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Chapter Three
Rose left me in the kitchen with a water bowl and a promise she wouldn’t be long. She kept her promise, but the yelling man has upset her: Rose hangs her head like a dog that’s been scolded. I nudge her leg and lean against her, wagging my tail in support. She bends down, taking me in a hug.
‘What a mess!’ she sighs into my fur.
Mess? From under her armpit I look around the kitchen. It’s not that much of a mess and I’ve already tidied up a Marmite-coated crust I found under the table earlier. In the sink are some Chinese take-away food cartons that, thankfully, haven’t been washed and could do with a good licking. I’m happy to oblige, all in the name of orderliness, naturally. Sadly, there’s not a whiff of McDonald’s – my absolute favourite. Every dog’s absolute favourite, truth be told. I just wish McDonald’s would sell doggie-burgers, or better still, open up separate doggie cafés. How about Big Barker burgers, Woofer Wraps and Puppyccinos? Oh dear, I’m salivating at the thought, all over Rose’s shoes.
‘Let’s get you fed,’ she says.
She sounds chipper, but her anxiety thrums like a dragonfly’s wings.
From a bag, she pulls out some dog food tins. How do I know they’re for me? They have an ecstatic Labrador on the label, that’s how! They only grin like that when there’s food in the offing. When Rose opens a cupboard door, I smell wafts of joyful laughter, roses, ripe tomatoes and rich earthy smells. I wonder if this might have been Aunt Kay, as her scent is faint, and scents fade with time. However, the kitchen’s surfaces hold a lot of stories. From the scratched skirting boards I pick up a whiff of Legless the Dachshund, mostly washed away after many years of mopping. A farmhouse oak table has deep gouges and is marked with ink, from a time when this house was full of children. The only thing that seems new is the washing machine that’s winking its red light, stuffed full of clean washing waiting to be hung up to dry.
‘How much should I give you?’ Rose asks, peering into an open tin of meaty goodness. ‘Never had a dog as big as you, Monty.’
How much? All of it!
She looks down at me and I lick my lips. She shrugs.
‘All of it, I guess.’
We’re really bonding!
She scoops out the gooey yumminess into a bowl, adds a white tablet, then places the bowl on the floor. She is surprised when I wait for the command.
‘It’s okay. Eat it.’
I wolf down my meal fast because you never know when another dog will turn up. I then lick the bowl until I swear I can taste the ceramic glaze. Rose hangs her washing up on the garden line strung up between two trees and I help by stealing socks so she has to chase me to get them back. What fun! When the last sock is coerced from my mouth, Rose is breathless and laughing. She gets me in a playful head lock.
‘You’re naughty, but you’ve cheered me up no end.’
Glad to be of service!
Now to focus on her meal. She chops chicken breast and some vegetables. I breathe in the delicious sweet fleshiness of chicken sizzling in a wok and look up at her, eyes wide with hope. Her mobile rings just as I have her in my hypnotic gaze. Damn! I swear she was about to give me some.
Rose peers at the phone’s screen and looks relieved. At least it’s not the shouting man again. Instead, oinking noises are coming from the phone.
‘Mum, that’s never been funny,’ Rose sighs.
Is her mother a pig? Surely not?
‘Come on dear, what do you expect? You’ve joined the pigs.’ Another oink.
I haven’t seen Rose with a single pig so I have no idea what the crazy woman is talking about.
Rose’s voice falters. ‘Maybe not for much longer.’
‘That’s wonderful news! I can’t wait to tell your father.’
‘No it’s not, Mum! I love what I do. But I’ve ruined a surveillance operation and my boss thinks I’m a blithering idiot. Can’t say I blame him.’
Her heartbeat is up, her pale face flushed like sunburn. I nuzzle her leg.
‘Don’t you let those bastards bully you. I know what they’re capable of, remember. I’ve been on the receiving end of their brutality.’
Rose rolls her eyes. ‘Give it a rest, mum. You’ve never even been arrested.’
The succulent meaty smell is too much. Two long strands of my drool are competing to reach the floor first. But because I tilt my head, one stalactite of saliva lands on Rose’s knee.
‘Oh, Monty,’ she says, wiping it away with paper towel.
‘So you have a boyfriend? I was beginning to wonder if there was any hope.’
‘Monty’s a dog.’ She lets go of the spatula and strokes my head.
A big sigh from the pig. ‘Why aren’t I surprised! You know, Allen still asks after you.’
‘He has bad breath and doesn’t wear deodorant.’
‘Well, at least he has a conscience.’
The chicken is burning. This is terrible. I nudge her hand.
‘Mum, gotta go. Just serving dinner. I’ll call soon.’
She serves her meal and eats at the table. I lie at her feet and keep an eye out for any titbits she might drop by mistake. As we say, If it’s on the ground, it belongs to the hound. But Rose is a tidy eater. Next time I’ll be upping the cute factor and begging. Paddy always used to give me a little piece at the very end of his meal. Except when he ate curry. He used to say that curry made my farts smell like cow dung, which didn’t seem a problem to me but made Paddy screw up his nose and make Phwoar noises.
As Rose works at her laptop, I lie at her feet. I hear claws scratching wood and see a squirrel peering in through the kitchen window. It stretches out a claw and taps a Neighbourhood Watch sticker on the glass. I lift my head and it bolts. What a strange little fellow! Distracted, I almost miss a photo of my beloved Paddy in a scientific journal Rose is reading. He’s looking mighty fine in his best suit. I love the way his eyebrows and moustache are dark, but his beard and hair are almost white. I guess it’s the equivalent of a dog’s muzzle going white with age. The corners of his eyes are full of wrinkles because he smiles a lot and his eyes are a rich brown and welcoming like hot chocolate. I hear a whimper and realise it’s me. Rose looks down and strokes my head. It’s very soothing. The photo disappears from her screen but his face stays with me.
I imagine Paddy’s house all dark and lifeless, and my doggie duvet near the back door, complete with a very grubby, and therefore exactly-how-I-like-it, fluffy yellow duck. It pongs to perfection. Once, Paddy placed my manky friend in the washing machine. It was a front loader, so just in time I snatched it away and hid it behind some hollyhocks. Even worse, every now and again, Paddy would insist on washing my doggie duvet cover. We’d argue over it, as I held one end in my jaws and Paddy hung on to the other. Of course, Paddy was the boss so I’d let go eventually, but I could never understand why he’d want to wash away my blissful cocktail of stink. Let me explain.
My bed is an aromatic archive of my adventures, places I’ve been, animals and people I’ve met, and even old bones I’ve chewed. Ah, those bones! Most important of all, it’s a heady history of Paddy himself. Every time he touched my bed, he left his loving scent, as well as details of where he’d been, who he’d touched and what he’d eaten. My short-term memory is as sharp as a puppy’s canines. But, my long-term memory is as poor as a where-the-hell-did-I-put-my-nuts squirrel. So, my bed holds my long-term memories for me, which means I can revisit them whenever I wish. All it takes is a quick snuffle. Wash my bed and you wash away all those fond recollections – gone forever. The result? Olfactory amnesia. Very distressing. How I long to bury my nose in my doggie duvet and inhale all those happy times.
‘Goodnight, Monty,’ Rose says, startling me.
I open my eyes to find she has created a makeshift bed of cushions.
‘I’ll collect your old bed as soon as I can,’ she says. ‘This’ll have to do for now.’
I sniff the cushions and jerk my head back. Lavender, moth balls and sickness and … oh dear. Someone was once very ill in this house. And sad. Sadness has a scent too; it’s like decaying rose petals.
Chapter Four
I rest my jowl on one paw and try closing my eyes. I am tired, but can’t sleep. I miss Paddy so much and want to be with him. My eyes spring open at the pitter-patter of tiny claws on the floor. I smell dustbins on a hot day, rotting fruit, greasy food wrappers and, strangely, a hint of hot metal, engine oil and rubber, just like the train. It can only be one thing, though: a rat. I creep towards the source of the sound. It is dark but I don’t need lights to see where I’m going. There is a small hole in the skirting board to the right of the larder door. Sticking out of that small hole is a rotund rat’s bottom. Its back legs are scrabbling on the lino’s worn and slippery surface. I can hear muttering.
‘Need to go on a diet,’ she says, with a high-pitched squeak, tail wriggling like a worm. Or what’s left of her tail. She appears to have lost half of it. I’m guessing in a trap.
I was a young pup when I discovered how much big’uns hate rats. I’d been fostered to a family who were preparing me for guide dog school. This was in Windsor and my foster dad, John Collum, was a gardener at the castle. You may know something about Windsor Castle’s history – prisoners in towers, political intrigues, sieges, royal weddings, and the 1992 fire that was supposedly an accident; the canine wee-vine says otherwise. But most big’uns don’t know about the doggie shenanigans both past and present. The royal Corgis are master conspirators and escape-artists who regularly make a break for McDonald’s on the high street. The footmen have to disguise themselves as ordinary folk and catch them before they make headlines in the Sun. How do I know this? When the Family wasn’t in residence John let me join him in the castle grounds. That was when I first met the royal canines and first saw rats in traps, many dead or dismembered. I’ll never forget it.
‘Are you stuck?’ I ask the fat, furry bottom.
Her squeak is ear-splitting and she bursts out of the hole, stubby tail first, like a cork from a champagne bottle. She sees me and does the kind of turn I’ve seen stunt car drivers do on TV – a hand-brake turn I think it’s called. Then she bolts.
‘Wait! I won’t hurt you. Just want to talk,’ I say, jogging along after her at a leisurely pace.
She tries to escape through a gap under the door, fails, and makes a dash for it in the opposite direction. This goes on for a while, backwards and forwards across the lino until I decide to sit in the middle of the kitchen and just watch her scurrying to and fro, a bit like watching a tennis match. Eventually she stops darting about and leans against a table leg, gasping for breath.
‘Mate, you’re killing me,’ she says.
‘I’m not going to kill you,’ I reply. ‘I’ve been sitting here, just watching, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Her bulbous, ball-bearing eyes assess me. ‘What do you want, then?’ she asks, her nose and gossamer whiskers twitching constantly.
‘Nothing, really. My name’s Monty and Rose adopted me today.’
‘What you done then? Got kicked out, did you? Sent to the pound?’
Her breathing is less frantic and she rests her pink paws on her pot belly. But her stare is penetrating.
I look away. ‘My master was killed by another big’un,’ I say. ‘I tried to defend him. I really did …’
I howl. I have to. I don’t know any other way. It’s just what we do. In the distance, another dog hears me and howls back, in an Oprah-like, I-hear-your-pain way. When I look down again, the rat is sitting near one of my paws and stroking my fur. Because she is so small, it feels like a feather, and it’s very relaxing.
‘There, there, you poor thing,’ she says. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. You lot are very loyal to your masters, so this must be hard for you, but I’m sure you did everything you could.’
I still can’t find words. Careful not to squash my new friend, I place my muzzle between my two front paws on the floor. She continues to stroke my fur.
‘Name is Betty Blabble. Nice to meet you, and look, sorry I was so suspicious earlier, but you’re sorta big, you know. Even for one of your lot. Gave me a shock, is all.’
‘I don’t kill other animals. No need, since I’m always fed. Might have had fun chasing a few in my time, but that’s all. You’re safe with me.’
She peers into one of my eyes. It occurs to me that she can probably see her full reflection.
‘You know, I think you’re a good egg,’ she says, nodding.
Her twitching whiskers touch my muzzle. My ears wriggle, as they do whenever I feel ticklish. She laughs, which sounds like nails scratching a chalk board, but it cheers me up.
‘Just so happens you’re in luck,’ she continues. ‘Rose might work for the filth, but she’s a good ’un. First copper I ever met who is. I only moved here a few days ago so I’m still getting to know the place, but she always has enough food in the pantry and doesn’t seem bothered with a few house guests, including yours truly.’
I lift my head, intrigued. ‘Why don’t you like the police?’
‘Well now. That’s a long story, but all I’ll say is that I’ve had a few run-ins with the Law. In my Eurotunnel days. Turned over a new leaf since,’ she announces, nodding once for emphasis.
‘Which Law?’ I can’t help asking. ‘French or English?’
I haven’t met a Eurotunnel rat before but from her slight Kentish twang I’m guessing she’s spent more time at the British end of the tunnel. Who hasn’t heard of the vicious tunnel turf wars? Big’uns believed the damage caused by the bitter rodent rivalry was due to human vandalism. How wrong they were.
There’s a hard glint in her eyes as she makes the zip-it sign across her mouth. I take the hint and change the subject.
‘Rose is going to find the man who killed my master. She’s working the case. And she rescued me from the vet’s. So in my book, she’s the best.’ Betty nods, whiskers tickling my nose again, my ears twitching in response. ‘I want to help her find Paddy’s killer, but don’t know where to start.’
‘So, this killer. Did you get a good sniff of him?’ she asks. ‘A him or her?’
‘Definitely male. And I got a good smell and taste. I took a chunk out of his arm.’
Betty holds up her tiny paw to high-five me. I lift mine, so my black pads hover near her. She smacks hers onto mine.
‘Good on ya,’ she says. ‘Proud of you.’
‘So if I could get near enough to sniff the suspect, I’d know immediately if he was Paddy’s killer.’
‘Now we’re talking,’ says Betty. ‘Can’t understand why big’uns don’t use your lot more often to solve crime. Your super-snorters could save a hell of a lot of time. I say, let the police dogs get on with it and fire all those useless coppers.’
I decide not to point out that Rose would be one of those coppers getting fired.
‘Paddy once told me we have the best sense of smell of any mammal, except for a bear.’
‘I’ll have you know, Mr Monty, rats can beat dogs in one sniffing category. Landmines.’ She nods her head again for emphasis.
I am taken aback and shift my paws, unintentionally knocking Betty over, who tumbles like a roly-poly Weeble.
‘I’m sorry, are you okay?’
She brushes her fur down. ‘Take more than that to worry me. Just try not to do it again, will ya?’
‘So what did you mean about sniffing landmines?’
‘Rats are the best at finding landmines. Don’t know why, but it’s a scientific fact. I know ’cause a mate of mine works for the army and he finds them.’
‘Never knew that.’
‘So,’ Betty says, sitting up on her hind legs, nose raised as if she has the scent of a plan. ‘Next question: do they have any suspects?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been at the vet’s since it happened.’
Betty stares at the gash of seventeen stitches; my chest fur has been shaved.
‘Well, mate, if we’re going to catch us a killer, you’re going to need to tell me everything.’
Seems like we are now a criminal-catching partnership. My heart lifts. I have a buddy to help me. Then it drops like a stone in a pond. I don’t want to relive the worst moment of my life. It makes me feel sick. I get up and pace around the table.
‘I can’t.’
‘Go on love, tell me what happened.’
Chapter Five
I look out of the window at the full moon. It reminds me of a triple cream brie I stole one Christmas from Paddy’s nibbles platter. Betty and I sit close together on the kitchen floor, bathed in the milky moonlight.
‘Go on,’ she says. ‘You can do it.’
I have relived the attack on my master many times in my head, always wondering the same thing. Could I have saved him? But I haven’t told anybody about what happened. I lick my nose, psyching myself up. My heart races. I swallow hard and begin my tale.
‘I knew there was something wrong, even before I saw the man.
Perhaps it was the way the car crawled down our single-track lane, like that creepy cat two doors down who stalks birds. I heard the tyres crunch on the gravel and thought it odd, since our elderly neighbour, Mr Grace, never has evening visitors, and we weren’t expecting any. I should have paid more attention, but I didn’t because I was up to my chest in cool river water, facing upstream, searching for fish. Once I’m fishing, I’m focused.
Paddy was sitting in the back garden working on his laptop as usual, sipping his after-dinner wine, the clink of the glass on the table top a familiar sound. Our home was a semi-detached, red-brick cottage, with low ceilings and narrow leadlight windows at the end of a cul-de-sac. The house was small – a two up, two down – but the garden was canine-heaven: quarter of an acre of lush green lawn, loads of flowerbeds to dig up, trees that dropped a plentiful supply of sticks to chew, and, best of all, on the other side of an easily jumpable gate, was the river.
So there I was enjoying the currents tickling my belly when I spotted a cracker of a fish no more than a few inches from my right paw. Just in time I remembered not to wag my tail. I’ve learned the hard way that the ripples frighten fish away. I opened my jaw, ready to pounce, grizzly-bear-style. Then I heard our front doorbell ring. Paddy didn’t, but my hearing is much better than his. I should have gone to investigate then, but the fish was tantalisingly close.’
I drop my head, ears flattened.
Betty interjects. ‘You weren’t to know Paddy was in danger. Stop blaming yourself.’
I shake my head and whimper. I should have known. It was my job to protect him. I swallow and press on with my tale.
‘I pounced, head into the water, mouth clamped down on what I hoped was a fish. But the slippery sucker zipped off and all I was left with was a mouthful of leaf litter and a nose full of water. When I’d stopped sneezing, I glanced up the garden path. I saw a man I didn’t recognise walking down the side passage. His face was covered with some kind of dark sock with holes in it for his eyes and mouth. Paddy stood abruptly, knocking his chair backwards. I was too far away to smell his fear but I knew instantly he was in danger.
“What do you want?” Paddy said, his voice shaky.
The man said nothing but raised a single gloved finger to his lips. He was telling Paddy to be quiet, in the same way Paddy used to tell me to be quiet when I got carried away barking at squirrels.
I scrambled as fast as I could for the bank, but the water clung to me like porridge and I slipped on a stone. I got up, raced through the open gate and up the path. I detected the sour smell of Paddy’s terror. I heard his heart beating too fast.
I bark. “Run,” I told him, “Run”
But he didn’t run. Perhaps because he was an old man: in dog years he was eight, in big’uns years, fifty-six. Or perhaps because he was paralysed with fear. I’ll never know. I accelerated, my teeth bared, eyes locked onto the intruder, tail rigid and pointed at the sky. My growl was deep and rumbling.
The intruder saw me and his body tensed. Yet he didn’t flee. I was not a surprise. Through the slit in his head-sock I saw him slowly lick his lips as if he wanted to eat me. For a split second I was confused about why he didn’t seem afraid, but I kept coming. The man had a knife in his hand. He stepped forward and plunged the blade into my master’s body. I roared in anger. As I leapt over plant pots to reach him, I inhaled his scent: the acrid tang of funny cigarettes, damp walls, some kind of stinky food not even I would want to eat, and a disease. One I have never smelled before. It reminded me of an insect, but I couldn’t place which one.
Paddy opened and closed his mouth in shock. The attacker pulled out the blade. My dear master clutched his wound and fell to his knees.
“No!” I bellowed, as I jumped at the masked man.
He turned and swept his arm across my body. The blade sliced into my chest, slashing through skin and muscle. I yelped at the searing pain, but the force of my leap drove me forward and I crashed into him, knocking him onto his back. I rolled away as quickly as I could, afraid he would strike again. He missed by inches, and when the knife hit the ground I hurled myself at him. I bit deep into the arm holding the weapon and shook it with all my strength, tearing his flesh. It was his turn to yelp now. His flimsy jacket was no protection at all. I drew upon all my fury to dig my teeth deeper and deeper. The attacker dropped his knife, but then he kicked me so hard in the stomach, I had to let go. I managed to tear away part of his sleeve. I collapsed on my side, desperately trying to catch a breath. The left side of my face was sticky with blood oozing from my chest wound.
The man cradled his mauled lower arm. I noticed part of a tattoo. He spun around, searching for his knife. I was lying on it. I stayed still. He glanced at Professor Salt, who lay motionless, eyes wide open, as if the setting sun was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. But I knew my dear master saw nothing. Those kind brown eyes were blind and cold, like marbles. The killer knew it too. Every time I breathed, it was as if I was being kicked again, but I managed to lift my head and snarl. I knew it was a weak snarl, but he didn’t. He backed away, grabbed Paddy’s laptop from the garden table, took his wine glass and entered the house. For the first time I noticed he was wearing a backpack. He slammed the back door shut, in case I followed. But I wasn’t leaving my master.
I heard the killer move through the house to the study – I knew exactly which creaky floorboard he stepped on – and the rasp of desk drawers yanked open, then dull thuds. He was throwing something heavy in his bag. Then paper files slid against the fabric too. He moved to the sitting room, drawers thrown on the floor. Then the clank of metal.
I crawled over to Paddy and licked his face. Perhaps he was alive after all? I so wanted to be wrong. I did it again and again and his head jerked with each increasingly desperate lick. But his eyes didn’t flicker.
I whimpered, “Wake up! Please wake up!”
I placed my snout above his mouth and sniffed for breath, hoping to feel the slightest waft of air. Nothing. I howled, my nose pointing to the darkening sky. I howled in pain and grief, as we have done for centuries. I howled because I can’t weep like big’uns. I howled because I love my master more than anything.
I stopped when I heard the front door open and shut and the man’s feet crunched on the gravel drive. A car door opened. But not quietly. It was metal screeching on metal. I smelt diesel as he drove away, and heard a tink, tink, tink of something rattling.
I grew weaker and dizzier as the pool of blood from my wound grew. But I would not leave Paddy. He was my world and someone had taken him from me. I howled again, but my head felt so very heavy. I rested it on Paddy’s chest, his white shirt drenched in blood where the blade had pierced his no longer beating heart. I vowed to myself that if I was to live I would never rest until I found the man who took him from me.’
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