When Mr. Dog Bites

by Brian Conaghan

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Those boys friends of yours?”

  I had to think long and hard about this question; the answer didn’t come to me finger-click fast.

  “Erm . . . I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

  Maybe we could have been friends if they didn’t drink tonic wine and smoke cheap-arse hash so much. Who knows? One thing was for sure: the games we played would have to come with clear rules if we were ever going to be playing them again. However, they wouldn’t have wanted Amir hanging around because he was a Paki, and they hated Pakis, which meant that I could never in a gazillion years be pals with Gaz and Fritz. Anyone who was no friend of Amir was no friend of mine, and anyone who hated Pakis was NO friend of mine either. So these two spangles would definitely be totally off the radar as potential new buddies for Amir after I’d taken the big bus north.

  “In fact, no. I’m not friends with them. I don’t like them at all. They are a couple of dicks.” And I laughed, ’cause I’d said the word “dicks” freely in front of an adult.

  “Good. Those boys are bad news, Dylan. You should keep well away from them.”

  “I will.”

  “Good man.”

  “Cars aren’t allowed on here, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, you could damage the grass, and then all the games would have to be called off.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, young man . . . Jump in and I’ll take you home.” The taxi driver reached over and swung open the passenger door. “Come on, I’ll drive you back home.”

  But I didn’t move in case it was the shady deal of the century. In case he was twisting my melon, man. In case he was being a pure head-wrecker and trying to mess with my napper or psych me out. In case he was the leader of a major pedophile ring who wanted to trick me into getting into his car so he could blindfold me, drive me to the ring’s safe house, and video everything. Then he’d put the video on the Internet and it would become a YouTube sensation, and then all the teachers and students at Drumhill would know that I had pedophile sex with a mega pedophile ring, and they’d all rip the pure pish out of me. Michelle Malloy wouldn’t touch me with a pole vault after that incident, I could tell you that.

  “I don’t really know you,” I said.

  “We met twice at your house.”

  “I know, but this is the park.”

  “I was having tea in your kitchen, remember?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “We watched Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? together, remember?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I parked in your dad’s parking space, remember?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I said you could borrow my book on Friedrich Nietzsche, remember?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’m a friend of your mom’s, remember?”

  “My mom and dad told me to never on your nelly get into a car with a stranger, no matter how friendly they are.”

  The taxi driver smiled. “Well, that is very good advice, Dylan. Maybe you should stick to it.”

  “I think I will.”

  “If you want to walk, that’s all right with me.”

  “I think I will.”

  “What if you bump into those two clowns again?”

  Aaaarrrrgggg! The taxi driver had me by the short and curlies. I had no answer. I 127 percent didn’t want to bump into any more clowns on my way home.

  “. . . Erm . . .”

  “Look, your mom phoned me to ask if I could keep an eye out for you, try to find you.”

  “She did?”

  “She was worried sick about you, Dylan.”

  “She was?”

  “Worried sick,” the taxi driver said again.

  This made me feel sad and happy; sad because I didn’t like the thought of Mom being sick as a parrot because of me, and happy because she loved the bones of me no matter what. And you know what? I loved the bones of her as well. I guess I’d have been sick as a parrot if Mom were down at the park hanging out with tonic drinkers and cheap-arse hash smokers. I could see where she was coming from. All I wanted now was one of Mom’s hug specials. I vowed to squeeze her so tight that the blood flow would stop circling around her belly region.

  “But I wasn’t out for long.”

  “She likes to know where you are, I suppose.”

  “So Mom asked you to look for me?”

  “She phoned me.”

  “Why didn’t she come and look for me herself?”

  “Maybe she thought it would be quicker in a car.”

  “Suppose . . .”

  “And I was out and about, so it was easier.”

  “Suppose.”

  “So what do you say, buddy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, what do you say about a lift home?”

  The taxi driver had done a convincing job, so I decided to go with him. If it turned out to be one huge hoax and I was whisked off to some shady pedophile shack, I’d curse my bloody luck and have no one to blame but myself for making such crap choices in life. Miss Flynn said that I had to get better at making the right choices in life. Here goes, I thought as I approached the taxi driver’s maroon car.

  I looked for signs of criminal activity and paranormal behavior in the taxi driver’s car; it was so hard for me not to pop the glove compartment open to see if he had a hammer in there. He’d also have needed a rope—just enough to go around the neck, a few black garbage bags, and perhaps, most important of all, some chloroform. Next week’s Halloween disco was now appealing to me.

  “You shouldn’t have run off like that, Dylan,” the taxi driver said.

  “Well . . .”

  “Your mom’s at her wits’ end.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I told you, she phoned me to—”

  “No, how do you know when Mom’s at her wits’ end?”

  “I could hear it in her voice.”

  “But how do you know what her wits’ end voice sounds like?”

  “Well, I was just trying to gauge her emotions.”

  “I’m the only one who knows what her wits’ end voice sounds like, and Dad as well.”

  “Okay. Well, kiddo, I know that she was really annoyed when you ran off like that.”

  “She shouldn’t have read my letter, then.”

  “What letter?”

  “My letter to Dad.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mom read it.”

  “Did she now?”

  “And that’s what made me run out in a bonkers mood.”

  “I see.”

  “She shouldn’t have messed with my privacy.”

  “I agree.”

  “What?”

  “I agree that she shouldn’t have messed with your privacy or read your letter.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. What’s written between two people in a letter should be sacrosanct.”

  “Try telling Mom that.”

  “I’ll have a word with her.” Then the taxi driver pressed his stereo button, and on came some sounds.

  I looked at him.

  “Don’t you like music?”

  “Yes. I’m not weird, you know.”

  He laughed, but in a different way from the two bell ends earlier. “I know that. What I mean is, do you like this music?”

  I put my ear closer to the stereo and listened intently for thirty-three seconds. The singer had a dreamy steamy creamy voice, a bit like eating a chocolate bar.

  “Erm . . .”

  “I can change it if it bothers you.”

  “No, it’s okay. I think I like it.”

  “Thank God for that. I thought for a minute I had a Take That fan in my cab.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s old-school.”

  “Don’t think I know them.”

  The taxi driver laughed again; his smile was as wide as the Clyde.

  I smiled, and mine was wider.


  “No, ‘old-school’ means they’re from back in the day.”

  “Like the eighties?”

  “Try earlier.”

  “Who is it, then?”

  “Ever heard of Pink Floyd?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Well, Dylan, Pink Floyd is probably the best band ever.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Heathen!” the taxi driver said, which I didn’t know the meaning of, but I giggled so as not to appear stupid.

  Then he started singing a song, about being numb and comfortable, which made me want to be anywhere else but there. I promised I’d search for this Pink Floyd band online, if Mom hadn’t banned me from using the Internet.

  “I thought the Beatles were the best band ever,” I said to the taxi driver. Dad was, like, the biggest Beatles fan ever, and we always listened to them in our house when he was there. As well as some kick-ass rap.

  “Rubbish, the Beatles were just the Take That of their day.” He chuckled.

  I pretend-sniggered like I do when people tell mince jokes and I don’t want to offend them. I gazed out the window, watching the rows and rows of identical houses pass by. Each one could have been a twin of the other. I was glad when we turned the corner onto our street—it meant the taxi driver wasn’t going to take me to a manky den and present me on a platter to his merry band of pedophiles.

  As soon as the car pulled up, the curtains began to twitch. Nosy Nora stood behind them. Sometimes we called each other Nosy Nora if we were peeping out the window and trying not to be seen. Mom was Nosy Nora on this occasion. I didn’t have the faintest idea who this Nosy Nora character was in the first place, though. She must have spent all day peeking out windows; she probably didn’t have a tele­vision. He’d gone straight into Dad’s parking space again and pulled the handbrake, which made a sound like a high-pitched fart.

  “You’re in Dad’s space again.” Could you believe this taxi driver?

  “It’s only for a minute, kiddo; that okay?”

  “I guess so.” I nodded.

  “Cheers, wee man,” he said, and soft-punched me on the thigh. “We’ll just tell your mom I found you wandering in the park, okey-dokey?”

  “That’s what I was doing anyway.”

  “No, I mean we won’t say anything about you bumping into those two head cases.”

  “Erm . . . okay, then.”

  “No need to make your mom more worried.”

  I looked out at Mom standing in the doorway with her arms folded. Her pure raging stance.

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “Ready to face the music?” the taxi driver said.

  “I haven’t done anything major wrong, mister,” I said.

  “Call me Tony.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong, Mister Tony,” I said.

  “I’m sure everything will be okay, Dylan.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ready?” he said, and flicked Pink Floyd off.

  “Wait!” I said.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “’Course you can, kiddo. Shoot.”

  “Can you not call me ‘kiddo’ or ‘wee man’?”

  “Sure, no problem. Is Dylan okay?”

  “Dylan’s fine.”

  “Okay, Dylan, let’s go,” Tony said, and went to open his door.

  “Wait!” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I ask you one final question?”

  “’Course you can.”

  “What does ‘sacrosanct’ mean?”

  Mom gave me one of her hug specials right there on the doorstep, which was kind of scarlet-face embarrassing. Thinking of all the Nosy Noras in our street who were watching us hug was an utter redneck. The hug was tight and secure and I liked it. I loved Mom so much, and could tell she felt the same way about me because my ribs were cracking under the pressure of this extraordinary jumbo hug. So, not only were my willy, ball-sack, and bum-hole all aching to hell’s fire, but now my ribs were as well. But I didn’t really mind; I was just super chuffed to be home.

  “Sorry about the letter, Dylan,” Mom said.

  “That’s okay, Mom. I’m sorry for scudding you with it and running out.”

  “I shouldn’t have read it, son.”

  “I know; letters are sacrosanct, after all, but, hey ho,” I said.

  Tony was standing behind me, and we gave each other a wee glance. This was what you would call an inside joke.

  “You’re dead right, Dylan, you’re dead right,” Mom said.

  “I don’t want to fight anymore,” I said, because I was doing far too much fighting these days.

  “Me neither. Let’s be friends again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.”

  “We shouldn’t have another fight before March,” I said, knowing that this would pull her heart out of its socket.

  “What?” Mom said, stepping back from me and flashing a glance at Tony.

  “Nothing. I just mean that we should be friends again.”

  “I agree,” she said, like the weight of ten dumper trucks had been lifted from her shoulders.

  “I’m going to go up and have a bath,” I said.

  “Good idea,” Mom said. “Stay for a cuppa, Tony?”

  “Why not?” Tony said. “See you, Dylan,” he said as I made my way up the stairs.

  “Don’t you have something to say to Tony first, young man?” Mom said.

  “That’s okay, Moira,” Tony said.

  “Thanks for coming to rescue me,” I said.

  “What do you mean, ‘rescue’?” Mom said, then turned toward Tony. “What happened?”

  “He means ‘find,’” Tony said.

  “Yes, I meant ‘find.’ Find, rescue, it’s the same thing. Anyway, thanks for finding me, Tony,” I said.

  He winked.

  I winked back, but just a reflex wink. Another inside thing. A need-to-know thing.

  22

  Characters

  wot u up 2 dylan?

  not much

  wot u doing?

  in the bath

  who with? lol

  yer maw. lol

  i saw reservoir dogs earlier

  and?

  cool as

  so u up for it?

  u bet

  brill, im mr blue then

  im mr orange so

  u have a suit?

  my dad has one. wot about u?

  Dad has funeral one i can blag

  ties?

  funeral ties. mine and Dads so i can give u one.

  itz gonna be fabby dylan

  i no

  u gonna try pork MM at it?

  dont know . . . prob not amir . . . prob not

  u cood try pauline mcstay??

  not even with urs. lol.

  any word from the docs?

  no, y?

  just sometimes they have these mad cures for things

  no cures for tourettes amir

  sorry just thinking

  better go, been a mad bonkers day and cream crackered

  i hear u captain

  wot u up 2?

  in the bath as well

  who with, yer da? Lol

  yer maw. lol

  see u the morra

  OK best bud

  by

  by

  When we stopped texting I jumped out of the bath, dried myself, and thought how berserk towels were, because towels, when they dry, actually get wet.

  Life!

  But the reason for jumping out of the bath was because the bold Amir had planted a mega seed in the old napper: cures. I went online and googled “cures for Tourette’s,” and there were, like, forty trillion pages all about Tourette’s. I checked about nine of them, but they all said the same thing, that there was NO CURE. NOTHING. NADA. NIENTE. BUGGER ALL. Some guy in America (always bloody America) became paralyzed because he ticced so much that he damaged his spine. Now he ha
d to suck hamburgers up through a straw and surf the net using a glockenspiel stick attached to his head. Some of his no-hands paintings were online too, which would have gotten a D in our art class. Then there was this woman who couldn’t eat or walk in a straight line because her Tourette’s was so bad. She was covered in bumps and bruises because she kept falling over. She’d broken her arms, her hip, her collarbone, and her knees.

  Christ on a cracker!

  It wasn’t those people’s problems that scared the Jimmys out of me, no siree—it was them saying that when they were my age their Tourette’s was “manageable and low-level.” So maybe it was a good thing that March was almost five months away, as I sure as shit didn’t want to be painting pictures with my head or being wonky donkey on my feet.

  I read that some head-smart docs wanted to drill holes into people’s brains and insert teeny-weeny electrical things in there that would help stop tics and jerks. No effing chance was I letting some doc drill holes into my napper. Did these docs think they worked on a building site or something?

  Too many pages.

  No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure. No Cure.

  When I closed my eyes in bed that night, I could see NO in my left eye and CURE in my right eye.

  Life!

  23

  Funeral

  In order to go to the Halloween disco we needed a plan. And, boy, did we have a plan. Our plan was watertight, although Amir didn’t need a plan because he was actually allowed to go to the Halloween disco. He was just in it to win it. Mom told me that she was “being true to her convictions and responsibilities as a mother” and was sticking with her decision to not allow me to attend the Halloween disco. I could have thrown my toys out of the baby carriage and written “bitch” on the toilet mirror with her lipstick or something equally childish, but I was trying to live up to my mom’s title of being a “much more mature boy.” She said it was time to grow up and put all my “childish antics behind me.” I agreed. I was nearly seventeen, after all. If you looked at it from Mom’s eyes (which would be the coolest thing ever to do), you could see that I had been acting like a selfish rotten head case over the past few months, even though I did have some good reasons for it.

  The watertight plan involved borrowing Dad’s funeral suit—that’s what he called it—and pretending that Amir’s uncle had suddenly died. I’d tell Mom that the pressure of owning a high-class Indian restaurant had gotten the better of him, and he’d suffered a mammoth heart attack due to stress and the credit crunching. Amir was well in on the plan, which came directly from my own imagination. And if he got hauled downtown to give evidence against me, Amir would never crack under the fuzz’s cross-examination. I trusted him, and he was my best bud; he wouldn’t be no stool pigeon. The only stumbling block I could see was that the bold Amir was Pakistani, not Indian, and Glasgow didn’t have any Pakistani restaurants that I knew of. This was the type of risk I was prepared to take, but I knew it was all going to be all right on the night because Mom didn’t take the slightest bit of interest in Amir and hadn’t the foggiest about his family setup either. She’d never find out the truth. I’d tell her that I wanted to go to the funeral to show my support for sad Amir.