Grk Undercover (17 page)

And he did.

A few hours later, another plane touched down in Stanislavia, bringing Mr. and Mrs. Malt from London. They collected Tim, Max, Natascha and Grk, put them on the plane and took them home again.

The following morning, Tim woke up in his own bed.

He was planning to spend the whole morning there. And no one was going to stop him.

With a big smile on his face, Tim turned over, snuggled deeper into his duvet and went back to sleep.

He was trapped.

He couldn’t escape.

They had slammed the door and turned the key in the lock, abandoning him here in this small, cold, dark cell.

He didn’t know why.

He was being punished. He knew that much. But he didn’t have a clue what he had done wrong.

It wasn’t important. Only one thing mattered now. Escaping. He had to get out. He had to get home. And he had to do it as fast as possible. He didn’t want to spend another wasted minute inside these drab, dismal walls.

He paced around the cell, inspecting his surroundings, searching for a way to escape. He tapped the cold concrete floor, then scraped the walls, hoping to find a crack or an opening, but the bricks felt solid and immovable. The ceiling was too high for him to reach. He rested his shoulder against the door and pushed with all his strength, but the lock didn’t budge.

He noticed that the hinges were covered in scratches. The floor and the walls too. Bite marks lined the bars of the cell.

Others must have been here before him. They too had tried to escape: scratching and biting and digging, exhausting themselves with the effort. But they had failed.

He suddenly understood that he would fail too.

He was fit and muscular, but he couldn’t dig through a concrete floor or reach a ceiling that was many times his own height.

His teeth were strong, but they would be shattered by those thick steel bars.

He would be stuck here forever. He knew that now. He would have to spend the rest of his life in this small, dark, miserable cell.

Despair overwhelmed him. He threw back his head and howled—a long, agonizing howl, expressing all his sadness and pain and desperation.

To his surprise, his cry was answered immediately. All around him, yelps and shouts came back, expressing desperation and pain and sadness just like his.

He wasn’t alone.

The cells were packed with prisoners.

Their stories were identical to his. Male and female, young and old, they had been abandoned here.

He listened intently to their barks and shrieks, hoping to gain some new information, but they told him nothing that he didn’t already know.

Grk lay down on the floor, put his head on his paws and stared at the bars of his cell, wondering what to do.

He had to escape from here and find his way back home.

But how?

It was a sunny morning in the mountains and hundreds of hikers were setting out for hearty walks through the Alps, clasping sticks and carrying backpacks packed with provisions. Snow covered the mountaintops, but the lower valleys were lush, green and speckled with flowers.

Thirty thousand feet above them, an Alitalia flight cruised through the air. One or two passengers looked out of the windows at the mountains below them, staring at the sculpted peaks and crevices. The others were too busy sleeping, working, talking, playing games, watching movies or reading books. All of them had their own lives, their own worries, their own fears, their own reasons for traveling from London to Rome on a Friday afternoon. But we’re not interested in any of them. We’re just interested in a man, a woman and a boy sitting near the back of the plane.

The man was reading the
Daily Telegraph
. The woman was flicking through the pages of
Vogue
. And the boy was arguing with her.

He had been arguing with her all morning. He started arguing when she woke him up. He continued arguing while they had breakfast and finished packing their bags. He even argued with her in the car on the way to the airport.

In fact, the same argument had been continuing for more than three weeks now.

“It’s so unfair,” said Tim for the thousandth time. “You can’t put Grk in prison.”

“He’s not in prison,” replied Mrs. Malt. “He’s just staying in a kennel for a couple of nights.”

“A kennel is a prison for dogs,” said Tim.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mrs. Malt. “Cuddles Kennel has been recommended in all the best guides. Grk will have much more fun than he does at home. He’ll be surrounded by lots of
other lovely dogs. Anyway, he’s only going to be there for a couple of nights and then he’ll be back with us.”

Tim could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Would you want to spend two nights in prison? Of course you wouldn’t! No one would! It’s so unfair. Why can’t he come to Italy?”

“Because he can’t,” said Mrs. Malt. “You saw the invitation. Children are welcome, but pets aren’t allowed.”

“If Grk can’t come, then I don’t want to go either.”

“You don’t want to stay in a lovely hotel? And eat lots of yummy spaghetti?”

“Not without Grk,” said Tim. “I’d rather turn round and go home.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re already halfway there. And even if we weren’t, you couldn’t stay in the house on your own.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not old enough to look after yourself.”

“Why not?”

Mrs. Malt sighed. “We’ve talked about this for days and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because … because … because …” Mrs. Malt glanced at her husband, hoping for some support, but he was reading the business pages of the
Daily Telegraph
and hadn’t heard a word of their conversation. Mrs. Malt turned back to her son. “We’re not going to talk about this anymore,” she said in a firm voice. “I want you to keep quiet and read your book till we get there.”

“But—”

“No buts! I don’t want to hear another word out of you, Tim. Will you please just sit quietly and read your book.” Mrs. Malt opened her magazine and, pretending that she was entirely alone on the plane, studied a photograph of a skinny woman in a flowery dress.

Tim sighed.

It was so unfair.

Why wasn’t he allowed to stay at home? Why did he have to spend the weekend with his mum and dad? When would he be old enough to look after himself?

He knew there was no point asking any of these questions. His mother had made up her mind and she wasn’t going to change it.

Anyway, she was right.

They were already halfway to Italy and the pilot wasn’t going to turn the plane around just to rescue a lonely little dog.

They would be landing in Rome soon. They would take a taxi to the center of the city, where they would stay the night in a hotel. Tomorrow, they were going to a wedding. One of Mr. Malt’s oldest friends was marrying an Italian woman. It was guaranteed to be really boring. Tim had been to three weddings and they were always really boring.

When the wedding was over, they would have to stay one more night in the hotel. And then, finally, they would be allowed
to catch another plane back home and rescue Grk from Cuddles Kennel.

Tim sighed again.

Poor Grk!

Right now, he would be lying in his cage, wondering why he had been abandoned so cruelly.

He wouldn’t understand what had happened. He’d think that they had gone away forever.

I’m sorry
, Tim said silently to himself. He knew Grk couldn’t hear him, but he wanted to say it anyway.
I’m very, very sorry. We’ve locked you in a prison and you must be miserable
.

But just wait. Be patient. We’re only staying in Italy for the weekend. As soon as this boring wedding has finished, we’ll be flying back again. And then, finally, you can come home
.

At seven o’clock on Friday evening, the door of Cage 73 swung open and a red-faced man staggered into the cell, carrying a heavy bucket in each hand. He was wearing big black boots, dirty jeans, an old blue shirt and thick rubber gloves. His name was Trevor Cuddle and he was the owner of Cuddles Kennel.

Trevor Cuddle started the kennel with his father, Arthur, and his wife, Marjorie, and they’d been running it for almost fifteen years. In that time, they hadn’t just looked after thousands of dogs. They had also taken care of cats, rats, newts, salamanders, anacondas, ferrets, guinea pigs, gerbils and just about every other pet that you can imagine—feeding and exercising them while their owners went on holiday.

Trevor Cuddle closed the door behind him and stared at the small white dog curled miserably on the cold concrete floor. Then he unfolded his printout of every animal currently resident at Cuddles Kennel. He ran his finger down the list of numbers until he reached 73.

“Grk,” said Trevor Cuddle. “Never come across that one before. Foreign, is it?” He glanced at the dog as if he was expecting an answer. “How are you meant to say it, then? Gruk? Grook? Grrrrrok? Come on, then. Give us a clue. How do you like your name to be said?”

Some dogs might have barked. Others would have wagged their tails. Grk simply stayed on the floor and stared at Trevor Cuddle with a stern expression.

“Not very chatty,” said Trevor Cuddle, “are you?”

This time, he didn’t bother waiting for a response. From one of his buckets, he filled Grk’s bowl with fresh water. From the other, he tipped out a few tough brown biscuits.

“There’s your dinner,” he said. “Hope you enjoy it.”

Most dogs couldn’t wait for their food. They jumped up and started scarfing as soon as the biscuits landed in their bowl.

Grk didn’t move a muscle. Food had lost all meaning for him. He just lay on the floor, his head on his paws, hardly even twitching his nostrils to sniff the biscuits.

“Let me give you some advice,” said Trevor Cuddle. “You won’t get fed again till tomorrow morning. If I was you, I’d eat the lot.”

His words had no effect. The little dog stayed on the floor, his ears flat against his skull, a picture of misery.

“Oh, dear,” said Trevor Cuddle. “You’re not sick, are you?”

He hoped not.

Sick dogs made trouble for him. He’d have to phone the vet or, even worse, interrupt the owners on their holiday. He might have to waste his whole morning on a single animal. And he didn’t have a minute to spare; the kennel was packed with animals.

A second glance reassured him. He could see that the little dog didn’t actually look ill. No, there was a much simpler explanation for its sad eyes, tired legs and limp tail.

Over the years, Trevor Cuddle had learned a lot about dogs. He could recognize happy dogs, sad dogs, angry dogs, aggressive dogs, difficult dogs and dangerous dogs. Looking at Grk, he knew immediately that this was a dog suffering from depression. The poor little pooch missed his owners.

“Don’t worry,” said Trevor Cuddle in a kind voice. “You’re only going to be here for a couple of nights. It’ll pass in a flash. Come Sunday, you’ll be heading home. Now eat some biscuits and drink some water and you’ll soon feel better.”

Trevor Cuddle stepped out of the cage, locked the door and walked down the corridor to the next dog. If he hadn’t been so busy, he’d have chatted to the depressed dog for a few minutes, or even taken him for an extra walk around the yard, but he didn’t have time for lengthy conversations with other people’s pets. This weekend, his cages held eighty-three dogs, eleven
cats, two hamsters, a family of cockatoos and a rather scary snake named Graham. Before Trevor Cuddle could go back to his house and have his own supper, he had to give food and drink to every single one of them.

When the man in the big black boots had locked the cell and retreated down the corridor, Grk took a couple of sips of water and nibbled at the biscuits, but didn’t finish them.

He couldn’t eat.

He was feeling too gloomy.

He hated this cell.

He loathed being locked up.

He wanted his freedom.

He wanted to smell fresh air and walk on the pavement and roll on the wet grass and choose which tree to pee against.

More than anything, he wanted to be back home.

Grk was a small dog with beady black eyes. He had white fur with black patches and a perky little tail. When he was
happy, his tail wagged quickly back and forth. But when he was miserable, as he was right now, his tail drooped sadly between his back legs and trailed along the floor.

His small brain was working hard, trying to figure out how to escape, but he couldn’t come up with any good ideas.

He lay for a long time, frowning and thinking and listening to the squeals and barks of the other dogs around him, wondering when he would be rescued. What had happened to Natascha? Where was Tim? Why had they left him here? Didn’t they care about him?

Every few minutes, he pulled himself to his feet and wandered around the boundary of his cell, sniffing the walls and scratching the floor, but nothing had changed. No secret doorways had opened. No cracks had appeared. There was no way out.

He lay down on the floor again and wondered if he was going to be here for the rest of his life.

Grk was used to spending his nights in a small, cozy basket lined with thick cushions. If he woke up with a dry throat, he could pad into the kitchen and take a few sips of cool, clean water. If he heard any strange noises, he would go and investigate, but his nights were usually quiet and peaceful. From dusk till dawn, he stretched out on his comfy cushions and slept.

A night in the kennel was very different.

Grk’s bed was a concrete floor. He had a bowl to drink from, but the water was warm and brown. The night was punctuated by strange noises echoing all around him.

He could hear other dogs in the other cages. Some yelped, others howled and a few whimpered. One barked desperately for hours. Another whined softly and miserably, calling for her owners, asking where they had gone and why they had abandoned her here.