As The Crow Flies

Conn Duggan took one last look at the barbarous oak that had plagued him since moving into his home. It had stood for God knows how long. Decades before the house’s previous occupant, it was probably an acorn well before he was a boy. Conn laughed at the thought of the initial residents moving into their cozy 3 bed house in what was then the countryside. Surrounded by pubs and villages with names that manifested a fairytale memory of the now suburban metropolis. Names like ;Bramble Grove’ and ‘The Flaggy Mill’. Thankfully, thought Conn, their decrepit local had been bought by a client of his last year, and inside information told him it was soon to become a boutique grocers filled with far flung fancies.

The only threat this towering lump of oak posed to Conn was that one of its imposing branches might scratch his newly installed floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall sliding glass door. The new extension had been time consuming and labour intensive, but it had transformed what was once a quaint home into a modern manor. The single slab marble countertop that adorned the kitchen island had been lifted in by crane, thankfully remaining intact. Quite unlike the roadside curb that had cracked and crumbled under the immense weight of the gargantuan vehicle’s hydraulics. Jenn would need to get onto the council to get it repaired ASAP. The crumbling jagged concrete could play havoc to his Jaguar F-Pace’s tyres.

‘Built to traverse sandy dunes, grassy knolls, and mud ravaged fields, but all it takes is one shoddy edge to burst its 20 inch rims’ scoffed Conn. The lads’ barbs in the club were spot on, it was a lump of junk. More reason to upgrade to the new Evoque in January.

Simplicity was the spice of life and he had made it his goal to eliminate the unnecessary and streamline life. Cutting the grass, weeding flower beds, and sweeping up leaves were not in his future. Picking plate sized leaves off his windscreen was at least one problem that would be resolved by the end of the day. The only headache he would be unable to remove was cleaning up the dog shit from their Pomeranian, Dijon, that Jenn and the boys had convinced him to get. He was getting soft.

He was sure he was winning the battle for the garden however. He had crafted an immaculate Eden. From the kitchen, he looked out through the glass sliding door, a cream retractable awning covered a pristine patio, and from there a short set of steps rose to meet the rest of the garden. The newly painted grey fence framed his boundary wall, keeping peeping eyes away. They towered up from the rectangular raised beds, filled with a sea of stones, perforated with pillars on which to arrange potted succulents.

A crisp concrete path wrapped around and through the newly installed artificial grass. It was flawless. Soon he would even be able to hoover up any doggy blemishes from his neon green carpet. The garden’s foundation was underscored with an impenetrable tarpaulin membrane that prevented any sprouting, scurrying, or burrowing organism to infiltrate his plasticine paradise.

Although working from home, he made sure to be ‘off-site’ when the tree surgeons arrived. Jenn was far better equipped at managing their frank and colloquial ways. He would at the very least have to dodge her droning complaints when he returned home.

Upon arriving home that evening he was pleased to see the ghastly oak had been reduced to sawdust and was being swept up by the dregs of the labourers. He popped a chewing gum to quash any scent of cigarettes (the last thing he wanted to hear about), and strode into his home without glancing up.

Stepping over Dijon his voice echoed back across the black and white kitchen tiles. Jenn must have stepped out to pick up the kids from tennis camp. Besides from some furry yaps that would be silenced by some Pedigree Chum the house was his. He gave a furtive glance through the venetian blinds to ensure the help was leaving, if Jenn hadn’t sufficiently dealt with them he wouldn’t be answering the door.

Taking centre stage in his pristine kitchen he gazed in awe through the glass sliding door at his clinically clean yard. A freshly poured corner of concrete was hardening over the oak’s crypt. One air hole remained, to be periodically filled with epsom salts in order to salinate and dissolve the remnants of the roots. It would serve as a podium for his Weber Master Touch 12 Grill Barbecue. An instrument upon which he would play a symphony of steaks and small talk.

That summer felt particularly heated perched on his barbecue podium. The ground baked and bubbled under the unrelenting sun. A sweltering dead heat encompassed the garden from below as above. Jenn had taken the kids away to her parents’ place in Vale de Lobo for the week. It was just Conn and the dog until Friday when he would go over to join them. With ribs on the grill, beads of sweat hung from his crow’s nest and oozed through the folds in the back of his neck. His polo necked collar grew damp with deep navy patches. The awning hung uselessly, doing nothing but trapping the heat underneath. Its metal winch was even growing too hot to touch by the afternoon.

He escaped into the kitchen, shut the glass door behind him and swung open his wardrobe-sized fridge, basking in its cool glow. His fingers drummed the handle restlessly, another bottle of Peroni was sure to do nothing in this heat. He was scheduled to play 18 holes in Portmarnock tomorrow but was unsure how he would cope on the greens if he was currently slipping along the ceramic tiles underfoot. He seized another bottle anyway and panned across the black leather couch for an uncomfortably sweaty nap.

The next morning Conn woke to find Dijon had urinated in the kitchen, the yellow puddle seeped across the tiles in a thin expansive sticky film. Cursing the dog he chucked him out the back door with his breakfast and topped up the water bowl. He was already late and if yesterday was anything to go by, the puddle would have evaporated by the time he returned home.

A/C blasting, he sped along the coast and careened into the golf course parking lot, cursing every pedestrian and cyclist along the way.

‘Ready to sweat pigman?’ came the call from a nearby car window. It was Glenn, in a brand new Evoque.

Conn seethed to himself remembering how just last quarter he had told Glenn he would be putting down a deposit on a new model. The thought of ripping back out the drive and raining Glenn’s new treasure with gravel flashed across his mind. A brief moment of euphoria over enduring a full day of unsubtle automotive sledging seemed like a reasonable trade. He white knuckled his handbrake up and contorted a manic grin.

The sun rose as the day went on. Along the coast the breeze blew fresh across the ocean, pawing at his neck and chest like the Phuket barmaid from last summer. The trees that lined the fairways offered cooling respite from the sun’s persistent glare, while the chewed end of his cigar gave reprieve from the worst of the Evoque gibes. He even managed to pip Glenn for the furthest drive, albeit not out scoring him.

‘Drive for show, put for dough, and I put on a fucking show,’ smirked Conn to himself as he stepped back up into the driver’s seat. ‘Serves the smug prick right for sticking with that Titleist lump of shit. There was never any beating my Callaway, you just don’t pay that amount of money for second place.’

Sun-satisfied and sweat-sodden he tore home, avoiding any potential speed cameras on the way. He swung into the drive and listened to the satisfying crunch of gravel under the 7000lbs of steel and rubber. Slamming the car door behind him he looked up and cocked his ear at the acute silence. He checked his pockets,

‘Keys, wallet, phone.’ He paused, shook it off, and fiddled for the front door key again swallowing a lump in his throat. ‘Fuck, fuck fuck’ he shook to himself absently as he fumbled the key into the hole. ‘This fucking door!’ When he burst it open the alarm pierced his ears but he pushed past the keypad and headed straight into the kitchen.

The golf clubs clattered against the cold tiles amid the alarm’s siren, and his eyes gripped the ball of fur pressed against the outside of the glass door. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ he wheezed and tore open the door, nearly jacking it off its rail. The ball didn’t move. He looked from the bowl to the dog, and then around the garden, there was nothing to see. No water in the bowl, not a breath in the dog, and not a stone upturned in the garden.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his fingers tight with his brow. In a blaze of anger he grabbed the awning’s winch and ripped it as hard as he could, snapping it clean off. What good was shade if not to keep cool? The adrenaline surged his brain back into life and he became aware of his heart pounding out of his chest.

‘That fucking dog,’ he muttered over and over to himself. Going from kitchen to garden and back again, he squeezed his temples tight between his hands. ‘That fucking dog, it was never mine. I never wanted it. But who was going to get the blame? Of course he would, who else? SIMPLICITY. How many times did he have to fucking say it?’

His face filled with purple venom he took a plastic bag from the press and shoved the dog inside.

‘It would have to be handled carefully,’ his thoughts cascaded out. ‘Not the dog of course, the dog was done. It was the situation,’ He exhaled a manic laugh. ‘The situation would have to be chartered and traversed like fucking Sacagawea.’ He cracked the venetian blinds and looked out, not a sinner to be seen. With a few swift steps through the door he slung the bag into the boot of the car and vanished back into the house. A plan was needed.

Jenn was shocked on the phone but agreed nothing would be said to the kids until after the holidays. No sense in spoiling their time. That evening when they had arrived home the mood was less tropical. Tears and tantrums were peppered with expletives. Conn boiled over and raised his own voice to quell the unbearable circular narrative.

‘Conn please,’ hissed Jenn from the side of her mouth. ‘Boys there is nothing that could be done. Small dogs like Dijon are always in threat from these vermin. The council simply isn’t doing enough. How many times have I told you don’t leave rubbish or food outside? They are magnets for foxes.’

Conn began to grow heated in the direction of the conversation.

‘Those red wretches are a plague. I have a contact in Shenzhen who has state of the art pest repellant with ultra-sonic frequencies to repel the fuckers. Don’t even mention the council. THEY are the ones responsible for this, not me!’’ Jenn’s eyes narrowed and shot him a suspicious look. He stood up, now feeling the sweat sliding down his brow, and stepped over to the counter. ‘Some fucking holiday.’

Jenn never mentioned her suspicions to him and they continued their lives in parallel. Two weeks later Jenn took the boys to get a new dog, a Bichon Frise. Despite the renewed yapping that echoed from the tiles, the house had quietened.

The weather turned but the garden remained unchained. Clouds blackened and rain ensued. The Atlantic whipped up days of storms that drove across the country. Pelting against the glass doors, staining the fences, and forming huge puddles on the artificial grass. The awning hung dangerously laden with water, unable to retract.

In the dead of the night he woke to an almighty smash and lept out of bed. The awning had buckled and its frame had swung like a pendulum, shattering the glass door. Pools of water stood inches thick across the kitchen, cascading from the raised beds and over the astroturf. The rain had raised the epsom salts and dehydrated roots buried under the Weber, pouring out the hole and floating throughout the kitchen. The salt water corroded the surfaces and cracked the kitchen cabinets.

With shards of glass and splinters in his feet, he heaved one half of his marble countertop to the ground where it fractured. He cursed, roared, and screamed, but nothing happened.