Sunday, 8 February 2015

WASTWATER By Simon Stephens

When I was twelve I drowned a dog. At the back of the house where my first foster parents lived. Just south-east of Stoke. They had a house with a huge field and a lake behind it. Well, I say a huge field. It was more like a very big unusually attractive recreational ground. And I say lake, it was more like, what? A pond? My first foster father had a brother called Clive who lived in Swansea. He was a fucking rat-hole. He used to come and visit us. He had this dog. I say dog. It was more of a bundle of shit than a dog. He used to threaten me with it. He fell asleep. I took the dog for a walk. Hit it over the back of its skull with a brick that my first foster father kept in the garage because one day he was hoping to build his own extension. Stunned it. It became comically weary. Wobbled about a bit. I dragged it by its lead to the pond. Dragged it in. Held its head under the water. It didn't react for a long time. And then it did. Its legs got all tense. It thrashed about.
I had a heck of a time explaining why my skirt was wet. I can tell you that for nothing. How long have you been going grey for?
It didn't just happen when Alain rang, did it? Or did it? I bet it did, didn't it?
I like your watch. Where did you get that from?

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