Broken Shore

Excerpt Cashin walked around the hill, into the wind from the sea. It was cold, late autumn, last glowing leaves clinging to the liquid-ambars and maples his great-grandfather's brother had planted, their surrender close. He loved this time, the morning stillness, loved it more than spring. The dogs were tiring now but still hunting the ground, noses down, taking more time to sniff, less hopeful. Then one picked up a scent and, new life in their legs, they loped in file for the trees, vanished. When he was near the house, the dogs, black as liquorice, came out of the trees, stopped, heads up, looked around as if seeing the land for the first time. Explorers. They turned their gaze on him for a while, started down the slope. He walked the last stretch as briskly as he could, and, as he put his hand out to the gate, they reached him. Their curly black heads tried to nudge him aside, insisting on entering first, strong back legs pushing. He unlatched the gate, they pushed it open enough to slip in, nose to tail, trotted down the path to the shed door. Both wanted to be first again, stood with tails up, furry scimitars, noses touching at the door jamb. Inside, the big poodles led him to the kitchen. They had water bowls there and they stuck their noses into them and drank in a noisy way. Cashin prepared their meal: two slices each from the cannon-barrel dog sausage made by the butcher in Kenmare, three handfuls each of dry dog food. He got the dogs' attention, took the bowls outside, placed them a metre apart. The dogs came out. He told them to sit. Stomachs full of water, they did so slowly and with disdain, appeared to be arthritic. Given permission to eat, they looked at the food without interest, looked at each other, at him. Why have we been brought here to see this inedible stuff? Cashin went inside. In his hip pocket, the mobile rang. "Yes." "Joe?" Kendall Rogers, from the station. "Had a call from a lady," she said. "Near Beckett. A Mrs. Haig. She reckons there's someone in her shed." "Doing what?" "Well, nothing. Her dog's barking. I'll sort it out." Cashin felt his stubble. "What's the address?" "I'm going." "No point. Not far out of my way. Address?" He went to the kitchen table and wrote on the pad: date, time, incident, address. "Tell her fifteen, twenty. Give her my number if anything happens before I get there." The dogs liked his urgency, rushed around, made for the vehicle when he left the building. On the way, they stood on station, noses out the back windows. Cashin parked a hundred metres down the lane from the farmhouse gate. A head came around the hedge as he approached. "Cop?" she said. She had dirty grey hair around a face cut from a hard wood with a blunt tool. Cashin nodded. "The uniform and that?" "Plainclothes," he said. He produced the Victoria Police badge with the emblem that looked like a fox. She took off her smudged glasses to study it. "Them police dogs?" she said. He looked back. Two woolly black heads in tTemple, Peter is the author of 'Broken Shore ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780374116934 and ISBN 0374116938.