The Pack (7 page)

Red Dog stopped laughing and in an instant there was silence, apart from Hunger's claws scraping the bare wooden floor.

“So-o-o,
Dog Boy,
” he sneered, “you thought to pull a trick on one of Red Dog's lieutenants, eh?”

Bradley started to answer, to come out with some kind of impossible threat, but all he could manage were a couple of rasps. His chest felt badly bruised and cords cut across his lips.

“Cut him free and bring him before me,” ordered Red Dog. “Leave the black creature to exhaust itself.”

Half a dozen children held onto the net, while the weasel cut through the cords. Bradley felt himself expanding, filling out the shape of himself. Hunger they secured even more tightly.

Bradley stood up shakily. Whatever he might have wanted to do, he couldn't have done it then; his legs trembled, his arms felt powerless. He took deep breaths to clear his chest.

The children, still all flashing teeth and bright eyes, poked him forward to face Red Dog. They pushed Bradley down till he was on his knees.

What had made the warlord's head appear so grotesque was a ginger wig, carelessly askew. Below it was a pair of red painted-on eyebrows, for Red Dog had none of his own. And the metal shirt turned out to be a chestful of medals. Bradley knew a little about medals, as the Old Woman had traded them for bets on a few occasions. Any medal worked as currency, but Bradley noticed in Red Dog's collection two for animal bravery and one that the Old Woman had told him they once gave for absolutely nothing with breakfast cereal.

“What a world that must have been,” Bradley had said to her.

“Well, it's long gone and it's never coming back. You remember that, if you want to survive this one.” Her fists had clenched, as if she were wringing something that would never quite dry out.

Still, no matter where they had come from, Red Dog was proud of all his medals. He thrust out his chest and shook it, making the medals jangle.

“See what kind of a dog you took on when you took on Red Dog,
Dog Boy.
”

Bradley breathed out, “Where are they?” But the words only came as three short breaths.

“Sorry, didn't catch that,
Dog Boy.
Could you speak up a little please? Pretty please.”

“Where are they?”

“And who-oo-to-whit-to-woo would
they
be?” He turned his grinning face from one side of the hall to the other. Each side of soldier boys tried to out-clap the other.

“Floris and…” Bradley said.

“Floris,” said Red Dog. “
Flor-is.
Mmm. Now, would that be a lovely little girl with sparkly eyes?”

“Where is she?”

“Oh, not here,
Dog Boy,
not here.” Red Dog put his hands out, palms outwards, and called for a response.

“Not here,
Dog Boy,
not here,” the children echoed.

“I tell you, if you've—”

There was a kick in Bradley's back and his face hit the floor.

“Naughty. Not to threaten Red Dog.” It was the weasel's voice.

“Thank you, Laugh-tenant,” said Red Dog. “
Laugh-
tenant. Ooh, isn't that good? Don't you think so? I like names. What's your name,
Dog Boy?
”

My name is my story,
Bradley thought. The name the Old Woman gave to him. His name was precious, secret, like Mrs. Bridget Newton's was to her. Nor was he unhappy with
Dog Boy,
much though Red Dog sneered at it. It was dogs he lived amongst, after all, one of whom lay dead under rubble for caring for someone he as pack leader should have protected. Another lay behind him, cords cutting into his flesh—a dog that was like a brother to him. He had no shame in the name Dog Boy.

“Dog Boy,” Bradley answered. “I have no other.”

Red Dog smiled, his helmet brow lifting back. “Ah, Red Dog; Dog Boy.” He nodded. “The Dead Time gave birth to many new names, did it not? Fair enough, Dog Boy, your Floris is not here.”

“Then, where…?”

“We have shipped her on, shipped her out, have we not, my lovelies?”

The children cheered.

“Where? You'd better—”

Another foot to the back.

“Careful, now,” said the weasel.

“Oh, you are full of questions, aren't you?” said Red Dog, as Bradley pushed himself back onto his knees. “All right, I'll tell you. She's gone to the Invisible City. There was a vacancy, you see.”

The children clapped delightedly.

“Someone had to go, didn't they, my lovelies?”

Red Dog's helmet came down and he circled the room with his eyes; first one way, then the other—then back, as if he were looking for one child in particular. The children were unnerved by this. They tried to avoid Red Dog's gaze by looking at the floor or to their sides.

“Oh, but next month”—he spoke slowly—“next month … Oh, who's it going to be? I wonder. Oh, who-oo-to-whit-to-woo might hesitate, when Red Dog says, “Jump”? Who might say, ‘Oh, Red Dog, Red Dog, don't make me do that'? Oh, who-oo-to-wit-to-woo might it be who would draw Red Dog's attention to them? Could it be you, Blade?”

“No, Red Dog, never!”

“You, Skewer?”

“No, Red Dog, never!”

“It must be you then, Poker.”

“No, Red Dog, never!”

“But it
has
to be someone,” wheedled Red Dog. “You can't all have
Futures Guaranteed.
Not in this cruel, cruel world. Oh, my boys, if you only knew the weight of responsibility…” Red Dog buried his head in his arms. In the silence they heard his terrible sobs. “Has to be someone … Oh, boo-hoo, has to be … Oh, boo-hoo, this harsh, cruel world.”

The children held their breaths and waited.

Then Red Dog appeared to have the freshest thought. His head resurfaced and, when it did, his delighted eyes were fixed on Bradley.

“Unless…”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” the hall broke out in a clamour of approval.

“Dog Boy! Dog Boy! Dog Boy!”

“Oh, we'll see. You see, Dog Boy, that other one, they wouldn't want him at all, sorry scrap of a thing that he is.”

“Victor,” Bradley said. “Where is he?”

“Ah, Vic-tor, Vic-tor. Victor wasn't for telling us his name either, you know. So thank you for that. Poor Victor, he was terribly upset. Would you like to see him, Dog Boy? Come then.”

The weasel tugged at the neck of Bradley's jersey and he got stiffly to his feet. With children gripping his arms, he followed Red Dog through the door to the right of his throne and into a large square room.

This room was intact, a dim light spilling down from a broken chandelier, clumps of candles at each corner, and in two of the corners, two round cages, one ten feet across, the other considerably smaller. It was to the smaller cage that Bradley was led.

“Sssh,” Red Dog whispered, very showily rising onto tiptoe.

There was a bundle of rags on one side of the cage. Red Dog signalled to one of the children, who stood by with a cane. The child poked the cane through the bars and thrust it deep into the rag pile.

The pile erupted.

And there was Victor, his hands locked round the bars, snapping the cane with his teeth. His face was masked by a blue bruise, which had spread from his swollen nose across his cheekbones. From those markings his eyes glared so wildly, they seemed to be beyond seeing.

“Victor,” said Bradley. “Victor.”

But Victor carried on growling and snapping, till Red Dog motioned to another two boys, one of whom thrashed at Victor's hands till he let go of the bars, while the other poked a cane into his stomach, lifting his shirt to show the red weals of a previous beating.

Howling in pain and anger, Victor retreated to the opposite side of the cage, where he licked his knuckles and curled his lip at his persecutors. Bradley noticed then that he wore a dog collar.

The children laughed at the sport and Bradley saw an invisible curtain come down in Victor's eyes.

“Victor. Victor. It's Bradley.”

Bradley remembered the Old Woman's words: “Floris is all that keeps Victor in the human world; the only tenderness he allows in his heart. If he doesn't find her, he will die as a dog.”

Seeing Victor's lack of recognition, the way he had crossed his cage on all fours, the wild yet beaten dog-eyes he turned on the whole company, Bradley feared the Old Woman would be proved right. For how long would Red Dog and his gang of boy soldiers be entertained by a creature, once the spirit had been beaten out of it?

Red Dog's verdict was already ominous: “Oh, Victor, you're not much fun.”

Bradley looked across at the other cage, trying to see what he could make out there.

“Oh, the other cage, the other cage,” said Red Dog. “The other cage, my beauty, is for you.”

The weasel opened the door and Bradley was thrown in.

“Bold Skreech, trusted Skreech,
bruised
Skreech, you will have the honor of tending to our guests. We'll see you tomorrow, Dog Boy. Sleep well,” and Red Dog and the company swept out.

A little later, they brought Hunger in. The weasel unlocked the door and the children slipped Hunger off his pole. He gave some rasping breaths and tried to right himself, but he was hopelessly trussed up now.

“You'd better get him out of that lot soon,” said the weasel, “before he runs out of breath. Tomorrow's an important day for him. You want him fit.” He switched the light off and shut the door behind him. Skreech sat cross-legged in the corner in the candlelight, his head against the wall.

It was easy enough to feel for the knots, but it was hard in candlelight to see how they worked. And, with Hunger's struggles, they had tightened till the cords seemed to have fused.

Bradley worked with his nails and his teeth. A few knots came free, but with others Bradley had to chew his way through the cord itself. All this long time, Hunger lay still. His eyes followed Bradley.

“Trust me,” said Bradley and gave Hunger's head two good strokes, pulling his hand back from Hunger's forehead to the nape of his neck.
Trust.
If he had known the meaning of the word when they met, Hunger might have been differently named. But hunger was the place they had both started from.

Bradley heard Victor keening in his cage as he worked Hunger's knots. It was the softest, most mournful sound. Victor was as alone now as when Bradley had first found him, a stray from the Forbidden Territories, covered in bite marks, with “Victor” the only word on his lips.

One last cord frayed and broke and Hunger was scrambling to his feet. Bradley pulled the remains of the net from him and Hunger shook himself, then circled himself, dabbing wounds with his tongue. He sat and licked his back legs and stretched the large thigh muscle where the cord had cut most deeply.

Bradley stroked the length of him and whispered softly into his ear. “It's all right, boy. It's all right.”

Let me be,
said Hunger. He squatted and he raised his head back and he began to sing, at first quite softly, then with a gathering power, till his singing came in great rolling howls.

With a scurry, Victor was on his haunches, his eyes piercing the gloom between the two cages. Then, his head thrust back, he answered and added to Hunger's call.

Something at the heart of their calls spoke to the child guard—the wildness of a spirit that would not surrender—so Skreech was half-hearted when he rattled his stick round the cages. But Hunger and Victor carried on in unison, till the weasel came in and threw a bucket of freezing water over each of them.

“Shut up, will you? Save your breath for tomorrow. You'll need it.”

Victor and Hunger shook themselves. Half the weasel's water had missed.

“Victor, we'll get Floris,” Bradley said.

Victor gave the smallest howl of assent.

Hunger lay down and rolled his body against Bradley's. Soon Bradley felt the heat of Hunger's blood coming through his fur and he imagined the earthy damp-dog smell of him was the smell of a deep, dark forest.

Whatever tomorrow may bring, he thought, let it come.

8

A NEW CHAMPION

Shooting pains in his back woke Bradley. He twisted and lifted up his jersey to see the bruising. It was the sharp stair edges that had done the damage.

Skreech was slumped in his corner, his hands loose around his stick. A bruise marked the side of his face, most deeply where his jaw was swollen. Bradley scratched Hunger's ear and laid his head softly on the ground.

“Psst,” Bradley called. “Psst.”

Skreech lifted his head from the wall. “Mmm.”

“Looks sore, your face.”

Skreech looked at Bradley as if the question were crazy. “What you want, Dog Boy?”

“Just saying…”

“Go to sleep, Dog Boy. Your dog's got the idea. He's going to need it.”

“Why? What's going to happen?”

“Big dog fight. Red Dog's got a champion—real killer. Your dog's going in with it.”

“And if Hunger wins?”

“Hunger, that his name?”

“If he wins?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“But if he does?”

“Then he'll be the new champion. That's how it works. But I tell you, no one lasts long with this animal.”

“Pity,” said Bradley. “Hunger's a good dog. He's been a good friend to me. I'd hate to lose him.”

“
Friend
—huh, no one here cares about
friend.
”

“But aren't all these children who work for Red Dog your friends?”

“Don't make me laugh. They'd trade me for an apple if Red Dog told them to. And I'd do the same.”

There was a honed sharpness in Skreech's voice, yet he was younger than Bradley, slightly smaller and with more delicate features under the grime. Bradley felt he was forcing the voice to fit a shape he had in his mind.