by Nikki Attree
“As you know, I’m more of a cat person” she reminds him, “but I’m glad that you’ve got some new furry friends to look after. What breeds are they?”
“Oh, they’re absolutely beautiful ...” he tails off into silence, and once again stares into space, just as he was about to say: “... absolutely beautiful identical white Labradoodles.” Instead he says: “... but you know, I’ve got no idea what breeds they are. Some kind of mongrel cross I expect.”
He changes the subject quickly: “so have you got any other pets besides Sparkle?”
“Oh yes, lots. Let’s see now ...” Annie ticks them off on her fingers. “There’s a few more cats - they come and go. Then there’s the four guinea pigs, and quite a few fish - I rescued them from the Indian restaurant on the High Street ...”
Jack interrupts: “before they ended up in a curry, I hope?”
She boxes him playfully, and continues the inventory of her menagerie. “Now, who have I left out? Of course, I mustn’t forget Dougal, my rabbit ...” She’s been keeping count on her fingers, but she’s run out of fingers. “I think that’s all of them. It’s quite hard to keep track. You’ll have to come round to my place one day soon, and meet them all.”
“That would be great. I’d love to!”
“OK, it’s a date. I’ll make dinner for you. I’m not exactly ‘MasterChef’, but hopefully you won’t end up throwing up on my shoes.”
They smile warmly at each other, and just for instant find themselves looking into each other’s eyes. Jack thinks about kissing her, there and then, but the moment passes before he can seize it. “Just be patient Jack lad” he thinks to himself. “Don’t screw this up. She’s special. There’ll be better opportunities than the Hope and Anchor for our first kiss. Especially now she’s invited me round to her place.”
So, they definitely share a common love of animals, but each of them is wondering if that’s enough. They’re both a little bit wary of people who put too much faith in their pets’ undying love - often because they can’t handle the human world. They have both been through some difficult times and are feeling a bit vulnerable. They want to trust each other, but they’re quite happy to take things slowly but surely.
Jack asks her again about her work, how exactly it involves animals, and she gives him the same noncommittal answer about being a freelance researcher, so he asks about her family.
“Well, I’ve got one brother, Robert. He’s a policeman. An inspector actually. Our parents are very proud of him.”
Jack almost chokes on his pint, spraying her with beer. He apologises profusely: “first my dog throws up all over your boots, and then I spray you with beer. If we keep on like this, you won’t have any clothes left.”
They both laugh it off, and Jack goes to the bar for another round. When he returns with the drinks he asks the question which has been haunting him ever since she mentioned her brother. He tries his best to adopt a politely neutral tone: “so, are you in the police force yourself Annie?”
“Me? Definitely not!” She laughs at the thought. “They’d never have me, and I wouldn’t last more than a day anyway. I’m far too independent, and I can’t stand being ordered around.”
Jack breathes a huge sigh of relief, but she’s not finished yet: “it is useful having a policeman for a brother though, and Rob does sometimes help me with my work. As I mentioned, I’m a freelance researcher, well sort-of, and most of my research concerns animals. Occasionally Rob is able to ferret out some information which would be difficult to get to otherwise.”
The rest of the evening passes pleasantly, without any further revelations. Eventually they say their goodbyes, and give each other a hug and a peck on the cheek. Jack walks home cheerful from their evening together, but a bit worried about the added complication of fraternising with the enemy by going out with a policeman’s sister. As ever, he is the optimist: “don’t worry, Jack lad” he reassures himself. “I can keep work and my love life separate, no problem ... and anyway, what love life?” He shrugs, as he ponders the question. “It’s early days. I’m not even really going out with her yet.” He already knows that he’d dearly like to though.
As he turns into their road his thoughts turn to what’s waiting for him at home, and how he‘s going to explain things to Harry. When he walks into the living room though his partner in crime is lying on the sofa snoring, obviously as pissed as a newt, and in no condition to talk about the next part of the plan. Jack shrugs, and heads for his room.
He unlocks the door to find Gizmo sitting in the corner looking sheepish (quite easy for a white Labradoodle), and Doodle is trembling. Something is wrong, but he can’t figure out what. “What's the matter mutts? Aren’t you pleased to see me? You don't look very happy."
Then he notices the smell, and traces it to the corner where Gizmo has had another little accident. Doodle looks at him, obviously terrified, and woofs to Gizmo: "he's going to be angry. I just know he is. When I was a pup, I made a mess on the carpet upstairs, and my mistress was so angry that I wasn't allowed anywhere near a bedroom ever again. He’s going to shout at us, maybe he’ll beat us ...”
Jack isn’t Elizabeth though. He senses that both dogs are upset, and he doesn't make a fuss or shout. He doesn’t need to call an emergency cleaner either. He strokes Gizmo’s head and talks softly to him: “it’s OK mate. It's not your fault. I shouldn’t have gone out and left with such a bad tummy ache." After he’s cleaned up the mess he turns to the dogs again: "shall we go walkie's now?”
Doodle licks his hand as he puts her collar on. She can’t help warming to such a kind human. Jack is pleased that she seems to be less nervous of him. The three of them stroll down the street, the dogs sniffing happily at the symphony of smells. Jack politely greets his fellow late-night dog walkers. Not for the first time he wonders how long it will be until he can have a dog of his own.
10 THE BUCKET OF BLOOD
The next afternoon Harry eventually stops snoring and reluctantly opens his eyes. Apparently, the previous evening he’d got close to pulling Rosie, the exuberantly endowed barmaid in the ‘Bucket of Blood’. Within touching distance in fact, before being rudely rebuffed. He’d drunk twelve pints to drown his sorrow, had a heated ‘discussion’ with a man selling some dodgy smart phones, got thrown out, and thrown up in the street. After a strenuous night like that, a man needed his kip.
Meanwhile Jack has been up and about all morning, waiting for his partner in crime to wake up so he can tell him about Elizabeth’s appearance on breakfast TV, and her revelation that both their hostages are V.I.Ds (Very Important Dogs). He’s had lunch, the captive canine celebrities have had several long walks, and he’s been to the pet shop to get some food for dogs with ‘sensitive stomachs’. He couldn't resist buying a couple of shiny new dog bowls, as well as a few squeaky toys, while he was there. He arrives home to find Harry just waking up, scratching his unmentionables, and watching a daytime soap opera.
Jack is not amused: “I see you’re finally up mate."
“Yeah, so? What's it to you mate?” Harry snarls, “you're not my fekin muver!" The Lad shudders at the thought. Pauline has got a lot to answer for.
“OK, fair enough. It’s just that last night you said you were keen to talk about the ransom money?"
“Oh yeah, that’s right, I was ...” more scratching, as Harry struggles to remember anything at all about the previous evening. “But ya know ‘ow it goes. I got down the boozer and started chattin to that barmaid with the big knockers. Then I met this geezer with some gear to sell, and the negotiations dragged on a bit. So we ‘ad a few pints - I think it was about twelve, an I got a bit wasted. Then the negotiations broke down like, and the geezer fekin emptied ‘is pint over me, so I clocked ‘im. After that there was a bit of a ruckus like, and this big bouncer chucked me out. Not before I’d socked ‘im one, mind. And after that ... it’s all a bit of a blur really. Pretty good night all round really.”
Jack rolls his eyes and frowns at
his partner. “Yeah, whatever mate. Anyway, I thought you were broke, and desperately needed some dosh?”
“Too true. After last night, desperate’s about right.”
“Right, well I reckon we can ask for about two hundred grand for the dogs ...”
"Yee ha!" shouts Harry. “I always knew you’d come up smellin of roses, lad.”
Jack elaborates, starting by recapping what Harry already knows: “so, it works out like this ... as I told you: this posh woman, Elizabeth, has plenty of money. I mean, she’s got that big house in Hampstead for a start. Like I said, she’s a film producer and some kind of minor media celebrity. The dog we were after, Doodle, was going to be in one of her films. So I originally reckoned that we could sting her for a hundred grand at least.”
Harry is scratching bits of his anatomy, as he struggles to get up to speed with Jack’s express train of thought. The Lad steams ahead: “now it turns out that the other dog we nabbed is also going to be in this film. His name is Gizmo by the way. So, we’ve got both the stars, and there’s no way that her movie can go ahead without them. That’s why we struck gold when we nabbed both of them, and why chucking Gizmo in the river would not have been such a good idea.” Harry looks sheepish.
Jack cuts to the chase: “believe it or not, she was on breakfast TV yesterday, offering a reward of two grand ... ” Harry’s mouth drops open, and Jack hastily continues his analysis before any words can come out of it. “Two measly thousand!” he exclaims derisively. “You know how much money it costs to make a film? And how much they can take if it’s a hit ...?” His partner shrugs, his mouth still gaping as he waits to be enlightened. “Millions!” Jack announces cooly. “Which means that they won’t miss a few hundred grand from the budget.”
Harry is still struggling to keep up: “she’s offered a reward already? Why the ‘ell didn’t you tell me?”
Jack sighs. “Yes, well I might have, if you hadn’t passed out with twelve pints of lager in you” he fires back. “The thing is, because of the media attention and the reward, we’ll have to be extra careful with the hostages, and a bit clever about the sting. But I’ve been working on it, and I think I’ve come up with a plan.”
Harry is impressed. Despite all Jack’s faults, he can’t help but admire his partner’s acumen (not that he’d know what that was). Jack may be a bit of a prat at times but he’s one clever geezer, that’s for sure. Harry silently congratulates himself, once again, for his decision to team up with The Lad.
Two hundred grand - that’s like winning the lottery for Harry. His pulse is racing, the adrenaline is coursing, and the mouth goes into overdrive before Jack can elaborate any further: “right, I’ve got it. ‘Ere’s what we do ... You’re right: it’s ‘andy that we’ve got two dogs, and they’re both the same. Why? Cos we can chop bits off one of ‘em to send to this Elizabeth bird, while we keep the other one as a spare back-up. That’ll get her to pay up super quick.”
Jack is shocked, but Harry is expecting that. “I'll do it if you’re chicken. You just ‘ave to ‘elp me ‘old one of ‘em still." Harry strides towards Doodle menacingly. She bares her teeth, and growls at him. He picks up an empty beer bottle and throws it at her. Doodle ducks out of the way, and cowers in the corner of the room, shaking.
Now Jack is angry, as well as shocked. "That was a stupid thing to do. Why do you have to do stuff like that, mate?" He sits down next to Doodle and strokes her gently, until she calms down.
Harry looks at them with obvious disgust: “and why do you have to be such a fekin wuss mate?” He stomps out of the room, but he knows that they’ll only end up doing things Jack’s way, so five minutes later he returns, a fresh bottle of beer in his hand, and sheepishly asks The Lad to explain his plan.
“OK. That’s better mate. Give me a sec. I’m just thinking it through ...”
And the cogs are indeed turning. Although Jack has absolutely no intention of hurting the dogs, Harry does have a point. The Lad knows that it would be no good just sending Elizabeth a photo of the dogs happily snoozing on his bed. He has to come up with something that will persuade her to pay up quickly. He needs her to believe that the dogs are in danger, without actually hurting them. The cogs whir some more, and then he has it: “your mum has an allotment, hasn’t she?”
“Umm, yeah. I think ma’s got some grotty bit of dirt with a shed somewhere. She doesn’t actually grow nufin on it, just uses the shed to store stuff. Dodgy stuff, like.” More scratching as Harry wonders what the ‘ell this ‘as got to do with The Plan. Then the penny drops: “oh I see - we can take the dogs there, and rough them up a bit ...”
Jack sighs. “No mate. I told you, the dogs don’t get hurt. OK? Have you got that?”
Harry shrugs. “Then what d’you want with ma’s allotment?”
“Well, you were half right mate. We take the dogs to Pauline’s allotment and yes, we do “rough them up a bit”, but not the way you meant. Look, let’s get them into the van and I’ll explain on the way.”
They put the dogs in the back of Harry’s van, and set off for Pauline’s place. On the way they call her, and tell her that they’re coming round for chat. They might have another job for her, but first they’re going to take her out for “a spot of fresh air.”
“I don’t need no fresh hair!” she yells down the phone, “I had it permed yesterday.”
“Never mind about that” Harry says, “we’ll be there in a tick. Oh, and put a mac and some wellies on.” He puts the phone down before Pauline can remonstrate further.
They collect Harry’s ma, and she directs them to her ‘allotment’. As Harry said, to call it that is flattering what is essentially a few square feet of muddy waste ground with a derelict excuse for a shed, rather than neat rows of prize winning vegetables. The council gave it to her when a well meaning housing officer devised a scheme for their more difficult clients, thinking that getting them away from the neighborhood and interested in ‘nature’, might inspire a community spirit. Pauline hardly ever uses it, but she’s quite grateful for a place to store stuff that the police might be looking for.
It’s raining when they get there, and the allotments are a deserted, desolate sea of mud. “It’s perfect” says Jack. He opens the back doors of the van, and the dogs jump out gleefully. Well, Gizmo jumps out, and Doodle pokes her nose out into the rain, sniffs suspiciously, and then takes a tentative step to join Gizmo.
“Come on Doodle. Just look at this place - it’s wooftastic!” he woofs to her ecstatically, as he rushes around in the mud. Doodle isn’t sure. She’s never been allowed to get the tiniest bit dirty before, so this is all new to her.
Jack takes a ball from his coat pocket and throws it for her to chase. Gizmo dashes after it, skids to a halt, and lands on his back in a big puddle, like a cartoon dog. He grabs the ball, rushes back to Doodle and drops it at her feet proudly. He’s no longer an immaculately white designer dog, but Doodle can see how much fun he’s having. Eventually she joins in the game, and the three of them have a whale of a time.
Pauline and Harry stay out of the rain, in the van. “There ain’t no way I’m messin up me ‘air” she moans to him. “It’s just been permed, like what I told yer. What the feck are we doin here anyway? And who’s mutts are these?” Her son explains where they got the dogs, and her role in the scam, omitting to mention the amount of ransom money that they’ll be demanding.
Eventually Jack gets the dogs back into the van. They’re caked in mud, and Harry makes a fuss, but Jack tells him not to worry - he’ll soon be able to buy a brand new ‘shag-wagon’. They drop Pauline off at her house, telling her that they’ll be in touch shortly, and drive home.
When they get there Jack chains the dogs up in the shed and takes some photos of them. They look awful: exhausted, bedraggled, and hardly recognisable under all the mud. “Perfect” thinks Jack, as he scrolls through the pics. “They look like we’ve been torturing them for ages. This should persuade her to cough up the dosh.”
&nb
sp; He spends the rest of the afternoon shampooing both dogs in the bath, and drying them with a hairdryer. As all dogs know, having a bath is a traumatic experience. It’s completely different from rolling around and getting wet in the rain. That’s one thing, this business of getting clean again is a pointless human invention. It’s a bit like drinking from a muddy puddle - it tastes far better than the tasteless ‘clean’ water that they put in the bowl. What’s wrong with a bit of dirt, sweat, and smelling natural? Why the obsession with evil smelling soap and being all fluffy?
Gizmo had no problem with the rain at the allotment. It was certainly chilly, but once the adrenaline rush kicked in he didn’t care about getting a bit wet. He started to feel the cold creeping into his bones when they were in the shed, but the more miserable he looked, the more Jack seemed to praise him. Now he’s standing in the bath, looking like a drowned rat and shaking.
Jack wraps a towel around him and that seems to lessen the shaking. The Lad grabs the towel and wraps it around Doodle. Gizmo makes a bid for freedom, skidding across the bathroom, spraying water everywhere. Jack backs him into the corner where the hairdryer is plugged in, and blasts him with hot, dry air. Gizmo’s not sure about that. It feels like the wind back home in Tenerife, but it’s making a scary noise, so he’s warming up, but still trembling.
Jack gets Doodle out of the bath and applies the same treatment, giving Gizmo another opportunity to shake water everywhere. Jack makes a dive for him, and Doodle decides to join in the fun. This is another new game for her. Her previous experience of baths has been limited to the posh groomer, and it was definitely not fun and games like this.
And so it goes on: while Jack has his hands full with one dog, the other is free to rush around distributing water everywhere. After much chasing of wet dogs as they dash around the bathroom everyone is quite exhausted, and they retire to Jack’s room for a siesta.