Sett Close
“Kevin. Kevin, you absolute...”
The Labrador disappeared between two silver birches.
“Kevin!”
Martin lunged for the trailing lead and missed, then broke into the sort of run that was mostly falling forward with determination.
“Don’t you dare. Kevin, come here!”
A flick of golden tail appeared farther down the path, then vanished behind a bank of nettles.
“You monumental shit.”
The woods gave the words back to him in softened pieces.
Martin stumbled over a root, caught himself on a tree and continued, breathing hard enough to taste metal.
“I will sell you. Do you hear me? I will sell you to a farm.”
Kevin glanced back, delighted by the development.
“There’ll be sheep. They’ll hate you.”
Kevin shot through a gap in the hedge.
“Come here, you furry little cockwomble.”
Martin forced himself through after him and his right foot struck tarmac.
He stopped.
The woods had ended with unreasonable suddenness.
In front of him stood a small cul-de-sac of pebble-dashed semis. Neat hedges separated short front gardens. Net curtains hung in square windows. There were dropped kerbs, satellite dishes and wheelie bins marked with white numbers. A sign planted in a crescent of begonias read:
SETT CLOSE
A badger in shirtsleeves stood beside a pallet of composite decking, checking something against a delivery note.
Martin became aware that the badger was looking at him.
Behind the badger, two smaller badgers had stopped unloading the decking.
Martin lowered his voice.
“Sorry. I meant dog.”
The badger looked down at the begonias.
Martin followed its gaze. One of his feet had flattened several.
“I’m going to need you to stop shouting ‘cockwomble’ at seven forty in the morning,” the badger said.
Martin stepped backwards out of the flowers.
“Yes. Sorry. As I said, dog.”
“That explanation has raised more questions than it has settled.”
“Golden Labrador. Big idiot. Came through here.”
The badger made a note on the delivery sheet.
“Number nine.”
“Right. Thank you.”
Martin took two steps towards the houses before the badger held out one paw.
“That is a private drive.”
“I’m collecting my dog.”
“That remains to be established.”
Through the open front door of number nine, Martin saw Kevin sitting on a welcome mat while a red fox held out a digestive biscuit.
Kevin took it with exquisite care.
“Kevin.”
The dog looked at him, swallowed the biscuit and turned back to the fox.
“He belongs to me,” Martin said.
“Does he?”
“Yes.”
“What evidence do you have?”
Martin stared at the badger.
“He’s my dog.”
“That is a claim.”
“I came through the hedge shouting his name.”
“That establishes familiarity.”
“He’s wearing a collar with my telephone number.”
“That establishes a contact number.”
“He’s microchipped.”
“That establishes a registered keeper.”
“Which is me.”
“It may be.”
Martin looked again at number nine. Kevin had been given a bowl of water. The fox was rubbing him behind one ear.
“Can I just have him back?”
“Certainly.”
“Good.”
“Once the incident report has been completed.”
The badger bent and retrieved a clipboard from the top of the decking. A form had already been clipped to it.
At the top, in block capitals, it said:
LOOSE ANIMAL / UNACCOMPANIED VISITOR REPORT
“I’m not filling in a form.”
“Then I cannot complete the handover.”
“It’s my dog.”
“We have covered that allegation.”
“Allegation?”
The badger ran one claw down the page.
“Name of animal?”
“Kevin.”
“Species?”
“Dog.”
“More specifically?”
“Labrador.”
“Colour?”
“Golden.”
The badger looked towards number nine.
Kevin had placed both front paws neatly together and was waiting while the fox attached a temporary lead.
“Temperament?”
“Unmanageable.”
The badger wrote something down.
“What did you put?”
“Disputed.”
“He ran away from me.”
“He appears to have run towards us.”
“That is the same thing from the other direction.”
The badger considered this, then marked another box.
“Will Kevin be leaving with a responsible adult?”
“Yes.”
The badger looked past Martin, towards the hedge.
Martin waited.
The badger continued looking.
“Me,” Martin said.
“I see.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing at this stage.”
“I am the responsible adult.”
“I have recorded your position.”
Martin leaned towards the clipboard. The badger moved it out of view.
“Who gave you the authority to decide whether I can take my own dog?”
“The residents’ association.”
“The residents’ association.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a badger.”
The badger checked its watch.
“Was that a question?”
Martin looked around the cul-de-sac properly for the first time.
The houses were too small for people but too large to be toys. Each had a front door, windows, guttering and a tiled roof. Number twelve had a little ramp beside its front step. Number six had solar panels. A miniature conservatory clung to the back of number four.
They were houses, but they could not be houses, because animals did not have houses.
Martin pointed at the nearest one.
“What is this?”
“Number seven.”
“No, all of it.”
“Sett Close.”
“These aren’t real houses.”
The badger looked at number seven.
“I will pass that on to the occupants.”
“They’re burrows.”
“Number three has a cellar.”
“They’re dressed-up burrows.”
“Most houses are dressed-up holes.”
“A proper house has foundations.”
“We have foundations.”
“Plumbing.”
“Mains water and drainage.”
“Central heating.”
“Air source heat pumps. Except number eleven, who refuses to replace the boiler because he doesn’t trust anything with a circuit board.”
“Cavity walls.”
“Insulated.”
Martin glanced towards number twelve.
“What’s the ramp for?”
“Downstairs wet room.”
He turned back sharply.
“You have a downstairs wet room?”
“I do not. Number twelve does. There was an accessibility assessment.”
Kevin walked out of number nine beside the fox. He paused on the mat, lifted each paw and allowed it to be wiped with a small towel.
The badger watched him.
“Your Labrador wiped his feet.”
“He knows how.”
“Then his earlier behaviour may have been situational.”
“He rolled in a dead pigeon yesterday.”
“That would also have been situational.”
Martin gestured at the neat rows of windows.
“Animals don’t build proper homes.”
“We have discussed the plumbing.”
“You haven’t built any of this. Someone has built it for you.”
“Did you build your house?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m human.”
The badger glanced along Sett Close at the rows of semis.
“Only humans build houses,” Martin said.
“And yet, sir, you are arguing architecture with a badger.”
“Yes, but calling it architecture doesn’t make it architecture.”
There was a brief pause.
The badger wrote something on the form.
“What did you put now?”
“Persistent category dispute.”
“I’m not disputing categories. I’m explaining them.”
“Of course.”
Martin disliked the tone, largely because there was so little of it.
Kevin sat when the fox stopped. Nobody had asked him to.
“He doesn’t even sit for me,” Martin said.
“Perhaps you phrase it as an allegation.”
“These houses cannot belong to you.”
“Number seven belongs partly to me and partly to the building society.”
“Animals can’t have mortgages.”
The badger stared at him for several seconds.
“I assure you, we can.”
“You don’t have jobs.”
“I am a compliance officer.”
“For what?”
“Several things.”
“That isn’t a proper answer.”
“It is the answer on my email signature.”
A curtain twitched at number six.
The badger continued. “My wife works in waste management. We have twenty-three years remaining on the mortgage, a service charge of questionable value and a boundary dispute involving roots beneath number six.”
“You cannot legally own land.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Outright?”
Martin hesitated.
“No, but—”
“Did you purchase the house without borrowing?”
“No.”
“Freehold?”
“Leasehold, technically.”
“Then your claim is already rather personal for a consumer.”
“I own the house.”
“You own a diminishing interest in a structure on someone else’s land.”
“I have the deeds.”
“So do I.”
The badger tapped the clipboard against its palm.
“New build?” it asked.
Martin narrowed his eyes.
“What?”
“Your house.”
“Yes.”
“Development or individual plot?”
“Development.”
“Road adopted?”
“It’s in the process.”
The badger’s expression changed. Not to amusement. Something worse.
Professional sympathy.
“How long?”
“Eighteen months.”
“Drainage?”
“It works.”
“That was not what I asked.”
“There have been issues.”
“I see.”
“You don’t see anything.”
“Service charge?”
Martin folded his arms.
“There is one.”
“What does it cover?”
“Maintenance.”
“Of?”
“The estate.”
“Specifically?”
“That’s between me and the management company.”
“So nobody knows.”
“We know.”
“What do you receive?”
“They cut the grass.”
“How often?”
Martin glanced towards the perfectly clipped verge beside number eight.
“That is not relevant.”
“And the damp patch?”
Martin looked at the badger.
“What damp patch?”
“The one you were about to mention.”
“I was not about to mention a damp patch.”
“Then we can leave it off the form.”
“It’s not damp. It’s condensation. The developer says it’s normal drying-out.”
“Of course.”
The badger wrote another note.
“What was that?”
“Homeowner under pressure.”
“I am not under pressure.”
“Would you prefer ‘agitated leaseholder’?”
“I would prefer you stopped writing things about me.”
The badger glanced at the first line of the form.
“You have yet to give your name.”
“Martin.”
“Surname?”
“Why?”
“Identification.”
“You have no right to demand identification.”
“You entered private property shouting threats about the sale of an animal.”
“It was a farm.”
“That has already been recorded.”
A shape swept silently over the rooftops and landed on the guttering of number four. An owl in a high-visibility vest climbed through an open dormer window carrying a roll of insulation.
The badger called up to it.
“That alteration still requires approval.”
The owl leaned out.
“Permitted development.”
“You have changed the roofline.”
“Existing footprint.”
“You added a balcony.”
“Temporary platform.”
“It has a table on it.”
“Storage.”
The owl disappeared inside.
The badger repeatedly shook his head and made a note on a second sheet attached beneath Martin’s.
“See?” Martin said. “Even you admit these aren’t legitimate.”
“I admit number four is a menace.”
“You need planning permission.”
The close fell quiet.
At number six, the curtain stopped moving.
The fox beside Kevin looked down at the pavement.
A hedgehog who had been attempting to park a small blue mobility scooter between two wheelie bins switched off the motor.
The badger slowly lowered the clipboard.
“Now you’re being offensive.”
“What?”
“We have planning permission.”
“You cannot possibly have planning permission.”
“Why?”
“Because this is woodland.”
“It was designated for mixed-species residential development in 1998.”
“That doesn’t sound real.”
“Reality does not depend upon sounding persuasive to you.”
“You built houses on a protected sett.”
“We commissioned a protected-sett assessment.”
“You are the protected sett.”
“Which complicated the consultation.”
The badger turned towards number six.
“Marjorie?”
A grey squirrel opened the front door, disappeared inside and returned with a ring binder.
The binder was large enough to require both paws.
The badger opened it on top of the decking.
“Outline consent,” it said. “Full planning consent. Drainage adoption agreement. Ecological survey. Arboricultural impact assessment. Bat survey.”
“Bats?”
“They objected.”
“To what?”
“External lighting.”
“What happened?”
“Motion sensors and downward-facing fixtures.”
Martin looked at the little porch lamps.
“Fox objection regarding the character of the area,” the badger continued. “Hedgehog access plan. Vole relocation strategy. Newt mitigation.”
The fox beside Kevin cleared its throat.
“And the supplementary transport statement,” it said.
The badger nodded. “Thank you, Simon.”
A pigeon descended at speed, flared its wings and landed beside the binder. It wore a canvas postbag and a pair of round spectacles.
The pigeon handed the badger three envelopes.
Martin looked at the nearest one.
“That postcode only has six characters.”
“Local format,” said the badger.
“That stamp hasn’t been cancelled.”
“Internal post.”
“That pigeon is wearing glasses.”
“He’s astigmatic.”
The pigeon adjusted the spectacles with one wing, gave Martin a wounded look, then flew to number ten.
Martin watched it go.
The badger pushed the clipboard towards him again.
“If you sign the declaration, this can be concluded.”
Martin read the declaration.
It stated that Kevin had entered the estate unaccompanied, had been treated with courtesy and had caused no damage. Beneath that was a box confirming that the person collecting him accepted responsibility for his future conduct.
“I’m not signing this.”
“Why?”
“It makes it sound as though I’m the problem.”
The badger looked over the top of the form.
“You did flatten the begonias.”
“By accident.”
“You disputed the existence of three houses while standing directly in front of them.”
“I disputed the nature of them.”
“You questioned my mortgage.”
“Because you’re a badger.”
“You raised planning.”
“Because you are animals.”
Simon the fox made a small noise.
The badger turned to him. “Quite.”
“What?” Martin said.
“Nothing.”
“No, go on. You think you’re civilised because you’ve copied a few things humans invented.”
The badger sighed and checked its watch again.
“I am late for the residents’ meeting.”
“About what?”
“Pavement parking.”
The hedgehog on the mobility scooter became intensely interested in the controls.
Martin pressed on.
“This is all imitation. Houses, forms, mortgages, planning committees. You’ve copied human civilisation.”
“We have adopted certain practices.”
“Exactly.”
“Several regrettable ones appear to be human in origin.”
“Name one.”
The badger looked at him.
“Estate agents.”
Nobody moved.
The owl stopped hammering inside number four.
Simon lowered his ears.
From somewhere behind the net curtains, a voice said, “Language.”
“You humans didn’t invent houses,” said the badger. “You invented estate agents.”
Martin opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He looked at the badger.
Then at Simon.
Then at the hedgehog on the scooter.
He looked towards the pigeon, who was now pushing a letter through the flap of number ten.
“Wait.”
The badger waited.
“You can talk.”
The badger closed his eyes.
“Oh, thank God. I was beginning to think you would never notice. Sir, we have been arguing for twenty minutes.”
“I thought you were just very articulate.”
Simon coughed into one paw.
Martin took a step backwards.
“How are you talking?”
The badger opened his eyes and held out the clipboard.
“Signature at the bottom.”
“No. How are any of you talking?”
“That is not relevant to the incident.”
“It is the most relevant thing that has ever happened.”
“Not to this form.”
Martin looked at Kevin.
The Labrador was watching him with an expression of patient concern.
“You knew,” Martin said.
Kevin wagged his tail once.
“Give me my dog.”
“He has always been free to leave.”
“Then why have you kept him here?”
“We haven’t.”
“You put him on a lead.”
“For his safety.”
“That’s my lead.”
“No. Yours is caught around the elder tree by the hedge.”
Martin looked back. The end of Kevin’s green lead hung from a branch where it had snagged when the dog bolted.
“What exactly is the problem, then?”
The badger turned the form around.
“The original report concerned a loose animal. That matter has been resolved.”
“Good.”
“The remaining issue is whether you may leave the estate unaccompanied.”
Martin laughed.
Nobody else did.
“You cannot keep me here.”
“Believe me Sir, we are trying not to.”
“I’m an adult man.”
“That is one of the disputed fields.”
The badger began reviewing the form.
“Kevin entered the estate at seven forty-two. He responded to his name, accepted one biscuit, drank water, sat when asked, wiped his feet and caused no further disturbance.”
“He didn’t wipe them himself.”
“He cooperated.”
“Because he wanted another biscuit.”
“Motivation is outside our remit.”
The badger turned the page.
“You entered at seven forty-four. You were shouting. You damaged a flower bed. You threatened Kevin with agricultural relocation, disputed the species field, made unsubstantiated claims regarding property ownership and used inflammatory language concerning planning consent.”
“I said you didn’t have any.”
“Exactly.”
The badger crossed out LOOSE ANIMAL at the top of the form.
Above it, in careful block capitals, he wrote:
UNACCOMPANIED HUMAN
“You can’t classify me as an animal.”
“I have not yet decided how to classify you.”
“I am Kevin’s owner.”
“Registered keeper.”
“Owner.”
“Consumer with an interest.”
“Give me the form.”
The badger moved it away.
Kevin stood.
Simon handed the temporary lead to the badger. The badger unclipped it from Kevin’s collar, clipped it through Martin’s belt loop and passed the loop to Kevin instead.
The Labrador took it gently between his teeth.
“You cannot put me on a lead,” Martin said.
“Temporary safeguarding measure.”
“Kevin has been approved as the responsible animal.”
“A dog cannot legally be responsible for a man.”
Nobody took up the argument.
The badger tore a yellow slip from the bottom of the form. It read:
UNACCOMPANIED HUMAN — RETURNED TO RESPONSIBLE ANIMAL
Beneath that, the badger wrote:
Responsible animal: Kevin
He clipped the slip to the breast pocket of Martin’s jacket.
“You cannot put that on me.”
“You may appeal in writing.”
“To whom?”
“The residents’ association.”
“When do they meet?”
The badger glanced at his watch.
“Three minutes ago.”
Kevin tugged gently at the lead.
Martin did not move.
All along Sett Close, curtains waited.
The owl leaned out of the dormer. Simon folded his arms. The hedgehog remained illegally positioned across the pavement.
Kevin tugged again.
Martin followed him towards the hedge.
At the gap, Kevin stopped and looked back at the badger.
“Thank you,” Martin said bitterly.
The badger checked the box marked COLLECTED WITHOUT FURTHER INCIDENT.
Kevin led Martin through the hedge and back into the woods.
He checked twice to make sure Martin was still there.
This is delightful! 🖤