LIVER CAKE

By Neil Ayres
Artwork by Sunspike.

Mrs Cambridge came from Taunton in Somerset, England but upon the death of her husband she moved to New Eston, a small town not twenty miles from Mt. Healthy, Ohio. She was a small, plump lady with a cheery round face. She had been a medical nurse with the National Health Service but had taken early retirement after the death of her husband, James.

Mrs Cambridge was a sensible woman and managed comfortably on her small pension and the insurance money from her husband’s death, as well as the income from her part time job.

Although she had lived in America for nearly six years, she still said ‘trousers’ instead of ‘pants’ and ‘sweets’ instead of ‘candy’.

She owned a neat and tidy bungalow with a fair sized garden in which she kept a chicken coop, wherein lived three Buff Orpington hens, who provided her with an ample supply of eggs on an almost daily basis. The chickens had been a gift from Mr Hardcastle, who owned the farm up the lane. He had purchased a whole batch of twenty-five chicks from Mt. Healthy Hatcheries back in February.

Mrs Cambridge also kept agility equipment for her dogs in the garden. The jumps, tunnels and weave poles were stored in a wooden shed with a sloped roof.

The garden was well stocked with a variety of popular flowers and shrubs, and the lawn area directly off of the patio was kept in immaculate condition. She regarded the garden as if it were her own tiny piece of England.

The jolly English woman had spent the majority of her working life in the Accident & Emergency department of the Taunton and Somerset Hospital in Musgrove Park. She had seen more than her fair share of blood and guts and had come to America in search of a more subdued existence, away from the hustle and bustle of city life, not that Taunton was much of a city.

Shortly after her arrival in New Eston, Mrs Cambridge had applied for and been given the job of part-time receptionist at the local GP’s practice. She worked there three days a week, Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. Another lady worked at the surgery on Wednesdays and Fridays, and on Saturday mornings.

On a Wednesday and a Friday night Mrs Cambridge ran a dog training class. She had been involved with dogs since she had been a little girl. People always said when she was young that she should have been a vet, but in those days there was not much money in the veterinary industry and besides, Mrs Cambridge was a dog person, she did not care particularly for any other animals.

Mrs Cambridge found the American attitude towards dog training a refreshing one. She was a firm believer that if you spared the rod, you would spoil the child. Mrs Cambridge did not spare her rod.

She understood the differences between ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ reinforcement. She knew exactly what ‘shaping’ meant. She was aware of what separated ‘aversion’ and ‘punishment’. Indeed, Mrs Cambridge was an expert in such matters.

Over the years she had developed her own methods for dog training and it could honestly be said that they worked exceptionally well on her own dogs. She had, however, lost a fair amount of students at her classes due to her extreme methods.

Mrs Cambridge had two rules for dog training and here they are:

• 1. If the dog does something good, cue the behaviour and give it a reward
• 2. If the dog does something bad, cue the behaviour and give it a punishment

Mrs Cambridge knew exactly how to use cues. For her own dogs she used a plastic clicker, the underside of which was white and the top of which was green. The button was made from a thin piece of black metal. She believed that using technology in her classes would confuse both dogs and owners, so she taught them to use verbal phrases. ‘Good dog’ for acceptable behaviours and ‘Bad dog’ for unacceptable ones.

Now for Mrs Cambridge’s rewards and punishments:

As stated earlier, Mrs Cambridge found the American dog training community, on the whole, a refreshingly open-minded collection of people. They were willing to try all sorts of gadgetry and new concepts that would certainly have been frowned upon in the UK, possibly might even be illegal over there.

There was a clear distinction between the two cultures as far as dog training was concerned. The American’s had ‘Check collars,’ the British referred to them as ‘Choke chains’. In the UK they called ‘Pinch collars’ ‘Spike collars’ or ‘Prong collars’. Mrs Cambridge for one knew the truths behind the origins of modern dog training and she knew with her use of rewards in her training she was a step up from this.

As a reward for her dogs, Mrs Cambridge baked liver cakes, which she then sold in her classes. The liver cakes were made from all of a dog’s favourite foods, a special blend of garlic, cheese and liver. Mrs Cambridge had the cheese sent to her from back home. Her old neighbour, Mr Anglesey, sent it over once a month. He bought the cheese in Cheddar. Mrs Cambridge believed that it was the finest cheese in the world.

Every single acceptable new behaviour, performed by a dog in her class would be met with a ‘Good Dog’ and after a three second delay the dog would be rewarded with a piece from one of Mrs Cambridge’s liver cakes. Any unacceptable behaviour performed by a dog in her class would be met with a ‘Bad dog’. If the dog had not ceased the naughty behaviour after a three-second delay it would receive a harsh yank on its check collar.

Mrs Cambridge understood that the correct way to use a check collar would be to signal the cue with a chink of the collar’s metal links instead of with a verbal command. But, as with the clicker, she did not believe that the students in her class would be able to grasp such a concept and properly execute it. So Mrs Cambridge settled on ‘Good dog’ and ‘Bad dog’. The proper usage of these terms was the first thing that any new member in her class was taught.

*

It was a fine spring morning and Mrs Cambridge was baking liver cakes in her kitchen. Her two dogs were lying patiently in their indoor kennels, or ‘crates’ as the Americans called them.

In the larger kennel lay Duke, Mrs Cambridge’s seven-year old German Shepherd dog. He was a big dog with a glossy black and tan coat. His fur was thick but short. Mrs Cambridge fancied that he looked somewhat like a wolf, but he did not. He looked like a German Shepherd dog: Tall and erect ears, a deep chest and a nicely curved tail. Duke had lovely brown eyes. The only mar to his looks was a slightly overshot jaw. Although he could be fussy with his food, Duke loved Mrs Cambridge’s liver cake. Duke also loved his tennis ball but most of all he loved Mrs Cambridge.

In the other kennel, curled up and napping was Mrs Cambridge’s other dog, Jimmy, named after her late husband. Jimmy was a Belgian Shepherd Dog, a Terveran to be precise. He had long black and gold fur and a pointy muzzle. Jimmy’s dark face made him look a little sinister, especially to people who were naturally wary of dogs.

Both dogs were intact as Mrs Cambridge did not agree with neutering, even though she had no intentions of using the pair as studs.

Today was Friday and Mrs Cambridge had two classes in the evening. The first was the Beginner’s Class and the second was her Obedience Class. Duke was a fantastic Obedience competitor. He had all of the initials after his name, CD, U, UCD, etc. Mrs Cambridge had attempted to use Jimmy for Obedience but he was too wilful.

Unlike Duke, who she had got as a puppy from a breeder, Jimmy was a rescue dog, from the local humane shelter. He had had some temperament problems when Mrs Cambridge had first acquired him and had a habit of falling back into his old behaviours if became over-excited without a proper outlet for his energy.

Jimmy was almost three years old; he was the boss of the pair but secretly, in her heart, Mrs Cambridge favoured Duke. She treated the two dogs as equals. Jimmy competed in Agility and in Flyball and very good he was at both of these events.

Tonight’s first class would pass quickly. It was a large class and Mrs Cambridge would be kept busy trying to keep control of such a large group of dogs and handlers.

She knew that the second class, at seven thirty, would be far more enjoyable. The team, who were bore the moniker the ‘New Eston Eagles’ had just won both the Obedience and the Flyball classes at the State Championships, having been narrowly beaten in the Agility categories by the ‘Logan Hounds’. The group would be in good spirits tonight and Mrs Cambridge had planned some games for the evening.

As she was wiping clean the work surface the doorbell rang.

“Wait there, boys.” Mrs Cambridge said to her dogs, as she went to answer the door. Jimmy opened one beady eye to ensure that nothing untoward was to occur.

Mrs Cambridge’s dogs were exceptionally well trained. They did not bark at doorbells or telephones or birds in the garden. In fact, they usally only barked when Mrs Cambridge told them to do so. They were ‘Good Dogs’.

Mrs Cambridge opened the door. Her visitor was Mr Hardcastle.

“I’m going into Mt. Healthy today, Mrs Cambridge, and I wondered whether there was anything I could pick up for ya’?”

“Oh that’s ever so kind of you, Mr Hardcastle. I’ve been meaning to drive into town myself this week, but time has just flown by. I need a new deep-freeze. My old fridge-freezer just won’t cope with the dog food. I’ve been looking at feeding the boys on a natural diet and I think I’m quite taken with the idea. You know, raw meats, vegetables. I’ve come to see dried pet meal as convenience food. McDonalds for dogs, if you know what I mean?”

“I can relate to that Mrs Cambridge, ma’am. Ol’ Shep gets nothing but meat from the slaughterhouse and he’s one of the healthiest darned mutts I ever kept, ‘scusin’ my language.

“He’s smart too. Works all day long, herding up my sheep and chickens. And if’n I neglects to feed him he can even open the refrigerator door and help himself, the cheeky varmint.” Mrs Cambridge offered Mr Hardcastle a pleasant smile and then:

“Would you like a cup of tea? The kettle’s on.” It was no secret to Mrs Cambridge that Mr Hardcastle adored a nice cup of tea.

Mr Hardcastle dropped off a new freezer that afternoon, just as Mrs Cambridge was getting ready to go to her first class.

*

Well, the months went by and in the fall Mr Hardcastle’s common-law wife left him after thirty-three years of cohabitation. The explanation he received came in the form of a note stating that his partner could not ‘Handle the monotony of being a farmer’s wife no more’ and that she was ‘Heading off to Illinois, perhaps even Chicago, with Miles’. Miles Soloman was the Jewish hairdresser who worked at Sal’s Salon.

As time ambled on, Mr Hardcastle dropped by at Mrs Cambridge’s with ever-increasing frequency, to enjoy her cups of tea. On his insistence she stopped calling him ‘Mr Hardcastle’ and started calling him ‘Dan’ and on her insistence he stopped calling her ‘Mrs Cambridge’ and started calling her ‘Doris’.

In the summer of 1998 the pair of them got married and ‘Mrs Doris Audrey Cambridge’ became ‘Mrs Doris Audrey Hardcastle’.

The new Mrs Hardcastle sold her little bungalow and moved up to the farm and Duke and Jimmy learned to share their toys with Sep, Mr Hardcastle’s blue merle Border collie. And for some months they were all quite happy.

*

It was a Wednesday night in November when Mrs Hardcastle, nee Cambridge, failed to lock the utility room door properly.

Her husband and his dog had been working since the early hours and Mr Hardcastle had returned home from work famished. He heated up the chicken pot roast that his wife had left waiting for him in the oven, took it into the lounge and watched CNN while he waited for it to cool. After polishing off the pot roast and watching the TV for twenty minutes Mr Hardcastle dozed off in his easychair.

The farmer was roused from his sleep by his dog. Shep had found a bone from somewhere. Probably it belonged to one of the other dogs. The sheepdog was on his blanket, gnawing away at the bone noisily. Mr Hardcastle felt a pang of guilt as he remembered that he had not fed Shep all day. And the dog had worked so hard too. The farmer turned to the clock on the tiled wall in the kitchen. It was only seven thirty five.

“Doris will just be starting the second class.” He muttered to himself. Mr Hardcastle had such an early start every morning that he was always in bed, sound asleep, by the time his wife came home from her training classes.

Mrs Hardcastle kept all of her dog food in the freezer her husband had obtained for her from Mt. Healthy, before they had been united in holy matrimony. Mr Hardcastle still fed Shep at the slaughterhouse. The dog looked up from his bone. It looked like a very large knucklebone and there was still some meat left on it. It was unusual for Jimmy to leave an unstripped bone lying around. The Terveran was a gannet.

Mr Hardcastle yawned and stood up. There was some chicken left over in the fridge.

“I better give you some proper food, Shep.” The farmer said to his dog. Man and dog made their way into the kitchen, the television still droning on softly in the background.

Mr Hardcastle had not noticed before but in the kitchen, the utility room door had been left open. This was strange because Mrs Hardcastle infallibly kept it locked, to keep the dogs from stealing their food. Shep ran into the room, his tail wagging. His owner followed him, intending to shoo the dog back out and close the door properly. The Collie picked something up from the floor. It was dark in the small room and Mr Hardcastle fumbled for the light-switch.

“Shep, put that down!” The farmer hissed, before his fingers located the smooth plastic of the switch. He flicked his finger upwards and a fluorescent lamp illuminated the room with its sterile radiance. Mr Hardcastle gasped and hit his elbow hard against the door handle as he stepped back in shock.

Shep had done as he had been told and dropped the severed hand on the floor in front of him.

The hand was thin, white and glistening with thawing ice. Mr Hardcastle thought that it was a woman’s hand but it was difficult to be certain because all of the fingernails had been hacked off. He saw that it was a left hand. The thumb was frozen to the palm.

The farmer walked back out of the utility room and poured himself a glass of water at the kitchen sink. He could not figure out where Shep could have found the hand. He was only thankful that it was he who had found the gruesome thing and not his wife.

Mr Hardcastle took a black dustbin liner from the cupboard next to the dishwasher and took a deep breath.

He went back into the utility room, rubbing his elbow even as he did so.

Shep lay on the floor, the severed hand still in front of the dog, having now been joined by its partner. This second hand too had been relieved of its nails. Mr Hardcastle felt his stomach turn. He took a step forward and found himself on his back, on the linoleum floor. The farmer turned to investigate the cause of his slip and immediately regretted doing so.

A lady’s lifeless head stared back at him. It was the head of Sally Monroe, the proprietor of Sal’s Salon. The head was leaning to one side, it had part of its spine still attached. The vertebrae trailed from it like a grotesque bony serpent.

Mr Hardcastle promptly vomited up his pot roast onto the shiny linoleum flooring. Shep came over to lick his face, initially showing concern but then becoming distracted by the warm scent of the farmer’s sick. The dog licked tentatively at the brown puddle. His owner pushed him away and managed a soft ‘No!’

The bemused farmer wiped his mouth with a sleeve, the taste of bile and chicken pot roast still on his lips. He stood up shakily and walked past the tumble-dryer.

Coming to the deep freeze, Mr Hardcastle found the lid of it jammed open by the top half of a hairy leg.

Against his better judgement, the farmer opened the freezer. The top half of the hairy leg fell to the floor with a thud.

Inside of the freezer, piled high on a bed of frosted polythene bags were the following:

A second pair of hands, sans fingernails

The lower half of the hairy leg

A man’s naked torso, with surgical stitching still clearly visible, holding together a ‘Y’ shaped incision cut from the sternum down to the groin

Three arms, two slim and feminine, the third one muscular, tattooed with a blue swallow

Beneath a freezer-bag of what Mr hardcastle believed to be internal organs, were an opened box of beef-burgers and a packet of frozen peas.

*

A navy blue Toyota Corolla pulled away from outside of the church as Mr Hardcastle wrenched the handbrake of his pickup up. The ratchet made a sickening ‘crack, crack, crack’. The farmer hopped out of the cabin and Shep jumped across the driver’s seat and onto the ground, landing excitedly by the farmer’s feet. Together they crossed the road and made to enter the Church hall, almost bumping into a young lady and her boisterous Welsh Springer Spaniel in the doorway.

“Shep, wait in the truck.” Mr Hardcastle instructed his dog. The Collie dutifully bounded back across the street and leapt into the back of the pickup. The farmer watched his dog settle down on the canvas sacking before making his way into the hall. The door squeaked as he closed it behind him.

The hall was devoid of people. Plastic chairs, some blue, some orange, lined a wall of the hall. A large crucifix with a sombre looking Christ hung on the back wall, above the low stage that, among other things, served as a Bingo Caller’s stand and a DJs sanctum at family functions and village parties.

Mr Hardcastle thought that he had heard a voice coming from beyond the door, next to the stage. He crossed the hall hesitantly. Unsure about what he was doing at the Church Hall and what he would do when he found his wife. He looked up at the Lord’s son, Christ returned his pleading look straight back at him.

Mr Hardcastle pushed open the door that led into the small bar at the back of the hall. The room smelt as do many bars, a less than subtle blend of beer, tobacco, potato chips and men’s sweat. Mr Hardcastle’s wife stood by the bar, a glass of orange juice in one hand and a dog collar in the other. She looked unsettled at seeing her husband, though not displeased.

 “Hello Dear.” She said, in her lilting West Country accent. “What a nice surprise.” She put her orange juice down on the bar and began to walk over to him. It was only then that the farmer noticed the rolled-up dog blanket in the corner.

“What’s this?” He asked, straining to keep the tinge of hysteria from his voice.

“Oh Dear, don’t touch that.” But it was too late. Mr Hardcastle had knelt to the floor and pulled back a corner of the bedding. A pair of smart black, low-heeled ladies’ shoes, their toes pointing up towards the ceiling, were revealed. Underneath the shoes were a pair of mustard coloured pop socks.

“I asked you not to touch that, Dear!” Mr Hardcastle winced as cold metal began to constrict around his throat. He tried to get to his feet but the weight of his wife bore down on him, her knees digging into his back.

“I’ve only used the pinch collar once before. It’s much quicker than the check chain, but it makes such a terrible mess.” The farmer’s hands reached for the metal around his neck but could not find purchase. His fingers slid on something wet.

“It’s all the blood you see. A person’s flesh is so much weaker than that of a dog’s.” As if in response, Jimmy barked and spun in a circle, chasing his tail. MrsHardcastle yanked on the collar and her husband felt a sharp pain in his head.

“I don’t ordinarily have time to clean the place up after class. You would start worrying about where I had got to, Dan. I suppose though, that I needn’t rush back home tonight.” Mr Hardcastle felt as though his chest was ready to explode, and then suddenly the pounding ceased. He heard a scrabble at the door of the bar, followed by a concerned woof. Then his vision clouded over and he went limp. Mrs Hardcastle let go of the chain leash and her late husband’s body slumped to the floor. Blood seeping from the multiple wounds on his neck.

Shep pushed open the door with his nose and slunk into the room, ears back, tail down and body low to the ground, worried that he would be told off for not staying in the truck. When he saw Mrs Hardcastle he relaxed and wagged his tail with enthusiasm.

“Well hello Shep.” She said. “Looks like we’re going to have to change your diet.” And Mrs Hardcastle reached into her pocket and took out a piece of her special liver cake.

“Shep, sit.” He did.

“Good boy.” She said and the old sheepdog gulped the treat down in one.

THE END