Chloe by Freya North

disintegrated into dots which she found a little alarming. She had slipped the card into the corner of the mirror frame on the dressing-table, just so they could keep her in check first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Just so they were there.

NINE
    B arbara stamped her hind hoof and positioned her forelegs squarely. She blew through her nostrils and curled her lips ever so slightly so that a noise midway between bellow and screech could hit Morwenna as soon as she shut the car door. When it reached her ears, a feeling of sinking dread coursed through and settled in the pit of her stomach. She looked over at Barbara who stared back icily with a glint most evil to her eyes. Though she opened the boot to double-check, she knew that her car was regrettably biscuit- and vegetable-free. Not a crumb. Not a shred. Not a bean.
    Morwenna decided on polite conversation but it merely served to irritate the goat further. Flattery was the only option left.
    â€˜Ho! Barbara! There’s a good little goaty. My, you’re looking pretty, aren’t you?’
    Barbara stamped.
    â€˜Listen, I don’t have a thing in these pockets. Very remiss of me. How about I make it up to you? Next time.’
    Barbara intended to ensure that there would not be a next time.
    As Morwenna approached, slightly stooped and with her right hand outstretched making strange tickling movements with her fingers, Barbara began to bob and weave like a boxer at the ringside. With just a few yards between them, Morwenna straightened up and put her hands on her hips.
    â€˜You,’ she said, striding assertively towards Barbara, ‘are only a goat.’
    However, she had not reckoned on a goat with a grudge and, when it came to the simultaneous butt–bite–kick, Morwenna was viciously winded. Searching desperately for breath, she sat down with a thump on the damp ground, the meagre winter grass providing little cushioning. Barbara, who had turned her back on her and was defecating triumphantly, bleated with pride. Morwenna pressed her hand lightly to her thigh and winced. Once her breathing had calmed, she picked herself up with care and caution and walked to the car slowly. With as much dignity as she could muster, without looking back.
    â€˜It was a goat,’ she mumbled into the neck of her thick jumper. She had rolled down her tights and hitched up her skirt to reveal a whorl of dark crimson and French navy. A splice of dry blood. Her leg trembled slightly but she told herself that this was due to her aversion to disinfectant, to infection, to Trust-me-I’m-a-doctor. It was, in part, also due to this doctor being extremely handsome.
    â€˜A
goat
did this to you, Mrs Saxby?’ he asked quietly as he held her knee and crooked her leg up. His hands were warm, strong and hairless.
    â€˜Ms,’ she replied taking her face out of the cavity of her polo-neck, ‘you know, with a zed. And yes, it was a goat.’
    â€˜A billy-goat?’
    Ha! Billy’s goat indeed.
    â€˜No. A pet goat.’
    â€˜Gracious.’
    â€˜Not mine.’
    â€˜I’m not surprised!’ He laid her leg down gently and pondered into the crook of his index finger. ‘I see from your records that there is no record of tetanus jabs. In fact, we have no record of you at all for the last seven years.’ He looked at her face and saw anxiety sown deep behind defensive eyes. He also noticed their sparkle and felt a long forgotten butterfly take wing in his stomach. He smiled. ‘Either you’ve been as fit as a fiddle or you have an inherent mistrust of the medical profession!’
    Morwenna gave a nervous laugh and then retreated down into the mouth of her jumper.
    â€˜We’ll give you a tetanus jab. And the once-over, too.’
    Morwenna sank visibly.
    â€˜If it makes you feel any easier, I myself had the once-over just last week,’ the doctor assured her.
    Morwenna wondered why. He looked perfectly fit.