Page 86 of Short Stack 3

“No, Mr Peterson,” Ivy chides. “That’snaughty.” The small dog glares at her in a malevolent fashion and looks away.

I shudder. “God, that was just like inLord of the Ringswhere the eye of Sauron slid over them from afar. I feel like I had a brush with pure evil.”

“That dog’s a demon in canine form,” Sal says.

The dog starts to yap at the linesman and lunges to nip him. The man jumps and swears loudly before dashing off down the pitch, chasing the players who are doing something very energetic.

“It’s not his fault. He’s just a little bit neurotic,” Ivy says, attempting to pick him up and jumping back with a little scream as he snaps at her. “NaughtyMr Peterson.”

“Why are we looking after your sister’s dog?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Because Moira wanted a lie-in.”

“How come Moira got that and we’re here?” Sal asks.

“We’re here to support Tom,” I say for the fiftieth time this morning. “Your brother. Who you love.”

She observes Tom, who is currently tackling someone with a great deal of grunting and cursing. “I’m not sure about that. I think Arlo is probably my favourite brother at the moment.”

“Why?” Ivy asks.

“Because he’s not here,” Sal explains patiently, and I laugh.

“No, Mr Peterson,” Ivy cries as the dog contorts and manages to slip its lead. We watch as it scampers up the pitch and becomes tangled with the net containing spare balls that was lying in a patch of mud. Tom’s coach curses loudly and creatively as the net wraps around his ankles and he falls over. “Oh dear, I do apologise, sir,” Ivy calls as she races after Mr Peterson.

Sal snorts. “And why is the dog called that?”

“It’s his demon-summoning name,” I offer, and she chuckles. We watch Ivy apologise profusely to the mother of the smallchild that the dog just tripped up. “He’s named after Ivy and Moira’s grandad.”

“Moira called him by his surname?”

“They weren’t close.”

Something about that seems to amuse her because she goes into gales of laughter. I watch her affectionately for a moment and then return to the game.

“Go, Tom,” I shout loudly as he races past me.

He’s a glorious sight, his long body clad in navy shorts and a sky-blue top advertising an electricity and gas company. I suppose football is one way to keep warm rather than pay their exorbitant prices. I opened our bill the other day and thought we’d been inadvertently paying to heat the whole street.

He shoots me a dashing smile that makes me feel a bit wobbly and races on. His hair is wet with rain and plastered to his skull, but he looks in his element and perfectly happy.

“I willneverunderstand my brother,” Sal says, looking at the mud on her boots with distaste.

“Just think of the Sunday dinner at your parents’ house afterwards,” I advise.

“I’m trying not to. Last week, my mum dropped a stock cube in the pasta salad and forgot to fish it out. It was a very unpleasant surprise when I ate it.”

Ivy staggers back with the dog now tucked inside her coat. He’s held fast and peers at the world and us with grim dislike.

“I feel like I should cross myself whenever he looks at me,” Sal says.

I grimace. “He looks like a little ET.”

“Pass the ball, you stupid motherfucker!”

We look up at the shout and watch a burly man walking down the pitch towards us.

“Oh, not him again,” I sigh. “I thought he was over on the other side of the pitch.”

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