The best time to watch them is late afternoon when the sky bleeds orange. I lie with my chin on my paws and let my eyes go free, soaring out through the dirty glass to find them. I’ll look for vegetation – tree branches poking out through windows, or vines wrapping around pillars; that’s where you’ll usually see them first, as a dark patch rippling on the green. If I look harder I can see them fidgeting, making themselves ready. I imagine I can see their beaks glinting in the falling sun and hear the deafening caw of a thousand ideas, all trying to find the same one. Then suddenly they’ll rise up without warning, first like an arrowhead hooked in a ragged cloth; then like an animal trapped in a sack, a blob pulsing and struggling to find a common direction, and then they find it and become it – a swooping, swirling wash of shadow, a song with no words and no tune. A howl. They’re part of The Howl.
I try to find one, just one to follow, and I get lost in the beat of its wings against the air and I wonder what it would be like to fly, or even just to run beneath them all. To one day follow them through those strange, lonely buildings out there and through streets I’ve never seen, just once. Just once to go out a bit further.
And then they fall, as if whatever has been carrying them has dropped them, and they swoop down and lose themselves through the hole in some giant rooftop, and I imagine them fluttering about finding perches on rafters thick with their own rich, creamy excrement, and the wonderful din they’re making, and hearing, together, as a flock.
And then I hear sighs and whines and I realise that it’s me making them. Sometimes when I make these noises he’ll come and ruffle my ears or scratch my chin and my tail will start thumping, even though I’m still out there somewhere, lost with the birds. Then he’ll go back to whatever he was doing, and I’ll watch him do that instead, and gradually I’ll find myself drifting back inside and off to sleep. And I’ll dream of those filthy gulls in their shit-packed rooftops, and what it’s like when you forget yourself and become something else.
It wasn’t always like this. I had a flock of my own once, my pack. Dogs are social animals – a bit like wolves but not quite so up themselves, know what I mean? Bit self-important, wolves, if you want my opinion. Your average male wolf takes himself very seriously. No room for fun or frolics with these fuckers, it’s all nose-to-the-wind, paws-cracking-bracken, flesh-is-the-life, blood-is-the-creed kind of stuff. And all that breathy grunting; fuck me, you don’t need to make that kind of racket when you’re running. And your lady-wolves – even worse. Fucking hippy earth mothers, the lot of them.
Not that I’m against all that, you understand, not that I don’t feel that electricity when I’m deep in the woods, not that I don’t like a good howl, it’s just, you know, have a word with yourself! Have some fun for a change.
I wouldn’t say that to their faces, of course. Wolves are scary. They’re also armed to the teeth (and I do mean the teeth – these little canines of mine have nothing on their flesh-tearers), not to mention highly unpredictable. You do not want to get on the wrong side of a wolf, or any side, for that matter. I can tell you that from personal experience.
That’s called foreshadowing, that is. I learned that from Reg. Basically there’s going to be a wolf somewhere in this story, so you want to read on.
Where was I? Oh yes – despite our difference in outlook, dogs and wolves do share a common heritage. Somewhere along the line, probably about the time you lot got interested in moving dirt around and growing things, whatever existed before us split into factions. We – us dogs – crept a little closer to you, intrigued by the warmth of your flames and the smells of your cooking meat, the nice little noises you made with your voices, and the safety of your settlements.
We heard howls from the mountainside: Fools! Come back! They’ll kill you! Eat you! Murder you with their spears! They’ll betray you like they’ve betrayed The Howl! They’re not fit for this earth, brothers and sisters! Come back and be saved, do not abandon your sacred creed! You’ll be gone! Doomed! Damned! Awroooooooooooooo!
Yeah? Well, look who’s laughing now, sunshine. Have you ever heard of Pedigree Chum? Chewsticks? Chicken korma leftovers? Ever had a belly scratch? Ever played with a ball? Have you ever even seen a ball? Do you know what they’re capable of? Have you ever sat by a fire – INSIDE – and drifted off, safe within four walls you don’t have to look after and a roof that keeps you dry and a floor that isn’t crawling with worms trying to get up your arsehole and eat whatever pitiful shreds of rotten deer meat are gargling away inside your scrawny little innards? Have you? Have you ever stuck your face out of a van window and let the wind drag your tongue out and hope it never stops? Have you ever touched sand? Drank seawater until you puke? Have you ever had someone else clean up your shit? (Actually, not entirely sure why that happens and, to be perfectly honest with you, wouldn’t mind if it stopped.)
Have you ever gazed up into a hairless face haloed with sunshine and wondered if it was possible to love anything more? Eh? Have you?
Have you fuck. You still have to skulk about in forests, sleep in the snow and count your dead children every morning. How do you like them (yuk) apples?
Again – not to their faces. No fucking way.
So we diverged, us and the wolves. We went our own separate ways. But we still hang out in packs, that’s not changed.
I haven’t seen my pack for three years.
There are two bits I remember from back then, back before it all went different. The first was a good bit, one day in winter.
It was a cold one. February. Clear blue skies, frost on the ground and my shit almost freezing solid before it hit the crunchy grass of The Rye. We were there early, sun still a red blister bursting over the Peckham rooftops. That time in the morning was lovely and quiet before all the traffic started up, very peaceful on my ears. Quite a different story going on in the old conk, though. The morning air was already a cacophony of different scents and I could smell each and every one, clear as day.
We moseyed through the gate and Reg unhooked me and then I was off. My paws scrabbled at the concrete and the universe soared past, the air like arctic seawater rushing over my face and a thick mist billowing in my wake. I was off into The Howl.
I’d caught the scent, see. Unmistakable. Like oil and eggs. I could already smell its filthy claws fidgeting, its stupid tail twitching.
My heart was in overdrive and I was already up the path, left onto the common and shooting into the bushes. And there in the clearing he stood – the daft prick – bold as brass, that brainless face on him, looking at me as if this had never happened before. He dropped it – nut, twig, pebble, whatever the fuck he’d been fiddling with – and darted off. But, I thought, I’ve got you this time, you little tart. I had a head start, didn’t I? The mist gave me some ground. This time, you’re mine. I’m going to sink my teeth into your trembling little rump and drag out your … fuck, he’s gone up a tree.
I skidded to a halt and leaped up at the trunk a few times, barking uselessly. He stared down at me with those vacant brown eyes.
‘Ar ’ey, Lin, did you get it, mate?’
I turned to see a familiar black shape loping through the mist. Wonky.
‘You what?’
‘That squirrel,’ said Wonky. ‘Did you get it or what?’
Wonky sat down next to me and looked up at the branch, all panting and expectant, staring right at the squirrel I had just failed, yet again, to catch. The squirrel rippled its tail and relaxed.
I’d met Wonky a few years before when he and his two-plates moved down from Liverpool. He’d seemed a bit nervous, right leg in bandages after a run-in with a Staffy back home – hence the name; he developed a limp that stayed with him after the bandages came off – so I’d taken him under my wing a bit, you know, looked after him. We’d got close after that and, well, I suppose you could say he was my best mate. After Reg, of course.
He was a good dog, our Wonkers. Loyal, good-natured, good laugh, typical Labrador. But I tell you
this right now: there was fucking nothing going on in that thick black bonce of his.
‘Do you see anything in my mouth, Wonk?’ I sighed.
‘Ey?’ he said, eyes darting at me, then back at the branch. Clouds of his breath were pumping into the mist. ‘No, why?’
‘Do you see anything on the ground? Fur, blood, entrails, that kind of thing?’
Wonky glanced down.
‘Er, no. Why? Come on, Lin, tell us. Did y’get it or what, lad? Hey!’
Wonky suddenly jumped up at the tree and started barking. The squirrel watched him for a bit and wriggled up out of sight.
‘Come back down here, y’little bastard!’ shouted Wonky. ‘I’ll ’ave you, I will!’
By the way, you should know I’m doing this for your benefit. Dogs don’t talk – not in the way that you think – although if you think you’ve cornered the market where communication’s concerned just because you make that wonderful noise you call talking (and it is wonderful, believe me, I could listen to it for hours) then think again. You’ve only been here for a few hundred thousand years. Do you think the world got to where it was before you turned up without a bit of natter? You’re having a laugh. You only have to listen for a few minutes. Shut your eyes and open your ears – the world is one big chinwag. One big howl.
But going back to Wonky and me, although this happened as I say, we weren’t speaking. I’m making it up. Poetic licence – learned that from Reg, too.
‘I’ll fookin’ ’ave you!’
I shook my head and went to leave, but I felt a snout in my tail.
‘Well good morning to you too, young lady,’ I said, looking round at the black and white Border collie currently engrossed in my hind quarters. Scapa withdrew and gave a happy sniff.
‘Morning,’ she said. She nodded up at the tree. ‘Miss another one, did you?’
‘Afraid so,’ I said.
‘Bonny one too, by the looks of it.’
‘Bonny? There’s nothing bonny about those little twats.’
‘Ach, I think they’re nice.’ She wagged her tail. ‘Furry wee rascals.’
‘Yeah,’ I growled. ‘Well I’d like to rip their furry heads off.’
Scapa clucked. ‘You’re so angry, Lineker.’
‘I’m not angry, I’m just, I mean, have you seen …’
‘Ar ’ey, Scap!
Wonky bounded down from the tree and lolloped over.
‘Good morning,’ laughed Scapa as he ran round behind her. ‘And how are you, then?’
‘I’m all right, lass, thanks for asking, how about you? ‘Ey, your arsehole smells lovely today, by the way.’
‘Ahh, thank you, Wonk. That’s really nice of you. I’m all right.’
We could tell she wasn’t.
‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘Your two-plates not letting you up on the bed any more?’
Scapa frowned, indignant.
‘I’ll have you know, my master always lets me up on the bed. No, absolutely nothing wrong in the bedroom department. Just … he seems a bit worried. Don’t know what’s wrong.’
‘Hey!’ shouted Wonky, wagging his tail. ‘Me an’ all!’
‘Really?’ said Scapa.
‘Yeah! He almost forgot to fookin’ feed me this morning. Just sat there listening to that radio, didn’t he, shaking his head, rubbing ’is brow. I ’ad to bark as loud as I could just to get ’is fookin’ attention!’
‘What about you, Lineker?’ said Scapa.
Reg had seemed a bit gloomy, come to think of it. I shrugged.
‘Time of year, I expect. Dos Platos always get the doldrums in winter.’
‘Aye, ’spect your right there, la’,’ said Wonky. ‘Come ’ead then, let’s be off.’
We made our way out of the clearing and found Reg with Wonky and Scapa’s owners in a huddle of bleary-eyed, serious faces, hunching their shoulders against the cold. Then we ran off, tumbling against each other as we went.
A voice met us at the crest of the hill.
‘What ho, chaps!’
The silhouette of an Irish setter stood proudly against the sky, tail sweeping in fine, slow arcs. Jeremy. He beamed at us as we approached. His chestnut coat shone and steamed in the rising sun.
‘Top of the ruddy morning to you all!’ he announced.
Jeremy liked to draw on his Irish lineage a little too much, but the truth was he was as posh as the queen’s knickers.
We said our good mornings and circled around. Pebble was there too, a charcoal greyhound with a slender snout and a clipped tail. She was sitting patiently by her owner as she talked urgently into a phone. I noticed Jeremy’s owner shaking her head at the ground.
‘Your two-plates acting weird too?’ I said.
‘Well,’ said Jeremy, putting on a brave face. ‘I don’t know about weird, but Mildred’s certainly upset. She could barely get out of the door this morning for crying, poor love.’
He looked wanly across at the stout woman in a wax jacket, who was patting Pebble’s owner on the shoulder.
‘Fuck me,’ I said.
‘Quite,’ said Jeremy. ‘Fuck you indeed, and fuck me also, old boy. Fuck us all, in fact. Any sign of improvement, Pebs, love?’
Pebble padded over and nosed Jeremy’s midriff.
‘Nowt,’ she said. ‘She smells like dead voles. That’s fear, that is; fear and dismay.’
We all agreed that was exactly what fear and dismay smelled like.
‘This is no good,’ said Scapa. ‘No good at all. I feel nervous.’
Jeremy brightened.
‘Not to worry. Probably just something going round, what? Wonky? Wonky, what’s wrong, old sport?’
‘Lineker,’ said Jeremy. He raised his eyes over my head.
‘What?’
‘Watch out.’
Boom!
Stars flying, ribs heaving, the earth spinning, as if a hundred-pound boulder had just slammed into my side at forty miles an hour. Which, as it turned out, was almost exactly what had happened. Except the boulder was Wally.
‘Hurr hurr hurr!’
His voice bellowed behind as I landed in a heap by a tree.
‘Gotcha! Hurr!’
I raised my head and shook off the impact.
‘Fuck me, Wally, bit of warning, eh?’
‘Nah, where’s the fun in that? Hurr hurr hurr!’
Wally was a Staffordshire bull, face like a bear trap, coat the colour of mud.
I tried to catch my breath. Through the mist and my winded haze I saw Scapa and Pebble darting off in a game of chase. Wonky and Jeremy were up in my face, barking their advice.
‘Get up, man!’ said Jeremy. ‘Give him what for!’
‘Come ’ead, mate! Come ’ead!’
I heard Wally’s chops slavering and his throat thick with grunts and wheezes but, before I could get to my feet, he’d charged me again and rolled me over. I’m ashamed to say I yelped, but I was ready for him on the third attack, leaping to one side and springing onto his back, clamping my mouth round one of his gristly ears.
‘Get off! Get off me!’
Wally bucked and swayed but I tightened my jaw, growling. Heinz 57 I may be, but there’s definitely a terrier in there somewhere; I’m a tenacious cunt.
Jeremy and Wonky were still barking their support and somewhere in the distance I saw Scapa pin Pebble. The mist was rising, dawn giving into the day. I tightened again, just a bit more pressure and …
‘Ow!’
Wally yelped like a little pup and I let go, laughing. With the game won, I jumped off and took a piss.
‘Good show, good show!’
Jeremy was virtually clapping. Wonky ran up and nudged me in the shoulder.
‘Nice one, lad! That was well good that was.’
Wally snuffled in the dirt and pawed at his ear. Then he was up again and after a few snorts he was standing, grinning from ear to ear, which, let me tell you, is a considerable distance.
‘That was good,’ he said, out of bre
ath. ‘Good. Good fun. Hurr.’
He smacked his lips and looked about, eyes landing on Wonky. A funny look crept across his big mug. Wonky anchored himself, worried.
‘What are you looking at, Wall?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ lied Wally. He licked his lips.
‘Wally,’ growled Wonky. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘Come on,’ winked Wally. ‘Let’s have a go. Just a bit.’
‘Wally!’
Now, you must remember that Wally was a fully fledged, paid-up pack member. He was our pal and we would have died for him, as he would for us. That’s just the way it goes. But I would have been the first to admit that he did have a few strange habits. Things he took an interest in, things he liked to, er, do.
One of them, the main thing, in fact, what you might call Wally’s guilty pleasure, could be a little unsettling. You’d have been forgiven for making certain assumptions about him if you didn’t know him, but you’d have been wrong. I know for a fact he was not like that. Not that I would have minded if he was, you understand – if you prefer the tradesman’s entrance of a well-endowed mastiff to the front door of a pretty little spaniel, that’s your own business – but that wasn’t Wally’s thing. I knew this because I’d seen him ball-deep in every type of bitch that dared to flounce within a hundred yards of his considerable snout. He’d had everything – bassets, Danes, chihuahua’s, Afghans, the lot. No, Wally was most definitely not a woofter.
But he did like to do things. And the thing that Wally most liked to do, if he was of the right mind, was lick your balls.
And right there and then, he wanted to lick Wonky’s.
I stood with Jeremy and watched the pair of them race around the common – Wonky terrified, Wally delirious with pleasure. Jeremy sighed.
‘Beautiful thing to behold, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘The hunt and the chase. Wild and free. Predator and prey.’
‘You’re right there, Jezza,’ I said. ‘Beautiful.’
And it was beautiful. There and then on that cold, frosty day with my pack on our turf, with everything just the way it should be. Beautiful. We’d almost forgotten about our two-plates when Pebble called us over.
The Last Dog on Earth Page 3