The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2786 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

---

This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
*****

I kept watching Simon whose gaze was locked onto his mobile. There was no reply from his friend. “C’mon, Sean,” he kept saying.

“He might be looking for his daughter.”

“Yeah, ’course.”

We drove in silence each considering our own horror scenario. Going out to dinner or the football or a concert, or just for a walk—how dare some nasty little boys with guns and explosives kill people going about their legitimate business. I glanced at my white knuckles, I was holding the wheel very tight in my anger at the outrage perpetrated on the people of Paris. It wasn’t that long ago they had those murders at that satirical magazine, Charlie Hebdo or however you say it.

What made me want to laugh and be sick at the same time, was this was over religion, or so the criminals who perpetrated these atrocities would claim. What sort of god requires psychopaths with bombs and guns—not one I’d recognise. Then again, it’s not that long ago people who worshipped, or claimed to worship, Jesus were doing the equivalent and in places people still do—Uganda for one.

Rational thought suggests that this is politics dressed up in religion because if you claim god told you to do, no one can question you—although that didn’t save Joan of Arc from the English who were purportedly worshipping the same god.

No, people killing each other is clearly wrong, even the Ten Commandments got that right, but it doesn’t seem to stop them. We’d just had the lurid details of that little girl in Bristol who was murdered by her step-brother because of his sexual fantasies. How gross is that? His girlfriend, who didn’t look as if she had a full deck, helped him cut up her body and store it in a friend’s shed. How must her parents feel? I hated to think, and there was I wailing and crying because I lost a dormouse because I felt hurt. It pales by any comparison and I felt so sorry for them, as I do these people in Paris. What sort of ages would some of the victims there be? Not very old I’ll warrant.

I was driving on autopilot and suddenly realised we were approaching Portsmouth, what would happen if those lunatics attacked here? If they harmed any of my children... I didn’t know what I’d do, go mad or just die. I didn’t know. I felt a tear drip onto my lap.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Simon must have noticed.

“Nothing,” I said so quietly he must have lip read it to understand.

As I turned towards our home Simon’s phone peeped indicating a text message. He pressed buttons and retrieved the message, “He’s okay and so is his daughter, but she was at the place with all the shooting.”

“Poor kid.”

“Yeah, she’s just eighteen I think, he was taking her for her birthday treat. Some treat.”

“It’s not his fault a bunch of lunatics with Kalashnikovs and explosives gate-crashed the party, is it?”

“It’s the Isis people or whatever they’re calling themselves this week, is it?”

“Looks like,” I said as I pulled up in the drive. “Don’t say anything if the girls are still up, will you?”

“I might be thick but I’m not stupid.”

He was a bit cross that I told him we’d eaten his fishcakes, which are a delicacy, at least they are when David makes them with dill and parsley and then the watercress sauce is to die for. Creamed potatoes and few whole green beans—goodness, I could eat it again. I placed the thing in the microwave to warm it a little and he sat down and tucked into it while, Stella, Tom and I discussed the atrocities in France.

“I see the Yanks got that Jehadi John character, or so they think,” said Stella pointing to the Guardian.

“I won’t be sending any flowers,” I said and she agreed.

“Well I won’t be losing any sleep over him, cowardly monster, murdering people who were actually trying to help his so called people. In fact I shall sleep all the better knowing a missile hit his car, except he died quickly unlike his victims—the bastard.”

“They remind me of that story by William Golding, Lord of the Flies, where they got increasingly animalistic in their behaviour, like nasty six year olds who have no inhibitions about doing anything to anyone different or weaker than them.”

“That was absolutely delish,” said Simon, sipping a glass of Asti and burping up the fizz. “He’s an absolute genius.”

“If you think that was good, should have had the salmon he cooked yesterday, right Stella?”

“What? Oh yeah—anyway, I’m off to bed.”

“Me tae,” said Tom draining his glass.

“Were the girls okay?”

“Och, ye need tae ask?”

“Nah, just pretending to show an interest,” I threw back at him.

He shook his head and went off to bed.

I finished my wine, and rinsed out the glasses, then rinsed Simon’s plate and cutlery before popping them in the dishwasher. As I turned round he tapped his lap meaning for me to sit on it, instead Bramble jumped up using her crampons as brakes. He squealed and jumped up and got scratched some more as she jumped off and shot up the stairs, probably under Trish’s bed.

“Bloody cat,” he cursed rubbing his thighs.

“Well she thought you were wanting her to jump on your lap.”

“It was you I wanted, now I’m too sore.”

“Si, I’m not a cat or a dog, I don’t come when people snap their fingers or tap their laps. I’m an aristocrat’s wife and expect to be treated as one.”

The look I got was priceless before he started to laugh. “Coming from you, that is so funny. They’ll drum you out of the Guardian reading Lib Dems if they get to find out.”

I laughed at his joke as well and we went off up to bed where I got the job of cleaning up his wounds—well he could get cat scratch fever—my arse. I wiped them over with a flannel and then sprayed them with Savlon which is an iodine spray. He claimed it stung, I thought it was more likely just cold. I then covered them with some bandage to stop getting blood on the sheets. The way he limped about you’d think he’d just had a wrestling match with a fourteen foot long Bengal tiger, not eighteen inches of soppy domestic British short hair.

When I returned from the bathroom after sponging the blood from his trousers he was fast asleep. I admit I was somewhat relieved, it wasn’t that I didn’t love him but I wasn’t in the mood and listening to the news didn’t help that disinterest.

I cuddled into him and lay there feeling guilty made worse by how I felt when we first going out together when I’d have done anything for him to take me to bed and ravish me. I thought about those times and began to feel quite horny and was aware I was getting rather warm and sweaty.

I sat up and kissed him on the mouth and stroked his chest, “Darling...”

“Yeah, okay,” he said obviously fast asleep and then turned over on his side away from me. I could have screamed, instead I had to try and go to sleep when my body was now aching for him—why couldn’t I leave well alone? Oh poo.