the morning: they were barely awake themselves. They looked at me, dumbfounded.
‘Gents,’ I said again, ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem here. And I wonder—’
The bigger of the men approached me, and despite the fact that he was now wearing chef’s whites rather than his smuggler costume, I immediately recognised that he was none other than the gallant gent who yesterday had picked up his companion lying at Miriam’s feet. I was relieved – or at least momentarily relieved. The man stared at me with ill-concealed disgust. Admittedly, I was not looking at my best. I hadn’t shaved, I was wearing the same faded blue serge suit I’d had on since we left London, and I’d slept outside in the cold, in the cart shed, and on flour sacks.
‘Get out,’ he said.
‘I’ve got a bit of a problem,’ I said.
‘You’re going to have more than a bit of a problem if you don’t get out of my kitchen,’ he said.
‘I’m a guest,’ I said.
‘And I’m the King of Siam,’ he said. ‘I said get out.’
‘It’s the dog,’ I said.
‘What’s the dog?’ he said.
‘A dog, a dead dog.’ And I tried to explain that I was a guest staying at the hotel and that one of the other chefs had kindly accommodated my dog on the flour sacks out the back yesterday and that he’d died. The story was so strange and unexpected, I could see that although he was struggling to understand, he was also inclined to believe me.
‘Come, come and see,’ I said.
And so the four of us trooped outside to the cart shed to see poor old Pablo.
He looked like a sleeping lamb, curled up, his ears flat against his long sad face, his fur its distinctive tinge of blue. The big fellow immediately took charge. He instructed one of his companions to go and fetch a sheet, and the other to fetch a bucket with some warm water and some rags.
‘Well, I’ll tell you what, this is a sorry business,’ he said.
‘It certainly is,’ I agreed.
‘Unaccountable bad.’
‘Indeed.’
‘You shouldn’t have left the dog out in the cold like that, and with the fireworks and all.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘That was a bit of a mistake.’
‘Bloody stupid is what it was.’
He said nothing more to me.
When his companions returned he set to work in silence, with me assisting, lifting the dog as he cleaned all around. I then helped him lift the body while the others laid out the sheet and we arranged the animal on the sheet, as if it were sleeping, and wrapped it up tightly. We then slid the body in its winding sheet into a flour bag and knotted it securely at the top with some string.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘We can’t just leave him out here,’ said the big man.
‘Obviously,’ I said.
‘But we’re not putting him in the kitchen.’
‘No, no, of course not.’
‘We need somewhere cool and secure,’ he said, glancing around.
‘I suppose I could put him in the back of the Lagonda,’ I said, nodding towards the vehicle, which I had conveniently parked behind the hotel the night before.
‘This is yours?’
‘It’s not mine exactly, but it’s … Well, yes, basically it’s mine,’ I said.
‘That’ll do then, if you’re sure. Lads.’
And so we laid Pablo to rest in the boot of the car.
‘Well, there you are,’ said the big man when we’d finished and we were all standing around, smoking. ‘We need to go and get on with the breakfast, lads. We’re behind.’
‘Thank you very much, gents,’ I said. ‘I’m Stephen Sefton.’ I shook their hands.
‘Ben,’ said the first.
‘Jake,’ said the second. ‘What breed of dog was that?’
‘It was a Bedlington,’ I said. ‘A Bedlington Terrier.’
‘I ain’t never seen a terrier like that,’ said Jake.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I suppose they’re not that common.’
‘I’m Bevis,’ said the big man, shaking my hand with obvious distaste.
‘Thank you, Bevis. I really appreciate you helping.’
‘I hope someone would do it for my dog,’ he said.
‘It’s not actually my dog,’ I began. ‘I’m just looking after it.’
‘Not your dog?’ said Bevis. ‘I thought you said—’
‘Well, it belongs … Actually, gentlemen, if you’d excuse me, I’m going to have to clear my head,’ I said, suddenly realising that I was going to have to work out how to break the bad news to Miriam.
‘Go down to the Ouse,’ said Jake, ‘that’ll do the job.’
‘Or the park,’ said Ben. ‘Or Pells Pool. It’s not far. Five-minute walk. You just go along Market Street. Nice spot.’
‘It’s not open though,’ said Jake. ‘They’ve been doing some work on the place.’
‘Aye, not for a swim, but. It’s a nice spot. That’ll clear your head all right.’
I had no idea exactly how quickly it would clear my head – and how quickly a bad morning was about to become considerably worse.