Dog

by Andy Mulligan

  “She’s playing games, and you need to be careful. Are you coming up or not? Because if you’re not, I’ll get on with my repairs.”

  Spider got down from the bed and looked at the skylight. Thread had sailed halfway down, and the window above him seemed high and remote. Nonetheless, he clambered on to Tom’s chair and stepped on to the desk. He performed the same, awkward leap, pushing off the convenient shelf and then scrabbling with paws and elbows up to the flat top of the wardrobe. In the daylight he could see just how filthy the window was. There were smears of dirt and complicated nets of grime that spread over the frame. There were webs both old and new, some with torn edges that trailed off sadly and waved in the breeze. Thread crawled to the centre.

  “Wow,” said Spider. “You keep yourself busy.”

  “I do.”

  “Do you make them on your own? It must take ages.”

  “It does. Some of us work for a living, Spider. Dogs get given stuff out of tins. They get nice big bowls of meaty goodness, and they never even wonder where it comes from. Others have to sweat and toil, and live by their wits.”

  “What do you catch?”

  “Oh, you name it.”

  “Flies?”

  “Of course. Mosquitoes. Gnats. I got a moth last week—he was fluttering around just where you’re standing.”

  “A moth?”

  “It’s the boy’s blazer, I think—pure wool, probably. Our friend grabbed some tasty fibres, and on his way out he got a bit too close to the glass. Things got sticky.”

  “What, you caught him?”

  “He was careless. Didn’t take basic precautions, and suddenly he’d joined what I think of as a very exclusive club. You want to meet Mr Moth? Come on—he’s in the confessional.”

  “He’s still alive? You said it was last week.”

  “Ah, he’ll be with us a while yet. He’s preparing for eternity, Spider, and that can’t be rushed.”

  The dog padded to the edge of the wardrobe and stretched his nose up to inspect the particular corner where Thread was now sitting. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, for all he could see was dust and the mess of another web. Then he realized that there was a curious order to everything. The spider had walkways and even tunnels. The webs were of different densities, and some were sagging with lumpy cocoons.

  Thread moved behind a curtain and reappeared beside a large knot of tightly wound silk. The spider lifted a leg and pushed it, setting the whole thing rocking gently. Then it revolved it, and a tiny, wizened face appeared, peering from the end of the bundle. Spider could make out shining eyes, but the head was skull-like and the mouth was a little round circle of distress. Two thin antennae emerged from the forehead, waving weakly, and Spider whined. He could see the creature’s shoulders, and beneath them he saw the pale ivory wings which had been compressed and bound tight. The bonds went round and round, intricately tied until the body was encased in a solid, sticky duvet. As he watched, the moth did his best to break free—Spider could feel him straining with every atom of his remaining strength—but the only thing that moved was the mouth, which opened wider and uttered one soft word, so faint he could hardly hear it: “Please…”

  “What’s that?” asked Thread. “Oh my, did I hear a cry for help?”

  “He said ‘please’,” said Spider.

  “They all say that.”

  “Please!” said the moth again. “Either let me go, sir… or…”

  “Or what? What are my options, bug? List them for me.”

  “Just eat me.”

  “Why?”

  “Kill me! Get it over with…”

  “Oh, come on,” said Thread, and it chuckled again. “Come now, mister. I thought you had more stamina. We’ve got things to talk about, as well you know. Your therapy’s hardly started—”

  “Thread,” said Spider. “Stop this.”

  “What?”

  “This is cruel.”

  “Oh no, this is necessary. Don’t talk to me about cruelty, friend—there’s no gain without pain. This little chap here, he’s got an opportunity to think about his life and realize how insignificant he is. How many creatures get that chance?”

  “He’s a prisoner. He’s suffering!”

  “Aren’t we all? You’ve forgotten something, Spider, which is the fact that he came to me. Deep down, he wanted this.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Spider. “He flew into the web because he didn’t see it—because you built it as a trap. That’s what you do, and it’s called a trick. I think you should let him go.”

  “Then what do I eat? Are you going to share your dog food?”

  “Yes!”

  “No. Anyway, he’ll thank me in the end—they always do. What I give these guys is time, and they’re not used to it. They get time to reflect on the dumb decisions they’ve made, and their stupid, miserable relationships. ‘I was so happy!’ they say, and I help them to see that happiness for what it was. An illusion, buddy—because the suffering starts as soon as you’re born.”

  Thread swung the cocoon round and set it rocking.

  “You understand that, moth?” he cried. “Of course you don’t—not yet, but… Spider? Where are you going?”

  “I’m getting down.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t like it and I don’t think it’s right.”

  “Oh, wait!” sighed the moth. “Don’t leave me!”

  “Spider,” said Thread. “We haven’t talked about you yet—and your own crisis. When are we going to do that?”

  “Never. I don’t want this.”

  “No? That’s because you’re in denial, friend. You don’t know what you are or where you’re going, and neither does the boy. Life is work and pain, and then you’re dead!”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “You think you’re happy? Look at you.”

  Spider had had enough. Before Thread could speak again, he jumped wildly down, crashing hard on to Tom’s desk. A mug of pens and pencils overturned, and the dog skidded as they rolled beneath his paws. He spun, and his tail caught the computer screen, tipping it over the edge. Spider heard the crack, but there was nothing he could do. He leapt to the floor and nosed his way swiftly out of Tom’s bedroom and down the stairs.

  Phil was on the landing, and he patted his head. His hands smelt of fish food, so Spider made a bolt for the kitchen, where he found his own bowl. He swallowed a biscuit and took himself out into the garden. At last he could shake himself and drink in the fresh air.

  The moth’s face wouldn’t leave him, and those sad words, “Don’t leave me!”, were still ringing in his brain. He shook himself. There was nothing he could do, and to think about misery only made him miserable.

  Spider noticed a ball on the grass and picked it up in his jaws. Then, for a horrible moment, he saw himself as Moonlight had seen him: a mindless dog, with a plastic toy in his mouth. What did he want with a grubby white ball? Did he want to bounce it and chase it and wear himself out? Yes, was the answer. Yes. Was that really such a crime?

  A door slammed in the house, and he turned. It was later than he thought! There were running feet, hammering down the hall. Then came the cry he’d come to know so well, and he found himself spinning and barking as he tripped over his own paws. It was Tom’s voice, loud and excited.

  “Spider? Spider!”

  He was overwhelmed by instinct. He dropped the ball and belted back into the house, sliding over the kitchen tiles. His master was there, having dropped his bag and his blazer. They launched themselves at each other, and Tom caught him, spinning to the floor, as usual, in a somersault of tangled legs.

  “Spider!” cried Tom. “New game, OK? You’re a sniffer dog! Come on—get me! Catch me!”

  It was a different kind of chase, and Spider caught on at once. He grabbed at Tom’s arm as Tom thrust it out, retreating up the hallway. Tom pushed him off with a shriek and made his escape, his shirtsleeve tearing as the telephone rang. Up the
stairs they ran, and after a quick wrestle on the landing, Tom announced that by some miracle he had no homework, so it was time for the park.

  They played until dusk, then watched TV. Phil cooked supper, and when Tom took Spider upstairs the rain fell gently, pattering on the skylight that wouldn’t close.

  The boy slept under the duvet, with the dog curled up on top. They turned and squirmed, and the phone rang again in Tom’s dream—on and on, until he cried out, trying to answer it. Spider licked his hand and felt the fingers stroke his muzzle. They played over his tooth and finally lay still.

  I’m a guard dog, Spider thought happily. Then he thought of Moonlight again. Unless somewhere—somehow—I’m a cat.

  Tom discovered the broken monitor the very next morning.

  It was a real problem because it meant he couldn’t print his history project, and that was due the following day. He’d been working on it for three arduous weeks, researching and writing, but without a working screen he couldn’t even save the files and transfer them. He was totally stuck.

  “And how did it break?” asked his dad.

  “It fell off the desk.”

  “Fell off the desk? You mean you dropped it?”

  “No.”

  “So it jumped off?”

  “I think maybe, possibly… Spider could have knocked it.”

  His dad was exhausted. His shift had changed again, so his sleep pattern had been turned inside out. He was trying so hard not to be irritable, but he stared at the dog and shook his head. Spider looked at the carpet.

  “Don’t let him into your room,” he said slowly—and when Tom went to reply he just held up his hand. “I’m not arguing with you. That animal’s costing us a fortune. Have you any idea what we still owe for the van? For the damaged cars?”

  “No.”

  “No. You haven’t ever asked.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad, but he’s still settling down. He’s doing his best.”

  “Aren’t we all? Just don’t expect me to pay for a new computer, OK? You can do without.”

  Tom was dreading his next history lesson.

  It was lesson three, just before break, and it started well. Instead of gathering in the homework, the teacher seemed keen to show the final section of a DVD, which was to be the climax of the module. By five past eleven, the Nazis had stormed across most of Europe, and seemed unstoppable. The bell would ring at exactly quarter past, and when it rang Tom would be safe: he wouldn’t have to hand anything in until the following Monday. By next Monday, he would have begged or borrowed a monitor and sorted the problem.

  He waited with his eyes closed, counting down. With two minutes to go, he sensed the classroom lights flickering, and the German army was ominously still. Dr Vokes had pressed the pause button.

  “Good,” he said. “So now we understand the true horror of Nazi aggression. What, Kasia?”

  A girl in the front had her hand up, and Tom knew what she was about to say. He could see a fat bundle of papers on her desk, and her eyes shone with enthusiasm.

  “Do you want our projects in, sir?” she asked. “They’re due today, aren’t they?”

  There was a groan, which the teacher silenced with a glare.

  Tom sat rigid and still.

  “Thank you,” said Dr Vokes. “I should have collected them at the start of the lesson, but we just have time—thank you for reminding me. Hand them in now, please—pass them along.”

  There was an immediate rustling. Twenty-three children produced their projects, each one neatly bound according to the rules.

  Tom didn’t move, and his desk was idiotically bare. His mind was whirling, and his stomach churned: should he hand in an old bunch of notes, and buy himself time? Should he put his hand up and confess, or say he’d forgotten? In a dither of uncertainty, he simply went red.

  Dr Vokes turned, as if he’d sensed the boy’s discomfort, and looked straight at him. The sun caught the lenses of his glasses, and all Tom could see were two pitiless discs of light.

  “Thomas,” he said.

  “Sir.”

  “Your project, please. Aparna, can you start gathering them in? Make sure your names are on the top sheet—you’ve had ages. Tom, get on with it!”

  “Sir, yes. I was going to talk to you.”

  “You’re talking to me now.”

  “I mean, at the end of the class.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes.”

  “We don’t need a conversation. I just need your homework.”

  “That’s the thing, sir—I had a bit of a problem. At the last minute.”

  The room was horribly silent. Aparna was taking in the folders, but quietly, and every boy and girl felt the warm stirrings of dread and excitement. Tom, the victim, was looking only at his hands.

  “Oh dear,” said Dr Vokes. “Three weeks to get it done. The deadline repeated every lesson and noted in your diary… and you have a problem on the very last day. How unfortunate.”

  “Could I have an extension, sir?”

  “No. I’d like the work now, please.”

  “Could I hand it in tomorrow, before registration?”

  “No. I’d like it now.”

  Tom said nothing.

  “Where is it?”

  “At home, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “I had a problem with my… computer.”

  He’d said the wrong thing, and he knew it. Dr Vokes hated technology, priding himself on the good old-fashioned fountain pen. The bell sounded, shrill and long—but nobody moved, and nobody wanted to. Everyone was watching, for the fuse was burning and the explosion was now inevitable. The teacher was ominously still, and even though the corridor outside was full of running feet and laughter, the silence in the room was unbreakable. Nobody twitched, for everyone was savouring the scent of pure, undiluted fear.

  “Look at you,” said Dr Vokes quietly. “What is a boy like you doing at a school like this? Stand up.”

  Tom stood up.

  “Two demerits. Detention on Thursday. And I’ll speak to your tutor. Oh, and wait… Look at me.”

  Tom looked up.

  “Why are you such a mess? Look at your shirt.”

  “Sir?”

  “How often do you change it?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s grey with filth and it’s torn. It’s your only one, isn’t it?”

  Someone sniggered.

  “You’re a disgrace, boy. Have a word with your mother and tell her to buy a new washing machine. When you find me tomorrow, at eight o’clock sharp, I want you to be clean. I don’t want an urchin from the slums: I want someone with a bit of self-respect, who’s visited a barber and learnt how to dress. Now get out!”

  Tom stared, too upset to move.

  The teacher had turned pink, and his spiteful mouth contracted into a sneer of loathing. “Get out!” he roared. “Go! Now! Leave!”

  Tom was swirled through the doorway with the other children, and found that he was running. The last thing he wanted was an encounter with the other boys—especially Robert Tayler—so he ducked to the right and then the left, past the sixth-form centre, and into the library.

  He didn’t stop because he still wasn’t safe. He needed the reference section, at the far end: that was where the librarian had her office, so that’s where he went, grabbing the nearest book and plunging into a chair. It didn’t matter what the book was because he couldn’t have read the words even if he’d wanted to. He just stared at the pages, his hands shaking, as he wondered what to do. He thought of Spider, waiting for him at home, and that was the only thing that calmed him down. Three more lessons and a lunch break: he could endure them because afterwards he’d be with his friend, and they’d be back in the park. They’d go for a walk, farther than ever before—right up on to the heath perhaps, where they could be lost and alone. His breathing eased, but the tears in his eyes stayed there, q
uivering on his eyelashes.

  “You all right, Tom?” said a voice.

  It was Mrs Mourna, the librarian. He hadn’t seen her, but she’d seen him arrive and was looking straight at him.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “What’s that you’re studying?”

  “Oh, it’s… just something I found.”

  “How’s your dad?”

  Tom blinked back the tears.

  “He’s fine, miss, thank you. Working hard.”

  “Good. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if something was wrong?”

  “Yes, miss. Thank you.”

  The librarian was beside him, crouching low.

  “How are you settling in?” she asked. “The first year’s always the hardest. Are you enjoying school?”

  Tom nodded desperately. He was holding his breath because he knew he was about to shatter. His eyes were burning, so he kept them open wide and they just stayed dry.

  “It’s great,” he said, and managed a laugh. “Thanks, miss—I’m loving it.”

  Meanwhile, Spider couldn’t settle.

  Perhaps he could feel Tom’s anxiety from afar, for he’d been up to the boy’s room several times and stood there, wondering what to do. Phil was downstairs, so he had the run of the house still. He checked the garden and sat in the kitchen, but he felt trapped and uncomfortable. He thought about the little moth and shook himself out from nose to tail: there was no point dwelling on problems he couldn’t solve—and he didn’t want to think about Moonlight. He crept back up to the bedroom, and that was when he heard Phil.

  “Spider? Come on, boy…”

  He was calling softly in case he woke Tom’s father. Spider could hear him moving about downstairs, and it sounded as if he was in a hurry. The back door opened and closed again, and Spider trotted on to the landing. The front door was open too, and he was about to investigate when he heard Phil pull it quietly closed. There was a scrape of metal, then, as the moped was hauled off its stand. The engine started, and Spider couldn’t believe his good fortune. He listened as the bike puttered away into the distance.

  Spider had the run of the house again.

  He did a quick tour to check he was really alone. Tom’s dad had his door closed, so he padded past that and went back downstairs. He wasn’t hungry, but it always made sense to see if there was food available, and he could smell the tantalizing scent of digestive biscuits. He found the packet, open in the lounge, and though he knew it was wrong, it was all too easy to reach up and bring them down. It was even easier to crunch and swallow them, and when the sugar exploded in his system he felt a burst of energy that sent him racing back up to the landing. As he did so, he noticed the door to Phil’s room: it was ajar, leaking the usual mix of engine oil and deodorant. Spider had never set a paw over the threshold, and wasn’t quite sure he dared.