Squeals-on-Wheels

Date: 12/18/2025

“I have a surprise for you!” Mat is beaming, practically brimming with excitement. He knows I don’t like surprises. Never have. Surprises are just plans that didn’t warn you first. “I’m taking you to London. Today. Pack your things.” “London?!” I groan. “Why would I want to go there?” Ungrateful? Yes. But London appeals to me the same way mouldy bread does —technically edible, but why risk it? Mat visibly deflates. A pin to a lilo. “I thought we could go sightseeing,” he says, wounded. “I just wanted to stay home and relax,” I moan, flirting with a well-aimed boink to the head. We compromise. Fine dining. Two underwhelmed teenage boys in tow. Because nothing says family harmony like expensive food and collective resentment. The place is heaving. Loud, hot, frantic. A human pressure cooker. Socialising with a side of migraine. My son Maxi is struggling — I can see it in his eyes. “Can we sit somewhere quiet?” he asks softly. I scan the room. Quiet does not live here. But we try — find a quieter corner, a marginally less chaotic pocket of humanity. Then Kylie storms over. For a split second I think she’s about to rhino-charge me into the next table, but she smiles. A real one. “I’ve brought cakes!” she beams, presenting a tray of baked goods like a peace offering… with strings attached. Oh great. Cakes. I briefly wonder if she’s planning to choke me half to death again. “Have you got any donuts?” I ask. “Jammy,” she says. “Your favourite.” Suspicious. Deeply. As I accept my potentially poisoned donut, a woman approaches with a sausage dog — only… not entirely dog. Its hind legs are gone, replaced with a Victorian nightmare of metal and wheels. They squeak as he toddles along. Squeak. Squeak. She’s holding a leaflet. Rescue Dogs. For one fleeting, dangerous moment, I think how lovely it would be to adopt this cheerful little frankfurter-on-wheels. He’s absurdly friendly. When I stroke his head, one wheel spins wildly. “He likes you,” she says. “We’ve had a heck of a job rehoming him.” The dog looks up at me, eyes pleading. Tick the want me box. “Ah fuck it,” I say. “Give me the paperwork.” She’s thrilled. Radiant. As I sign, regret blooms instantly. That contraption. How exactly does bedtime work? “Does he sleep in that thing?” I ask. “Oh no,” she says lightly. “That has to come off. We’ve got a key.” A key. Right. She hands me something microscopic. “Don’t lose it,” she warns. Naturally, I already have. The restaurant mutates into a pub. Pints. Sweat. Dancing. The dance floor beckons. Mat’s already on it, limbs flailing with the confidence of someone who’s never once watched themselves dance. Rusty. Awful. Perfect. I love him. I shimmy over, just finding the rhythm —when I see her. Rachel. My manager. Leaning against the wall. Watching. If looks could kill, I’d be guts on the floor. I turn away, but I can feel her eyes burning holes through my spine. I flee to the bar, which has now inexplicably become my Aunty Doreen’s bedroom. Because, why not? There’s a mattress. A tiny TV. “Hi Amanda,” she chirps. “Do you live here now?” I joke. “Yes,” she says, sincerely. I leave her to her soaps and head for the exit. That’s when a woman barges past me. “Get out of my fucking way,” she snaps. I see red. So naturally, I follow her. Rational. Measured. Fully committing to a low-level stalker situation. Down streets. Behind lampposts. Through hedges. Full ninja mode. Except for my dog. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. She stops at a bungalow. Keys jangle. Door opens. Against all logic — and possibly the law — I knock. An old man answers. Gentle face. Kind eyes. “Come in,” he says. Then he brightens. “You’ve found Pippin!” He kneels, stroking the dog. The wheels whirl in joy. “My sweet boy. I thought I’d lost you forever.” It’s… lovely. Also, relief. Adoption regret confirmed. I hand Pippin over. “Oh no,” he says sadly. “I’m too old to care for him now. He’s yours.” Dammit. “Not too old to murder people though, are you, Dad?” a voice says. Mrs Rude steps forwards. The old man’s eyes change. Cold. Sharp. Familiar. The same look Rachel had. Something inside me screams run. I turn — Squeak. Squeak. My legs are gone. Replaced by wheels. I try to scream. Nothing comes out. Mrs Rude smiles. Pippin rolls past, impossibly cheerful. The old man lifts a tiny key between his fingers. “Don’t worry,” he says softly. “You’ll get used to it.” And somewhere behind me, another faint squeak begins. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.