Fluke (8 page)

'Yes, but we actually went into that butcher's and stole that meat,' I insisted.

'There's no such thing as steal for us. We're only animals, you know.' He looked at me meaningfully.

I shrugged my shoulders, unwilling or too content for the moment to pursue the matter further. But all the same I wondered just how aware Rumbo was.

He suddenly jumped to his feet. 'Come on, pup, let's play!' he shouted, and was gone, streaking through the bushes out on to the open grassland. A burst of energy swept through me as though a switch had been turned on somewhere inside, and I dashed after the older dog, yapping joyfully, tail erect, eyes gleaming. We chased, we rolled, we wrestled, Rumbo teasing me mercilessly, showing off his skills of speed, manoeuvrability and strength, submitting to my wilder onslaughts and tossing me aside with the slightest shrug just when I began to feel his equal. I loved it.

The grass was wonderful to wallow in, to rub our backs against, to breathe in its heady fumes. I'd have been happy to have stayed there all day, but after ten minutes or so a surly park-keeper came and chased us away. We mocked him at first, taunting him by coming within easy reach then dodging just as he took a swipe at us. Rumbo was the more daring, actually leaping up and giving the man a gentle push in the back when his attention was on me. The park-keeper's angry curses made us roar with laughter, but Rumbo soon tired of the game and was off through the gates without a word, leaving me to chase after him.

'Wait for me, Rumbo!' I called out, and he slowed his pace to a trot, allowing me to draw alongside.

Page 32

'Where are we going now? I asked.

'We're going to have our breakfast now,' he replied.

Rumbo led me through a confusing number of side-streets until we reached an enormous corrugated-iron wall running the length of the pavement. We reached a break in it and Rumbo trotted through, his nose twitching for some familiar scent.

'Good,' he said to me. 'He's in his office. Now listen to me, pup: stay good and quiet. The Guvnor doesn't have much patience with dogs, so don't be a nuisance. If he talks to you, just wag your tail and play dumb. Don't get frisky. If he's in a bad mood - I'll give you the nod if he is - make yourself scarce.

We can try again later. O.K.?'

I nodded, beginning to feel apprehensive about meeting this 'Guvnor'. Looking around, I saw we were in a vast yard filled with old broken-up and broken-down cars, all piled in precarious-looking heaps. Other, smaller heaps, were scattered around and I saw these were made up of rusted parts from the damaged cars. A weary-looking crane stood at one end and I realised we were in a breaker's yard.

Rumbo had made his way towards a dilapidated wooden hut which stood in the centre of the metal-torn domain and stood scratching at its door, occasionally giving out a moderate bark. The shiny blue Rover parked near the hut stood out like a sore thumb among the mangled wrecks around it, the bright morning sun making its bodywork gleam disdainfully.

The door of the hut swung open and the Guvnor stepped out.

' 'Allo Rumbo, boy!' He beamed down at my tail-wagging friend; his mood seemed good. 'You been out all night again? You're supposed to be a guard dog, you know, stop me having headaches.' He squatted in front of Rumbo and ruffled the dog's fur, slapping his flanks for extra welcome, Rumbo was good - very good; he wagged his tail and shuffled his feet, grinning up at the Guvnor all the time, but not trying to thrust himself on to him, his tongue hanging loose, occasionally flicking upwards to lick the man's face. The Guvnor was heavily built, his long leather jacket bulging tight around the shoulders. He had that fleshy-looking hardness about him, a tough nut who had become used to the good things in life - good food and good liquor. A fat cigar protruded from his mouth and it looked a part of him, like his flattened nose; he would have looked silly without either. His hair, which was just beginning to thin, covered his ears and flowed over his collar at the back. A gold-sovereign ring flaunted itself from one hand while a large diamond ring outdid it on the other. He was about fortyish and had 'Villain' written all over him.

'Who's this you got with you?' The Guvnor looked over at me, surprise on his face. 'Got a little girl friend, have you?'

I bridled at his silly mistake. Fortunately, he corrected himself. 'Oh no, I can see he's just a pal. Here boy, come on.' He extended a hand towards me but I backed away, a little afraid of him.

'Get over here, squirt,' said Rumbo quietly, warning me with annoyance in his voice.

I crept forward cautiously, very uncertain of this man, for he was a strange mixture of kindness and cruelty. Generally, when you taste them, people have both these qualities but usually one is more dominant than the other. With the Guvnor, both characteristics were equally balanced, something I now know is very common in men of his kind. I licked his fingers, ready to bolt at the least sign of aggression.

He stopped me as I got carried away with his delicious flavours by clamping my jaws together with a big fist.

Page 33

'What's your name then, eh?' He yanked at my collar and I tried to pull away, very fearful of him now.

'It's all right, squirt, he won't hurt you if you behave yourself,' Rumbo reassured me.

'No name? No address? Someone didn't want you very much, did they?' The Guvnor let me go, giving me a playful shove towards Rumbo. He stood up and I could sense I was instantly forgotten.

'O.K., Rumbo, let's see what the missis has sent you.' The man walked round to the boot of his Rover, unlocked it and pulled out an interesting-looking plastic bag - interesting because it bulged with what our noses told us could only be food. We danced around his ankles and he held the bag aloft out of reach.

'All right, all right, take it easy. Anyone would think you hadn't eaten for a week.' Rumbo grinned at me.

The Guvnor walked round to the back of the hut to where an old plastic bowl lay and emptied the contents of the bag into it. A meaty bone, soggy cornflakes, bits of bacon fat and half a chocolate bar fell into the bowl, a rich concoction of leftovers. There were even some cold baked beans among the scraps.

As a human, my stomach would have turned over; as a dog, it was a gastronomic delight. Our noses disappeared into the mixture and for a few moments our minds were concentrated solely on filling our bellies. Rumbo got the tastier morsels, of course, but I didn't do too badly.

When the bowl was spotlessly clean, my friend wandered over to another bowl which stood beneath a dripping tap. He began to lap greedily at the water and I, my stomach fit to burst, drifted over and did the same. We slumped on the ground after that, too full to move.

'Do you eat this well every day, Rumbo?' I asked.

'No, not always. It's been a good morning. The Guvnor doesn't always bring me something - there've been times he hasn't fed me for days — and it's not always easy to steal. The shopkeepers around here are a bit wary of me now.'

The Guvnor had disappeared inside the hut and I could hear music blaring from a radio.

'Have you always belonged to the Guvnor?'

'I can't remember, to tell you the truth. He's all I've known.' Rumbo became deep in thought. Finally he said, 'No, it's no good. My mind goes fuzzy when I try to think too hard. Sometimes I remember scents when I sniff certain people. They seem familiar to me. I can't remember not knowing the Guvnor, though.

He's always been there.'

'Is he good to you?'

'Most of the time. Sometimes he ties me up when he wants to make sure I stay in all night, and sometimes he kicks me hard for shouting too loudly. But I can't help it. He's got some nasty friends and I just let fly at them when they come round.'

'What do they do here?'

'Talk mostly. They stay in that hut for hours, arguing and laughing. There's a few regulars who do the work around here, mess around with those heaps of junk, and things; bring new ones in. They're never
Page 34

very busy.'

'What does the Guvnor do?'

'You're a bit nosy aren't you, squirt?'

'Sorry. I'm just interested, that's all.'

Rumbo eyed me suspiciously for a few moments. 'You're not like other dogs, are you? You're . . . Well, you're a bit like me. Most dogs are very stupid. You're stupid, but not in the same way. Where exactly are you from, pup?'

I told him all I could remember and discovered I was beginning to forget my past also. I could still remember the market where I was bought, but not much more between there and the dogs' home. It's something that's happening to me more and more; I have periods of complete lucidity, then my mind can go virtually blank - my past, my origins, a vague blur. I often forget I was a man.

I didn't voice my anxiety over my human ancestry at that time because I didn't want to alarm Rumbo in any way; I needed him so I could learn how to survive as a dog. Acceptance of circumstances comes more easily to an animal, you see, and it was that animal part of me which turned away maddening thoughts.

'You were lucky to get away from the dogs' home, pup. That's the death-house for many,' Rumbo said.

'Have you ever been inside?'

'No, not me. They'll never catch me as long as I can run.'

'Rumbo, why aren't all dogs like us? I mean, why don't they talk like us, think like us?'

He shrugged. 'They just aren't.'

'Rumbo, were you ever ... do you ever remember being . . . er, have you always been a dog?'

His head jerked up. 'What are you talking about? Of course I've always been a dog? What else could I have been?'

'Oh, nothing.' My head sank miserably down on to my paws. 'I just wondered.'

'You're a strange pup. Don't cause me any trouble here, shrimp, otherwise I'll turn you out. And stop asking silly questions.'

'Sorry, Rumbo,' I said and quickly changed the subject. 'What does the Guvnor do?' I asked again.

Rumbo's answering glare and bared teeth killed my curiosity for the moment. I decided to take a little nap, but just before I dozed off another thought struck me.

'Why don't men understand us when we talk, Rumbo?'

Page 35

His voice was drowsy with sleep when he replied. 'I don't know. Sometimes the Guvnor understands me when I talk to him, but usually he just ignores me, tells me to quit yapping. Humans are just as stupid as stupid dogs sometimes. Now leave me alone, I'm tired.'

It was then that I realised we hadn't actually been communicating with words: it had been our minds speaking to each other. All animals or insects - fish even - have a way of communication whether it's by sound, scent or body display, and I've come to learn that even the dumbest creature has some sort of mental link with his own species - as well as others. It goes far beyond physical communications: how do you explain individual grasshoppers grouping into a swarm of locusts, what makes soldier ants march, what suddenly makes the lemming decide it's time to jump in the sea? Instinct, communication by body secretions, the sense of race survival: they all play their part, but it goes deeper. I'm a dog, and I know.

But I didn't know then. I was a pup, and a confused one at that. I'd found a friend I could talk to through my mind, someone who was more like me than the other dogs I'd met; few had come close, but none were like old Rumbo. I gazed at him fondly through blurred eyes, then I dozed off.

Eight

They were good, those days with Rumbo. The first morning had been enlightening and the days that followed were an education. We spent a large part of the time foraging for food, visiting the huge market most mornings (it slowly dawned on me that this was Nine Elms, the fruit and veg. market which had been yanked cruelly from the Covent Garden area to an obscure South Thames position, so I knew I was in South London, somewhere around Vauxhall) and then visiting the shops to see what we could steal. I soon learned to be as swift and cunning as Rumbo, but I never became as audacious. He would disappear into an open doorway of a house and seconds later calmly stroll out with a packet of biscuits, or a loaf, or anything he could lay his jaws on (he once emerged with a leg of lamb between his teeth but he didn't get away with that; a coloured lady came flying out and frightened old Rumbo so much with her shrieking he dropped the meat and bolted, a thrown milk bottle shattering on the pavement behind him).

Once we came across one of those pastry vans unloading its morning delivery. It was filled with trays of sweet-smelling buns and cakes, not to mention freshly baked bread. Rumbo waited until the driver had taken a large tray of pastries into the baker's, then leapt into the open interior of the van. I held back, of course, coward that I am, and watched enviously as Rumbo jumped from the van with a lovely sugared bun glued to his mouth. He crouched beneath the vehicle wolfing his booty as the driver returned for another tray. When he went back into the shop, freshly laden, Rumbo was up inside the van again, gulping down the remains of the first bun while snatching a chocolate eclair from another tray. He did this three times, each time hiding beneath the van before the driver returned, swallowing as fast as he could, when the dope (me) decided to chance his arm. I waited until the man was well inside the shop, scrambled up into the van (no easy task for a pup) and fussily sniffed my way along the delicious racks of confectionery. Rumbo was in and out like a shot, needless to say, but me - I had to be choosy. I had just decided upon a large, succulent-looking lemon meringue tart, torn between it and the chocolate eclair oozing cream lying beside it, when a shadow fell across the open doorway.

I yelped in fright and the man yelped in surprise. His surprise turned to menace and my fright turned to more fright. I tried to explain I was starving, that I hadn't eaten for a week, but he wasn't having any of it.

Page 36

He lurched forward and grabbed for my collar; I backed further into the van. The man cursed and hauled himself inside, crouching so he wouldn't hit his head on the low roof. He advanced on me and I retreated as far as I could go, which wasn't far enough. It's an unpleasant feeling when you know you're going to be hurt and, I must admit, I indulged in pity for myself to the full. Why had I allowed myself to be led on by that thief Rumbo, that crook in dog's clothing? Why had I let myself be bullied into this low life of petty thieving by this sneaky mongrel?