My Peppered Heart by Kate Vine

Winner of the third Lunate 500 competition

‘A delicious perversity pervades My Peppered Heart, our criminal narrator quietly relishing the sadism of her ways. Does her glee make the crime worse? You bet it does, and that’s what makes this thrilling flash even more thrilling (thrillinger, thrillingest). Our narrator, our maestro, deviously manipulates the dog owner, the dogwalker (who astonishingly “reeks of virginity”), and even the dog, Fran the Alsatian. With a dash of Roald Dahl and a soupçon of a mean mommy, Fran gets a lamb bone and we get a fine meal of a story—macabre and delightful, rigorously cooked up, and tasty to the last.’

Alan Michael Parker (judge)

***

‘You’re not what I expected.’

The man’s brow narrows — such a cliché. At what age do we learn to pull our eyebrows together when we’re confused? Surely, it’s not innate.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

His brows separate again. ‘I don’t mean to be rude. Shall I just bring Fran out to you?’

Fran is his Alsatian. The man probably expected a teenage dog walker, someone light on their feet with a face full of possibility. He must be disappointed.

‘Sure, I’ll wait here.’

He retreats inside. His bare feet make mine feel cold. Autumn leaves spiral off the pavement and I fight the urge to jump and catch them. I haven’t the knees for that.

The famous Fran bounds down the hall, his body thumping along the floor. When he jumps up to my chest, I almost fall.

(‘Fall, but don’t succumb,’ my mother used to say.)

‘Easy there!’ The man returns, lead in hand. ‘He’s a tad over-friendly, but he’ll come when he’s called. Just likes a bit of love, don’t you boy?’

The dog nuzzles his leg in ecstasy.

‘Give him a good run, would you? He won’t get out again ‘til tomorrow.’

I attach the lead to Fran’s collar and smile. ‘Of course.’

The man barely even looks at me. My specifics aren’t of interest. I can’t remember the last time someone asked me how I feel, or where I’m going.

*

Fran and I take a left towards Adelaide Row. He doesn’t dare tug his lead; he can sense my peppered heart. I hope he doesn’t grow to hate me, I hope he is forgiving, I hope his kindness is a choice, not a reflex.

(‘Hope is precarious,’ my mother used to say.)

We reach my car, parked a few streets away. Fran jumps in without fuss; the leg of lamb works well. I quickly scan the area, but no one’s around — why would they be? They are busy, these people, with no need to think of me.

Fran settles on the backseat and starts gnawing at the meat. That used to be a real leg that carried life on its hinge. How the mighty has fallen.

After a moment or two, I turn the car around and retrace our route back to the man’s house. On his doorstep is the real dog walker, who is much better suited. Young and lithe, she reeks of virginity. How clearly she’d spoken on the phone. How carefully she repeated his address.

Panic trickles down the man’s face. His eyes dart about the street, his mouth moves fast. The girl puts a hand on his arm. They will bond over this, I expect.

But first, he will suffer. Fran and I drive away, and neither of them notice. The man is back inside, he is pulling on his shoes.

He is wondering, for the first time, who I am.