Dog

by Andy Mulligan

  What Tom didn’t realize was that the train he was chasing was moving on to a branch line. The points had changed, and it was making way for a delayed express, which blasted its horn as the last wagon rolled clear. The signal was green and its driver pushed his speed to maximum, determined to make up some time. He came thundering through, hooting again, long and shrill—and that’s when he saw Tom.

  It didn’t seem real.

  The boy was riding a moped straight into his buffers. He wasn’t even wearing a helmet, and his mouth was wide open in a mixture of horror and wonder. They both hit their brakes, and the driver closed his eyes as he waited for the crunch of metal. He would derail, he was sure of it, for the bike would go under his wheels and jerk the engine off the tracks—the poor rider would be spread over his windscreen, or chopped to pieces! He leant on the brake, praying, and when he finally dared to look up he saw only empty space.

  The boy had disappeared.

  Tom had acted on instinct.

  The little moped was locked between the lines, so he couldn’t swerve. He glimpsed the poor driver’s face and heard a brain-shredding screech as the train wheels slid along the rails. There was a burst of sparks, and that’s what made him haul at the handlebars, wrenching them upwards. The bike jumped, and with half a second to spare Tom wrestled it to the side and found himself landing in a spray of gravel. The front tyre exploded, and the rear fishtailed wildly as he hurtled down a footpath. Trees flashed past on either side, and he hit a root so hard that he was flipped in a long, slow somersault—the sky was underneath him, and the ground was spinning above.

  He landed flat on his back in a thick bed of ferns, and lay there knowing he’d been killed. All he could hear was birdsong. Dazed, he tried to move his fingers, and was astonished to find that they did just what they were told. He could flex his toes, too, so he clearly wasn’t paralysed—and nothing appeared to be broken, or even grazed. He rolled gingerly on to his side, and found that the foliage tipped him neatly back on to his feet.

  He looked for the moped. It was in pieces, of course—he could see that at once. The front forks had slammed into a large conifer, and both wheels had been torn off. He gazed at what was left and thought of Phil. He thought of his dad, too, wondering what on earth he’d say. This was not the time for reflection, though: he had to keep moving.

  The railway line was close, so he tottered back to it. Fifty metres down the track stood a tiny station, so he headed towards the platform and climbed the ramp. An old man was sitting on its one concrete bench, and he nodded at Tom. Then he sighed and made a mark in his notebook.

  “Late again,” he said.

  “Am I?” asked Tom.

  “What?”

  “Late.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  “No. Not you, son. I mean the 15.06. It’s on its way, but it’s… seven minutes behind schedule. It was late leaving, as usual.” The man chuckled.

  “They won’t hit their target.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Tom licked his lips, aware that his voice was cracking. His heart was pounding, too—it just wouldn’t slow down.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the man.

  “Nothing,” said Tom. “I’m just a bit confused. Did you by any chance notice a big, long freight train? It would have come through here a few minutes ago. Did you see it?”

  “Of course.”

  “It was real, then?”

  “Real?”

  “I’m not dead, am I? I’m definitely alive, talking to you?”

  “Of course you’re alive,” said the man. “You’re asking about the 15.11 wagon service. The locomotive’s one of six, if you want the details: a Schlossenburg 35, made in Germany. She was off to the docks.”

  “The docks? Outside town, you mean?”

  “By the old warehouses. Are you a spotter, too?”

  “Yes. I suppose I am.”

  “I’ll tell you a trade secret, then. The freight trains still get priority on this line, and that’s what’s behind all the disruption. What annoys me is that half those containers are empty.”

  Tom noticed that his legs were still shaking, so he joined the man on the bench.

  “Did you by any chance see a dog?”

  “Where?”

  “Standing on the last wagon. He’s black and white. Quite young.”

  “I was looking at the chassis, I’m afraid. That’s the old seventies model—thirty tonne maximum, which is why they’re slow.”

  “He’s only a puppy.”

  “What is?”

  “My dog. There was a dog on the last wagon of that freight train. I saw him, I’m sure of it.”

  “I doubt it, son. You don’t tend to get dogs riding on trains, because of health and safety.”

  “You must have missed him.”

  The man frowned. “Possibly,” he said. “I was actually cross-referencing my timetables.”

  He turned to the back of his notebook, hooked off his glasses and put his nose close to the page.

  “Depot departure at 09.43, picking up at McKinley’s. Then it goes to the cement factory. Terminates at sidings seven, where the wagons divide. The front half goes on to the pier. The back half waits at the disused warehouse, then goes out to the quarry.”

  Tom stood up.

  “Where would it be now?” he asked. “The last wagon, I mean. Where was it going?”

  “I just told you,” said the man. “The warehouses. I had a little snoop around there last month, as a matter of fact—they’re pulling them down, but I got some cracking photos. I’d catch this fellow here, if you want to go there. This is the delayed 15.08. Get down at the terminus.”

  The old man was on his feet now, for a passenger train was approaching.

  “Darren!” he cried, as the driver’s cab drew level. “You’re three minutes late. Any excuse?”

  “Not really,” replied the driver. “Bit slow at the crossing—there’s a police car down there, looking for some hooligan. Stole a motorbike, apparently, and threatened a couple of pensioners. He had a knife, too—gave them quite a mouthful.”

  Tom said nothing.

  He climbed quietly on to the train and took a seat. Taking off his coat, he discovered that he was still wearing his school blazer, with its thin red stripe. His tie was in his pocket, so he put it on. His hands were filthy, and his shoes were scuffed. He had leaves in his hair, and his trousers were thick with mud. In fact, he looked like a perfectly normal schoolboy, and his fellow passengers hadn’t even glanced at him.

  A bell rang, and the doors closed. The train shunted forward, and Tom was on his way again.

  Twenty minutes later, he saw the familiar rooftops of his own town, dominated by the church tower.

  He had his route worked out and was ready to run. He was first through the doors, and hardly noticed the clusters of children waiting to board. He didn’t see Robert Tayler—he simply pushed through the scrum and set off at a sprint.

  Rob nudged his companion and stared.

  “That was Lipman,” he said. “Where’s he going?”

  The friend smiled. “Where’s he been? That’s the question. He wasn’t at school today, so why’s he in his uniform?”

  “He’s bunking off.”

  “He’s scared, by the look of it. Why’s he going that way?”

  They watched as Tom reached the end of the platform and jumped down on to the tracks.

  “Shall we follow him?” said Robert. “He’s on his own, as usual—we could sort him out properly. Once and for all…”

  Tom stepped carefully. The lines were a confusing tangle, but he walked along the sleepers as quickly as he dared. Any minute, he’d be spotted and someone would raise the alarm—he knew he was trespassing, and he knew he was taking a suicidal risk. One slip, and he’d be roasted: he’d been told that if you touched a live rail, your flesh would stick to it, sizzling. To give up now, though, was unthinkable. Spider had to be close.

&n
bsp; The line he was following divided, and at last he saw a freight train.

  Was it the right one? It was some way off, and had come to rest between two derelict platforms. The low wagon at the end was flat and bare, and he had the sense that he’d been hallucinating again, for it looked as if the train had never moved. It might have been sitting for ever in its own little wasteland. Wild grass grew high, and there was an ominous silence, as if all the birds had taken flight. He reached the wagon and clambered up on to it. There were warehouses further along, and “Keep Out” notices had been screwed to a long, collapsing fence. Razor wire glinted in the sunshine, but there were holes everywhere—a dog could easily get through. Tom knew he had to keep going.

  He dropped to his knees and found a gap the width of his shoulders. Half a minute later, he had squirmed his way on to a building site. A bulldozer sat quietly, without a driver. Beyond it stood the structure it had been demolishing: a huge carcass of cracked walls and empty windows and a caved-in roof. There was a crane with a wrecking ball—that too was still and lifeless.

  Tom whistled, but it wasn’t the kind of whistle that carried.

  “Spider!” he cried—and he realized how long it had been since he’d shouted the name.

  He called again, at the very top of his voice, “Come on, boy! Spider?”

  Spider turned, and found his tail was wagging. He’d jumped off the wagon long before it had reached the warehouse, for what he wanted was the railway station. Moonlight had led the way, and they had reached it minutes before Tom’s train arrived. This time, the platform was full of red and black blazers, and Spider barked in delight. They were worn by genuine schoolchildren, and the golden lions were clear to see. Buster and Moonlight hung back anxiously as Spider ran among them, skipping from group to group like a sheepdog. He pushed his way through, revisiting certain clusters in dismayed disbelief: Tom simply wasn’t there.

  He scampered back to his friends, for he was attracting far too much attention. Buster felt his frustration, but pushed him back into a quiet corner.

  “Calm yourself down,” she said. “We’re closer than ever—we must be.”

  “I don’t know,” whimpered Spider. “Was that really him on the motorbike? If it was, then he wasn’t at school.”

  “How could it have been?” said the flea. “Let’s keep to the side—everyone’s looking at us.”

  “You know, darling,” said Moonlight. “I’ve had an idea. Why don’t we just go back home and wait for him there? He’s bound to turn up sooner or later, and we might even get some dinner.”

  Spider barked in frustration.

  “How can I?” he cried.

  “Cat,” snarled Buster, “he doesn’t know where home is. That’s why we’re looking for the wretched school!”

  “But it’s just round the corner,” said Moonlight.

  “Where?” Spider asked. “What do you mean?”

  The cat sat down and licked her paw. “Your little house. The place we met, when you followed me on to the roof and opened your heart. It’s close to the park, isn’t it?”

  Spider nodded. “Yes, very close.”

  “It’s five minutes from here, angel. Do you want me to show you?”

  “Moonlight,” said Buster, “are you serious?”

  The cat blinked. “Of course,” she said. “I should have thought of it before, really.”

  Spider moved in front of her and put his nose close to hers. He was panting. “Don’t play games,” he said. “Are you telling me that you could lead me home to Tom? Is that what you’re saying?”

  The cat’s eyes were wide. “Why, yes,” she said.

  “You’re positive?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so ages ago?” cried the flea.

  “Nobody asked. You were talking about getting to the station, so I thought you had a plan.”

  “Moonbeam, you’re a menace!” roared Buster, snarling furiously.

  “We’re looking for this dog’s owner, yes?”

  “Little Tom, of course—”

  “So get that stump of a tail in gear! Get your skinny arse moving and get this dog home. Now!”

  The pit bull snapped at Moonlight’s bottom, and she leapt into the air, yowling. She cringed as the pit bull glared, but managed to turn primly and put her nose in the air. Seconds later, she was trotting across the station concourse towards the exit, and the others were right behind her.

  Five minutes after that, Spider recognized his first landmark: a pair of iron gates stood wide open, revealing an expanse of green grass. They entered the park together and sprinted to the far side. Spider now knew exactly where he was, and identical gates let him out across a road. He was soon in a labyrinth of alleyways, and he could have negotiated them with his eyes closed. He was leading now, though Moonlight was next to him. He was whining, too, unable to help himself, for he could smell rich, familiar smells. Suddenly he was passing the first door on his very own street! The white door was next to it, and they reached the house that smelt of spices, which joined on to the boarded-up shop. And there it was, at last: the home he’d so stupidly abandoned. He looked up at its peeling yellow paintwork, and his heart jolted painfully. He’d caught his first scent of Tom.

  Above his head was a poster, pinned above the knocker, and Spider saw himself in the arms of his master.

  “Oh,” Spider said, trembling again. “Buster, look!”

  “There it is,” said the pit bull. “He wants you back, pal—you were dead right. He’ll be in there now, waiting for you. You’ve made it.”

  Spider’s mouth was dry. He was feeling faint, so he sat down in front of the door and scratched at the wood. Within seconds, he was up again, with his nose through the letter box, barking loudly.

  Buster joined him, and Moonlight jumped on to the front room’s window sill to stare through the glass.

  Nobody answered.

  “Stop,” said the flea. “You’ll get us arrested.”

  “He must be in there,” cried Spider. “School’s finished—we saw that.”

  He yelped twice, but this time he was aware of the unsettling quiet. His cries echoed in the empty hallway and were swallowed by silence.

  “Is there any other way in?” asked the flea.

  Spider swallowed. “Only one,” he said. “The skylight.”

  “I’ll go,” said the cat. “It’s quite a climb, but I’ll do my best. Wish me luck, darling, and wait for me…”

  Tom picked his way over the rubble towards what was left of the warehouse. It was old brick, and as he passed through its gaping doors he could see how precarious the structure was. Sections of the upper floors had given way, and he could see right up to a skeleton of steel girders and rotting timbers. The sky was visible beyond, while under his feet the floor was cobbled, and he was surrounded by crooked pillars and posts. There were several staircases, but most led only to empty space; others took you up to crumbling galleries. The sun fell in hard, diagonal shafts, and he had the strangest feeling that he was being watched.

  Why would Spider be here? Tom was about to turn and continue the search elsewhere, when he heard a stone rattle on one of the upper floors.

  He shouted again, “Spider!”

  This time his voice echoed back at him and faded to nothing. A pigeon took flight, dislodging a trickle of dirt. There was a high-pitched yelp from behind, but when he swung round there was only stillness.

  “Come on, boy,” he said quietly. “What’s wrong, Spider? Where are you?”

  He chose the one set of steps that looked reasonably sturdy and started to climb.

  Robert Tayler, meanwhile, was struggling not to laugh.

  He’d followed Tom through the fence, having been behind Tom for some time, astonished he hadn’t been seen. He turned round, grinning. Marcus was still with him, and the plan was working beautifully. The boys realized they could go slowly now. They put their bags and blazers on the ground, and as Tom disappeared into the
warehouse they tiptoed round it. Sneaking through the side, they watched as Tom gazed upwards. It was Marcus who threw the stone. When Tom started to climb, they chose a staircase opposite, and minutes later they were above their victim, looking down. When Tom appeared, they crouched low.

  Robert lobbed a roof tile this time, aiming high. It dropped hard on to a metal girder and there was a violent clanging. Marcus answered it with a volley of realistic barks, and they had the satisfaction of watching Tom spin round in panic.

  “Spider!” he cried. “Where are you, boy? I’m not angry.”

  Robert yelped.

  “Spider? Please…”

  The impression of a dog in pain was perfect, and the echo made it all the more plaintive. Tom was beside himself.

  He cried out again, “Spider!”

  Then he moved quickly upwards, and found himself on a wooden deck, way up in what was left of the attic.

  That was when Robert noticed a thin, metal rod. It was lying close to his feet, straight as a poker, and it was the ideal implement of terror. He picked it up and cut off Tom’s exit.

  “Got you,” Robert said.

  Tom looked down, and the two boys stared at each other.

  “Your dog’s dead, Lipman. So are you.”

  Back at the house, Thread the spider could not believe its eyes. Its skylight was opening from the outside, and it could see a skinny grey paw pushing at the glass.

  “Hey, back off!” it cried. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m looking for a boy,” said Moonlight. “A little boy called Tom. This is his bedroom, isn’t it?”

  “Tom who? Get back! This is private property.”

  “This is also his room—I know it is. Is he here or not?”

  “No. He’s run away.”

  “Don’t say that!” cried the cat. “Spider’s arrived. He’s come all this way to see him.”

  She forced her head inside and found herself staring down at an empty, unmade bed. In a moment, she had squeezed under the window and dropped to the wardrobe. Ignoring the spider’s cries, she jumped to the floor. The bedroom door was open so she padded through nervously. By the time she got downstairs, it was obvious that the whole house was deserted, so she leapt on to the kitchen counter—and there was Spider in the back garden, barking desperately.